Hammond Innes: Attack Alarm

By the time I got back to the pit it was nearly ten-thirty. Micky, who could never restrain his curiosity, immediately asked me what Ogilvie had wanted to see me about.

‘My grandmother has just died,’ I said. ‘He’s given me a week’s compassionate to see her decently buried.’

‘A week! No kidding. You ain’t got a week? Just because your grandmuvver’s dead? This is a lousy battery. You people all hang together. If it’s one of the nobs and he just happens to feel tired, why, give ‘im leave, give ‘im leave. A week because your grandmuvver’s died! Cor, stuff me with little green apples! If it was one of the roughs like me and Fuller, it would be go chase yourself. It ain’t right, mate. It wouldn’t happen in the real Army. Not bloody likely. Infantry, that’s what I ought to be in.’

Micky was very class conscious. But he was unintelligent about it. He saw privilege where there was none. This and his constant grumbling over nothing made him very annoying at times. He was always hardly done by, yet in point of fact he got away with more than anyone else.

‘Oh, don’t be a fool, Micky,’ said Langdon. ‘He hasn’t got leave. He’s just telling you politely to mind your own business.’

‘Oh, I get you.’ Micky was all smiles again. ‘Sorry, mate. I didn’t rumble it.’

Langdon had started examination of equipment, which was carried out on our gun every morning between ten and eleven. As there were already quite enough on the job, I sat down on the bench by the telephone. I was still worried. Most men, I suppose, would have considered the matter closed. If the Intelligence officer was satisfied, why should I worry? But journalism makes it instinctive in one to follow up a story to the bitter end. The Intelligence officer might be right. But what worried me was the way the German had broken off as soon as he saw Vayle. It was almost as if he had been caught saying something he should not have said. That alone explained the abruptness with which he had ceased speaking. And that suggested that he knew Vayle — that Vayle was, in fact, a fifth columnist.

When we were relieved at eleven by Bombardier Hood’s detachment, I got hold of Kan as he left the pit. ‘You’ve been here some time, Kan,’ I said. ‘Do you happen to know anyone in the station who can tell me anything about Vayle — you know, the librarian?’

He gave me a quick glance. But he did not ask me why I wanted to know about Vayle. ‘There’s an R.A.F. lad we used to meet in the airmen’s Naafi — that was before they put the marquee up. I think his name was Davidson. Anyway, he was assistant librarian. We got to know him because Vayle used to take those who were applying for commissions in trig. A dear fellow, he used to help us no end. I expect he’s still here.’

‘Could you introduce him to me?’ I asked.

‘Why, of course, dear boy. Any time you like.’

‘Now?’

‘Now?’ Again that quick look. For a second questions were on the tip of his tongue. But all he said was, ‘Right-o. I want to go down to the square to wash. I’ll take you in on the way.’

I thanked him. ‘I’d be very glad if you didn’t mention this to any of the others,’ I said. ‘I’ll explain some time.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘But if you’re free-lancing, be careful. Though God knows I shouldn’t have thought there was a story in poor little Vayle.’

‘Why “poor little Vayle”?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s rather precious, don’t you think? Oh, I don’t suppose you’ve met him. He once told me that what he really wanted to be was an actor.’ We went into the hut and he got his washing things out of his suitcase. As we set off past the dispersal point, he said: ‘I’ve often wondered why he became librarian at a place like this. He’s been here nearly four years, you know.

And he’s a clever man. I should think he would have done well in your own profession.’

Four years! That made it 1936. ‘Do you know what he did before he came here?’ I asked.

‘No, I don’t know, old boy. He didn’t come from another station, I’m certain of that. I should think he’d been a schoolmaster. He was very interesting when he was holding those trig, classes. Occasionally, when we had finished the routine work, he would talk about aerial tactics. I believe he’s writing a book about it. Perhaps that’s why you’re interested in him? I should think he’s travelled pretty extensively. At any rate, he’s studied internal continental politics. He told us a lot that I didn’t know about the Nazi rise to power and the behind-the-scenes activities in French politics. He didn’t exactly prophesy the collapse of France, but after what he had told us of the internal situation I wasn’t surprised when it happened.’

This was interesting. Vayle, with his pale face and grey hair, was beginning to take shape in my mind. Everything depended on what he had been before he came to Thorby — or, rather, where he had been.

Kan could tell me nothing more about him that was helpful. The impression I got from him, however, was that Vayle was no ordinary station librarian. He appeared to have a very wide knowledge of European affairs. And why, if he was such a brilliant student of contemporary affairs, had he been content to remain for four years at the station?

The library shared a block with the Y.M.C.A. just behind Station H.Q. It was, in reality, an educational centre. Kan took me in and introduced me to Davidson, a thin wisp of a man with reddish hair and freckles. I told him I had come to see what the chances were of another trigonometry course. But when Kan had left, I led the conversation round to Vayle. Davidson, however, could tell me little more than I had already learnt from Kan. Though he had been working with Vayle for more than eighteen months, he did not know where he had been before he became librarian at Thorby.

He admired Vayle greatly. He thought him a brilliant man. ‘His talents are wasted here,’ he said, his rather watery eyes fixed on my face. So it came back to the same thing — why had Vayle been content to stay at Thorby?

Then he began talking about the night’s action. ‘Mr Vayle told me all about it this morning,’ he said. ‘He talked to both the prisoners, you know.’ He was full of information. The younger one was only a boy — just turned seventeen. But the other was over thirty, with masses of decorations, including the Iron Cross, first and second class. It must be interesting to be in a position like Vayle now that there’s a war on,’ he added reflectively. ‘Being a civilian he’s not subject to the restraint of rank. He’s very highly thought of by the C.O. I think he often consults him about things. He knows everything that goes on here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t have a say in the strategy we adopt. What he doesn’t know about aerial tactics isn’t worth knowing.’

‘Did he actually talk to the prisoners?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes. He’s a great linguist. I think he knows five different languages. He’d be able to talk to them in German. And I bet he got more out of them than the Intelligence Officer.’

‘Did he tell you what they said?’

‘Oh, he said the older man was very truculent — a proper hard-boiled Nazi, I gather. The boy was still in a terrible state of fright.’

‘When did he see them?’ I asked.

‘As soon as they were brought in, I think. He said he and the C.O. were with them when the M.O. was dressing their wounds.’

This was incredible. Yet because it was incredible, I felt it must be true. The whole position was once again as clear as it had seemed when I had been talking to Ogilvie. One thing had been puzzling me. That was whether a man of the type I had judged the pilot to be was sufficiently astute to divert the Intelligence Officer’s attention from the plan for the projected raid. If Vayle were a secret agent, that was explained. He had told the airman what line to take. True, the C.O. and the M.O. had been present, but the probability was that neither of them understood German.