Hammond Innes - Attack Alarm

“She was very secretive about it, my dear.’ Again I was a are of that gleam in her eye. I felt uncomfortable. You’re not by any chance the cause of it, are you? You didn’t seem to waste much time last night.’

I didn’t know what to say. I had a horrid premonition. And because I feared that she might be right, I felt tongue-tied. I was suddenly aware that the whole table was silent, listening to our conversation.

She squeezed my arm in a friendly gesture. ‘It’s all right. I’ll give her your love.’ And she gave me a sugar-sweet smile.

I replied with what I fancy must have been a very sheepish grin and went with the others out of the tent. As we crossed the square to the big block of the Naafi Institute, behind which was the supper canteen, Kan said: ‘She’s a little bitch, isn’t she?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I was a bit vulnerable, wasn’t I? I’d arranged to meet Marion there at seven and she didn’t turn up.’

He laughed. ‘She’s still a little bitch. You don’t know Elaine. She can be really sweet, though her “my dears” are a bit reminiscent of the cheap side of Piccadilly. At other times she’s just a cat. Tiny thinks she’s a paragon of all the virtues. He’s very simple. But she’s as promiscuous as it’s possible to be in a camp. She just naturally wants every man she sees.’

I said nothing. What was there to say? I didn’t care a damn about Elaine. What was worrying me was why Marion had got into trouble.

‘You’re very moody, old boy,’ Kan said. ‘You’re surely not worrying about your girl friend. I mean, a few fatigues are nothing in anyone’s life.’

‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all,’ I said.

The canteen was already pretty full. We took the only table that was vacant. It was against the wall nearest the kitchen. The heat was almost unbearable. We all ordered steak and onions. Whilst we waited for it we had more beer.

‘Well, here’s to our night’s bag, Kan,’ said Chetwood, raising his glass to his lips.

‘What do you mean — your night’s bag?’ demanded Beasley, a youngish lad from the other side.

It started quite good-naturedly. But it soon became heated.

‘Well, what fuse were you firing? Fuse twelve? Well, listen, ducky, that ‘plane crashed on the edge of the ‘drome. It couldn’t have been more than three to four thousand yards away when you opened fire. Fuse twelve would have been well beyond the target.’

‘My dear fellow, I saw it burst just by the nose of the ‘plane.’

‘Well, John had the glasses on it and he says ours burst just outside the wing. And it was the wing that crumpled. Anyway, you were a layer, weren’t you? How the hell could you see? I was laying too, and I could see nothing. The flash was absolutely blinding.’

The argument was interminable. It seemed rather pointless. The main thing was that the troop had brought the plane down. At last we got our food. I had just started eating when I saw Andrew Mason come in. He stopped in the doorway to look round the room and then made straight for our table. He looked agitated.

‘You’re wanted at the office at once, Hanson. Mr Ogilvie wants to see you.’

He sounded urgent. I found I had my fork suspended half-way to my mouth. I put it down. ‘Oh, hell!’ I said. ‘What’s he want to see me about?’ But I knew already. And I felt like a cub reporter facing his first awkward interview with the editor.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mason. ‘But Wing-Commander Winton is with him. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

I got to my feet. ‘Don’t be a fool — finish your supper first,’ said Kan. I hesitated. ‘I think you’d better come now,’ said Mason. ‘It seemed to be urgent and I’ve already been some time trying to find you.’

‘All right,’ I said. I put my cap on and followed him out of the canteen. I felt nervous. Something must have gone wrong over that wire. And if it had, I was in a proper mess. It was hardly likely that Ogilvie would understand my explanation. Thank God Vayle didn’t hold a King’s commission. His civilian status made a lot of difference.

Mason took me straight into the inner office. Wing-Commander Winton was seated in a chair beside Ogilvie’s desk. They looked up as I entered. I saluted. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ I was rigid at attention.

‘Did you give a Waaf named Sheldon a telegram to send for you today?’

So I was right. I nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is that the telegram?’

He handed me an inland telegram form. The message I had scribbled on the back of an envelope in the Naafi that morning was written on it in a clear feminine hand. ‘Yes, sir, that is the telegram.’

‘It’s incredible, Gunner Hanson — quite incredible. You realise that by implication you are accusing Mr Vayle of something that you don’t dare to state? What are you accusing him of?’

‘I was not aware that I was accusing him of anything,’ I replied.

‘Then why do you write to your friend asking for full details about him? You must have had some reason for it.’

‘It was a purely private communication to a colleague on my newspaper, sir.’

‘Nothing is private once you are in the Army. You are fortunate at this station in that there is no censorship as such. But this telegram was so startling that the postmistress at Thorby thought it wise to ring up Station H.Q. to find out whether the Waaf in question had authority to send it.’ He paused and glanced across at the Wing-Commander. ‘Perhaps you would like to question the man, sir.’

The C.O. Thorby was a big heavy-jowled man with steady, alert eyes. He came straight to the point. ‘As Mr Ogilvie says, this telegram of yours accuses Mr Vayle by implication of something that you are evidently unwilling to put down on paper. You require from your friend details of Mr Vayle’s life prior to 1936. You say it may be of vital importance. Perhaps you would explain.’

I hesitated. Winton was easier to talk to than Ogilvie. Probably because he had had more experience of men. But I was uncertain what line to take. In the end I decided on frankness. ‘I sent that wire because my suspicions had been aroused, sir,’ I said. I then went on to explain how the German pilot had stopped talking the moment he saw Vayle, how I had learnt that Vayle had spoken to the pilot before he went before the Intelligence officer, and how I was doubtful whether the pilot would have taken the line he did without guidance. ‘I could find out nothing about him prior to 1936, sir,’ I finished. ‘So I decided to wire my colleague and see whether he could discover something of Mr Vayle’s background. I was bearing in mind the fact that a plan of the ground defences of the aerodrome had already found its way into enemy hands.

‘I see. In other words, you suspected Mr Vayle of being a Nazi agent?’

The C.O.‘s heavy brows were drawn downwards over his eyes and he spoke very quietly. I sensed a menace in his words. But I could do nothing to stave it off. I said, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You realise that the proper course would have been to explain your suspicions to your commanding officer or alternatively to have asked him to arrange for you to see me? If you had done so I should have been able to tell you that Mr Vayle came to this station from a well-known public school, and that we have the most complete confidence in him. Instead, you start a little personal investigation without any authority to do so.’ He gave me a suddenly keen glance. ‘What were you before you joined up?’

‘Journalist, sir.’

He glanced at the address on the telegram. ‘The Globe?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And this man Trent — what is his position on the paper?’

‘Crime reporter, sir.’