Hammond Innes - Attack Alarm

It took time, however, and as I slipped over the last strand a twig snapped only a few yards behind me. The sound of it seemed loud in the stillness. I froze. My senses warned me that it was not one of the usual noises of the wood. A second later came the unmistakable sound of somebody stumbling and the thud of a body as it pitched into the trench I had just crossed. A muttered curse and I heard the man pick himself up cautiously.

Silence for a moment. Then he began to negotiate the barbed wire. I slid quietly behind a tree, my heart pounding against my ribs. My immediate reaction was that one of the Guards was trailing me. But reason told me that if it was one of the Guards he would have known the position of the trench and would not have fallen into it. Moreover, I had heard no clatter of a rifle as he fell. And that muttered curse! Surely he would not have uttered it if he had been trailing me.

The man, whoever he was, was very near me now. I could hear the pant of his breathing. Then the sound was lost in the whir of a car coming up the road. The wood about me suddenly took shape as the blacked-out headlights swept past only a few yards beyond where I stood. It only lit the wood up for a second before it drew level and was gone, but in that second I saw the man who was coming towards me and recognised him.

‘Good God, Micky!’ I said. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

I sensed the shock of my voice as the car swept on and the blackness, more impenetrable than ever, settled once more on the wood.

‘Who’s that?’ His voice sounded hoarse and frightened.

I hesitated. The road was close, much closer than I had expected. Once on it I could give him the slip and he would never know who it was. ‘Is anybody there?’

And because I felt his fear, I said: ‘It’s Hanson.’

‘Hanson?’ he whispered. ‘Cor lumme, you didn’t ‘alf give me a fright.’

‘What the devil are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Doing a bunk, same as you. Though I didn’t think you was that scared.’

‘Good God!’ I said. ‘You mean you’re deserting?’

‘Who says I’m deserting? I ain’t deserting. Pm transferring. I’m going to volunteer in the Buffs.’

‘But why?‘I asked.

‘Cos I ain’t gonna stay in that bleeding aerodrome to provide target practice for Jerries. That ain’t fighting. It’s bloody murder. I want to be in something where I can fight the Jerry proper. I want to get at ‘em wiv a rifle and baynet.’

‘But if you’re caught you’ll be regarded as a deserter.’

‘Admitted. So will you. But I ain’t aiming to get caught.’

‘The odds are against you, Micky,’ I said. ‘Why not go back now while you’ve got the chance.’

‘And be bombed again without being able to do nothing to stop it. Not bloody likely. Wot about you, anyway?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘I’m not exactly deserting.’

‘I suppose you’re resigning. You got a nerve telling me to go back, whilst you’re running like hell yourself. Wot d’you think I am? Are you going to volunteer in some other unit?’

‘No,‘I said.

‘Well, I am — see? I want ter fight for me country. I ain’t deserting. Come on, let’s get out o’ here while the going’s good.’

It was no use arguing with him. Time was too precious and at any moment we might be overheard. I followed him down a gentle slope and over a wooden stile on to the road. ‘There’s a garage just down the road,’ I said. ‘We’ll set a car from there.’

But we were in luck. We hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards when we heard a car coming towards us. ‘Stand by to board,’ I said to Micky. And as the dull headlights came round the bend ahead of us, I stepped out into the middle of the road and signalled it to stop. It pulled up with a shriek of brakes. It wasn’t a car at all but a Bedford truck.

‘Can I see your identity card?’ I asked as the driver leaned out of the window of the cab. I glanced at it and then flashed the torch I had brought with me in his face. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to get down while we search your cabin,’ I said.

‘What the hell’s the matter?’ he grumbled.

He showed no signs of moving. ‘Come on, look sharp!’ I barked. ‘I haven’t got all night to waste.’

‘All right, mate, all right,’ he muttered as he climbed out. ‘What’s the trouble, anyway?’

‘Looking for a Bedford truck full of H.E.,’ I told him.

‘Well, you’ve only got to look at the bloody thing to see it’s empty,’ he said.

The driver may have dumped it,’ I explained. Then to Micky I said: ‘You search the other side. Come on, look sharp. The fellow doesn’t want to waste all night. He’s probably late back already.’

‘You’re right there, sir,’ I think he thought by my voice and the way I had spoken to Micky that I was an officer in battle dress. ‘Shan’t be in bed till one and due to clock out again at eight in the morning.’

I had climbed up into the driver’s seat and made a pretence of searching with my torch, whilst in reality I was noting the position of the gears and foot controls. ‘That’s too bad,’ I said. At the same time I slammed home the gears, revved the engine and let the clutch in with a bang.

I heard the beginning of his shout, but lost it in the noise of the engine as I raced through the gears. In a second it seems I had swept past the turning that led to the main gates of the aerodrome. And in less than ten minutes I had swung left on to the main Eastbourne road and was making for East Grinstead. Fortune had favoured us. A Bedford truck, empty, has a. pretty turn of speed. The moon was just rising and the added light enabled me to push her. On the straight stretches I was showing nearly sixty on the clock.

In less than half an hour from the time I had expropriated the lorry I had passed through East Grinstead and Forest Row and was climbing the long winding hill that leads up to Ashdown Forest.

Just past the Roebuck at Wych Cross I forked left, and about a mile farther on I came upon the turning off to the right of which Marion had spoken. I switched my lights off. The moonlight was quite strong now. ‘Well, Micky,’ I said. ‘This is where I leave you.’

‘Wot’s the game?’ he demanded suspiciously.

‘How do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Ain’t I good enough for you, then?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said.

‘Well, wot’s the idea, then? You got a hideout you don’t want me to share — that’s it, is it?’

I hesitated. It didn’t seem to matter much if I told him the truth. ‘I haven’t got a hideout at all,’ I said. ‘You see, I’m really not deserting. In a few hours’ time I shall be back at the aerodrome.’

‘If you do it’s the Glasshouse for you and a brick wall, I tell you, mate. Anyway, if you’re going back, wot’s the good of getting out?’

‘Because I had to get to a certain farm tonight,’ I said. ‘I’m playing a lone hand against a gang of fifth columnists. They’ve got a plan that will enable the Germans to capture our fighter aerodromes. I aim to stop them.’

He looked at me. In the faint light from the dashboard I noted the sidelong, furtive glance. ‘You ain’t kidding?’

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said.

‘Sure?’

‘Cross my heart.’

A sudden gleam came into his small close-set eyes. ‘Cor lumme!’ he said. ‘Wot a break! Like a book I bin reading all about gangsters in America. Will they have guns?’ he asked.

‘Probably,’ I said. And I couldn’t help grinning though I felt queasy inside because it was so near to zero hour.

‘Cor lumme!’ he repeated. ‘That’s the way I like to fight — ‘and to ‘and. I wouldn’t ‘alf like to give a Jerry a sock in the kisser — just one and I’d be ‘appy. Come on! Let’s get at ‘em.’