Читать книгу Worrals Flies Again - W E Johns - Страница 4

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It was just before eight o’clock the same autumn evening when Worrals and Frecks, with heavy coats over their uniforms, after a final consultation with Squadron-Leader Yorke, left the C.O.’s office and walked quietly through the gathering dusk towards a small, dark-painted, high-wing cabin monoplane, with side by side seating for two passengers and luggage dicky behind. It bore no markings of any sort. Where it had come from they did not know; that was one of the details that had been arranged by Squadron-Leader Yorke. Beyond packing two small suitcases, already in the plane, and writing a few letters to friends to say they would be away for some time, the girls had had nothing to do in the way of preparation. Several officers stood about regarding the little aircraft with curiosity. As the girls appeared, one of them stepped forward, a slim, youthful flying officer.

“Hello. Here’s Bill Ashton,” murmured Frecks. “What are you going to tell him? You’ve been getting pretty pally of late, and he’ll think it odd if you leave him high and dry without an explanation.”

“I’m afraid we shan’t be able to tell him anything,” answered Worrals. “Either this trip is secret or it isn’t. Squadron-Leader Yorke was emphatic that no one, not even our relations, must know what we are doing.”

“That’s going to be a bit tough on Bill. I’m afraid he’ll take a pretty poor view of it. Apart from having a crush on you, he’s been a pretty good—not to say useful—pal in the past.”

“All the same, he mustn’t know about this,” declared Worrals. “He’d probably start raising all sorts of objections—you know, not the sort of work for girls, and all that sort of rot.”

Bill came forward. Speaking directly to Worrals he said, with surprise in his voice, “Hello, kid. Are you going to fly that kite?” He inclined his head towards the Midget.

“I am,” answered Worrals crisply.

“Where are you going?”

“Sorry, Bill, but we’ve undertaken a secret mission—nothing very dangerous. In those circumstances, you won’t embarrass us by asking questions, will you?”

Bill didn’t reply immediately. He looked at Worrals, then at the aircraft. “If I can help, just let me know,” he said quietly. “I assume the C.O. knows all about it?”

“Of course. At a pinch, he might let you into the secret—but not yet.”

“How long are you going to be away?”

“We don’t know.”

Bill nodded seriously. “Be careful, kid,” he said holding out his hand.

Worrals smiled as she took it. “We’ll be back,” she said evenly. Then, to Frecks, “Come on. Let’s get away.”

A mechanic swung the little airscrew, and the soft purr of the engine, after the strident bellow of the service aircraft, brought a frown to Frecks’ face.

“Are you sure that engine’s all right?” she queried anxiously.

“Sounds all right to me,” answered Worrals. “We don’t need power so much as manœuvrability. In any case, we’ve got to go light on petrol. We shan’t get any over the other side—at least, we can’t reckon on it. What we have in the tank has got to see us there and back.”

This was, in fact, the case. In discussing the project with Squadron-Leader Yorke, knowing that aviation spirit was practically unobtainable in France, they had been unable to devise a means of refuelling. The aircraft, with a full tank, had a range of seven hundred miles. The distance to the château on a direct course was rather less than three hundred miles, so if everything went according to plan there would be enough petrol for the return trip with a slight margin. Worrals would, of course, have preferred to have an emergency supply, but as there was no way of arranging this they had to be content with what they could carry.

In a few minutes the aircraft was climbing slowly into a nearly overcast sky. Here and there a star gleamed mistily, showing where there was a break in the clouds, and towards one of these Worrals set a course. She was quite satisfied with the weather. There was no wind, and the clouds would provide a screen that would hide them from watchers on the ground. Flak, she knew, was to be expected, for the ground defences on the French coast would be directed by sound detectors. Hostile aircraft would constitute a greater peril, for they might be expected both above and below the cloud layer; but here again she determined to take refuge in the cloud itself should the danger materialise. There could be no question of fighting. The little aircraft was not adapted for such work, and consequently carried no weapon of any sort. They would have to rely on skill and judgment, not force, to see them through, and both girls were aware of it.

Worrals reached the break in the cloud and went through into the lonely world beyond, where a slim crescent moon cast a silvery sheen on the flat upper surface of the cloud, which rolled away on all sides to a vague horizon. Her altimeter registered seven thousand feet. Having reached her immediate objective, she glanced at the scrap of paper on which she had made her calculations, and then set a compass course direct for the château. She had decided that there was no point in making a detour. Danger would be present everywhere; it would be more intense over the often-bombed Channel ports of the French coast, but as her course missed these by a wide margin she was content to take her chance on a straight run through.

Half an hour passed. Neither of the girls spoke. There was nothing to say. Frecks produced two pieces of chewing gum from a pocket, passed one to Worrals and put the other in her mouth. A little while later Worrals nudged her, and nodded towards several light patches that had appeared on the clouds. She knew that they had been heard, and that searchlights on the ground were probing the billowy vapour in a vain effort to find them.

“We’re over the French coast,” she said distinctly. “Watch the surface of the cloud for enemy machines to break through. I’ll watch topsides.” As she spoke, she turned her eyes to the starry dome overhead. Here and there spasmodic crimson flashes were already stabbing the darkness, and lines of white tracer shells, looking like chalk lines drawn on black paper, broke the background; but while they remained at a reasonably safe distance she held steadily on her way. Only once, when the crimson daggers suddenly turned to vivid orange, did she swerve slightly, knowing that the brighter the orange flashes, the closer were the shell bursts. Skimming the cloud-top, the Midget purred on, unconcerned by this hostile reception. Once the aircraft seemed to bounce on unseen buffers, causing the engine to change its note.

“That one was close-ish,” murmured Worrals. “It must have been bang underneath us.”

A moment later Frecks touched her on the arm. “Get a load of that,” she said quietly, pointing, and Worrals, following the direction of the finger, saw a dark form rising like a sinister fish from the sea of cloud. She recognised the slim silhouette of a Messerschmitt and, cutting the throttle for a moment, allowed the Midget to sink into the clammy moisture of which the cloudbank was composed. With her eyes now on her instruments, she sped on through the opaque vapour.

“Gosh! It’s cold in this stuff,” grumbled Frecks.

“We should probably find it a bit too warm outside,” returned Worrals meaningly, and continued on her course.

Ten minutes later she lifted the nose and soared again into the clear air. It was an anxious moment, and both girls made a swift, apprehensive reconnaissance of the atmosphere; but as far as they could see they had the sky to themselves, and Worrals settled a little more comfortably in her seat.

“I think we are through the worst,” she announced. “Keep your eyes skinned all the same.”

Hardly had she spoken the words when a dark object hurtled out of the sky far overhead, and disappeared instantly from sight into the cloud, as completely as a stone dropped in a pool of deep water.

“Phew!” gasped Frecks. “Did you see that?”

“Hurricane,” returned Worrals evenly. “One of our boys doing a spot of private hunting. I don’t think he saw us—I hope not, at any rate. He’d probably wonder what on earth we were, and have a crack at us to be on the safe side. After all, we’re over hostile country.”

“How much farther have we to go?” inquired Frecks, glancing at the watch on the instrument panel.

“About half an hour, I reckon. At the end of that time we shall have to go down for a look round. I’m hoping to pick up the Loire. If we can see the river it will give us our bearings, and we shall be all right.”

The rest of the flight was uneventful. The time passed slowly, as it always seems to in the air, but at length Worrals remarked, “We ought to be there, or thereabouts,” and, cutting the throttle, put the aircraft in a shallow glide.

Once more the cloud enveloped them in its clammy heart, a chilly clutch that lasted for a good five minutes; then the air cleared, and the sombre, blacked-out landscape of occupied France appeared below, vague, grim and forbidding. Worrals kept the aircraft in its glide, eyes questing the ground which, as they lost height, became more distinct. Long roads appeared, looking like grey threads dropped haphazard; irregularly-shaped black patches marked the position of woods.

“Good! There’s the river,” muttered Worrals. “I was hoping to get down without using the engine again, but I was a bit too optimistic. I’ve undershot a trifle.” As she spoke, she eased the throttle open—not wide open, but enough to give the aircraft the extra distance required. Five minutes later, still losing height, she cut it again. Neither of the girls spoke. Both were staring down into the void, their eyes following the majestic curves of the river, and from this trying to pick out the group of high elms which they had been informed marked the position of the château. It was another anxious period. For some time they could see nothing distinctly, only the river. Worrals snatched a quick glance at a map that lay open on her knees. Frecks held the torch.

“That’s the bend all right.... It must be the one,” muttered Worrals in a low voice, as though talking to herself. “The trouble is, there are too many blessed groups of trees. Still, it shouldn’t be difficult. The château is exactly a mile south-east of that sharp bend where the river turns south.” She glanced at the altimeter. “We’re down to a thousand,” she observed. “I don’t want to use the engine again.... Hello. I can see something.... It might be trees—it might be anything. This sort of thing will be easier once we have seen the place in daylight. That group must be the one—there’s open country in front of it, which bears out the description. We shall have to risk it. I’m going down.”

“If we land a mile south-east of the bend, we shan’t be far away,” put in Frecks casually.

Worrals smiled. She was not deceived. She knew that Frecks knew how much depended on the next two or three minutes. She focused her eyes on the group of trees and thought she could just make out the dim outlines of a large building, although she was perfectly aware that this might be imagination.

The aircraft was now very low, moving through the air almost noiselessly.

“Well, here we go,” muttered Worrals, and, switching off the engine altogether, side-slipped gently towards an extensive treeless area of land that rolled away from the front of the isolated group of trees.

Dark shadows appeared to float up to meet the aircraft. Worrals flattened out. For a little while the light machine glided on like a tired bird, sinking slowly. The wheels bumped, with a sound that sounded harsh after the silence. They bumped again, and then settled down. The machine vibrated. Slowly the vibration died away and the aircraft ran to a standstill. Silence fell, silence utter and complete.

“Stay where you are,” ordered Worrals quietly, and, opening the door, stepped out on to the springy turf. Nothing moved. Not a light showed anywhere. For a full minute she stood motionless, listening, her eyes probing the darkness. Then she turned back to the cabin.

“You get into the pilot’s seat, Frecks, while I reconnoitre,” she said. “If you hear me shout you’ll know I’ve run into trouble. In that case, start the engine, and be ready to make a snappy take-off. I’ll try to get back to you. If I can’t—well, save yourself.”

“But I thought Squadron-Leader Yorke said the old caretaker would be about to meet us?” whispered Frecks.

“No, not exactly that,” returned Worrals. “He said he would be about, prepared to receive us. That might mean in the château. He couldn’t know just when we were coming, so it would hardly be reasonable to expect him to stand about here all night on the off chance of our arriving.”

“Does he know who to expect?”

“No—I asked Squadron-Leader Yorke about that. There was no time, or no way to advise him. All I know is, that the people here are on our side. They are expecting somebody to turn up; a password, which Squadron-Leader Yorke gave me, will let them know who we are and admit us to their confidence. I gather that the Squadron-Leader hasn’t seen these people himself—only the son of the house, the young Count de la Rose.”

“Where is he now?”

“I’ve no idea. But we can’t stand talking here. We came in so quietly that it’s unlikely the old man would hear us—certainly not if he was in the castle; castles have thick walls. Stand fast—I’ll go and find him.”

Worrals unstrapped the helmet which she had worn during the flight, took it off, shook out her hair, and tossed the helmet into the cockpit. She did not, however, remove her dark overcoat. “Shan’t be long,” she said, and walked away in the direction of the tall trees which broke the skyline in the near distance—a matter of perhaps a hundred yards.

As she approached, the clouds broke, and this enabled her to make out more distinctly the scene that lay ahead. She saw now that her calculations had been correct, for beyond a short double avenue of tall elms, thickened by great bunches of what she knew from experience to be mistletoe, rose the massive pile of a castle, the front windows of which looked through the avenue towards the stately River Loire.

The château was typical of its period. Built in the days when the great barons held sway, the massive stone walls, with narrow slits to admit light and enable defenders to hurl projectiles on attacking forces, rose up to end in round projecting turrets. In the centre, from foundations to battlements, twin bastions arose to protect the drawbridge, long fallen into ruin.

Worrals soon found that it was no easy matter to approach the ancient structure, for the drive between the elms, and other openings that might once have been paths, were choked with rioting brambles that made advance impossible. There must, she knew, be an open path, for the château was inhabited, and, assuming that it was on the far side, she started to circumnavigate the undergrowth with a view to locating the proper entrance. She had not gone far, however, when she came upon a feature which she hoped would shorten her journey. This consisted of a small wood of mighty yews, as old, apparently, as the château. Before the dim aisles, sunless even in summer, the rank undergrowth had fallen back, making progress not only possible, but fairly simple.

Holding up a hand to protect her face from possible low-hanging branches, Worrals moved swiftly in the direction of the château, occasionally using the torch she carried, with the beam deflected downwards, to survey the ground for possible obstruction. In this way she soon emerged into what had once been the gardens, now a trackless wilderness of weeds from which arose grey pieces of statuary, like spirits of the long dead past surveying the ruin of their former greatness. With aching heart, for it was impossible not to regard the ravages of time without emotion, Worrals went on, picking her way between overgrown edges of box, sagging arbours, and what had obviously once been ornamental pools of water. The weeds, she noticed, had advanced to the very walls of the château, and had even tried to climb up them.

Through this melancholy scene she eventually reached the building, only to find, as invaders may have found in days gone by, that this did not reveal an entrance. Pushing on, she found a tiny sally-port, a massive oak door studded with iron. After banging on it with her fists without making the slightest noise, so solid was it, she continued on to the angle of the building which brought her to a veritable maze of outbuildings, stables and the like, all in the last stages of dilapidation. Keeping contact with the castle wall, however, she came upon that which she hoped to find—an open pathway, presumably the one used by the inmates of the château. This took her to a short flight of stone steps, at the top of which a narrow streak of yellow light showed beneath the door.

Worrals mounted the steps with a sigh of relief, for the business had taken far longer than she had expected, and she knew that Frecks would be getting worried about her long absence. As she reached the top step, a strange sound—or rather, an unexpected sound—reached her ears. It seemed to come from the outbuildings, and reminded her of something she had not heard for a long time—the nuzzling of stabled horses. The sound was natural enough, she decided, supposing that the old custodian maintained a nag for some purpose or other—perhaps to ride to market. It was, therefore, with an easy confidence that she knocked on the door. There was no answer. Realising that her knuckles made practically no sound on the heavy timbers she groped for and found the handle, a ring of iron. This she turned, and the door swung open on well-used hinges. Before her, lighted by a single candle stuck in a sagging metal sconce, stretched a dismal stone corridor. From one of the rooms that led off it, not far away, came a murmur of voices. Closing the door, Worrals called in a low voice, in French, “Monsieur Mundier, are you there?”

The voices ended abruptly, as though cut short by the knife of a guillotine. A chair scraped. Footsteps shuffled. A face appeared, as it were, from the wall, the face of an old man, furrowed with age, or trouble, or both. His collar hung open at the neck, and the stained velvet jacket he wore, cut in the style of a bygone generation, hung loosely on his spare figure. Canvas shoes, unlaced, flapped on his feet. So much Worrals noticed as the man slowly emerged.

“Bon soir, monsieur,” greeted Worrals quietly. “Am I speaking to Monsieur Mundier?”

“Oui, mademoiselle, c’est moi,” answered the old man in a lifeless but surprisingly cultured voice.

Again Worrals breathed a sigh of relief, and murmured the introductory phrase that would, Squadron-Leader Yorke had told her, reveal her mission. “How the time flies,” she said. “But it was a good night for a journey.”

Monsieur Mundier started so violently that Worrals experienced a pang of alarm. He appeared to shudder, and at the same time threw up his hands despairingly.

“’Cre Dieu,” he gasped. “A girl.” Then, recovering somewhat, he muttered, “This way, quickly.” Catching Worrals by the arm, he literally snatched her into the room behind him and closed the door. “Look!” he cried in a strangled voice. “The imbeciles! They have sent a girl.”

In a vague sort of way—vague because she was more than a little dazed by this extraordinary reception—Worrals observed that there were two other people in the room, an elderly buxom woman who, a wooden spoon in her hand, had half turned from a great iron pot that overhung an open fire, and a young man, unshaven, in rags, whose lower jaw sagged foolishly. As for the chamber itself, it appeared from the mixed furniture to be both a sitting-room and a kitchen. An enormous dresser, black with age, occupied one entire wall, and apparently served as a general depository, for on it were piled, among other things, crocks, copper pots and pans, and knitting. One shelf was lined with books, carelessly assembled. All this Worrals took in at a glance, and her first thought at that moment was that the whole plan had been imperfectly understood. She was aware that the custodian and his wife, while expecting a visitor, an agent from England, did not know who it would be and she could understand that they would, quite naturally, expect a man; all the same, she could not reconcile her reception with what Squadron-Leader Yorke had told her. He had pointed out that, having announced herself, she would have to make her own plans, and this, in more awkward circumstances than she expected, she proceeded to do.

“No doubt you expected a man,” she said quietly. “I understand that. But I’m not without experience in this kind of work, and once we get to know each other all should be well.”

Madame Mundier nodded, as if she, at least, had grasped the situation. “Welcome, mademoiselle,” she said. “It is only that you have chosen a terrible time to arrive. We ourselves are still suffering from shock.”

Worrals opened her eyes wide. “Why, what is it? What has happened?”

“Les Boches,” muttered Monsieur Mundier in tones of hopeless resignation.

“Germans? Where?” asked Worrals sharply.

“Here, in the château,” answered madame in a weary voice. “They arrived to-day. They are of the horse artillery, with some engineers. The horses are in the stables.”

The youth with the sagging jaw broke into a peal of insane laughter.