Attack Alarm (11 page)

I tried to steady myself. Somehow I had got to go back into that hut as though nothing had happened. I settled down to consider how the document had got into my Army pay-book. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that it must have been placed there after my interview with Ogilvie the previous night. Obviously no such definite action would have been taken until it was known first that Ogilvie was not willing to have me transferred, and secondly, that I was continuing to make a nuisance of myself. My Army pay-book had been in the breast pocket of my battle top all the time. The paper could have been placed in it whilst I was asleep. But that meant there was one of Vayle’s agents actually in the detachment, and at the same time it would have been risky, to say the least of it, in a crowded hut. No, the most obvious time was during the morning’s short alarm. I had taken post in my shirt sleeves owing to the heat. I had left my battle blouse on my bed, and the hut had been empty.

It was then that I realised I had discovered something. The hut had not been completely empty. The whole detachment had been on the gun, but there were still the two workmen. And I remembered seeing
the younger one pedal off on his bicycle. The older man had been alone in the hut. As soon as I remembered this I had no doubt as to how the paper had been planted on me. For no apparent reason the workmen had chosen that particular morning to turn up to do a job that we had never expected to get done at all. Now I knew why they had come. But what amazed me more than anything was that they were taking all this trouble over me. I could not believe that I was really dangerous to them. It could only mean one thing—that they felt themselves vulnerable if the attention of the authorities was persistently drawn to this idea of a plan. And since they were evidently leaving nothing to chance, it meant that the scheme, whatever it was, was vitally important. It also meant that at any moment I should be faced with further developments in the plan to put me out of the way. Somehow they had to arrange for the document they had planted on me to be found. It was a nasty thought.

But at least I had the consolation of knowing that I really was on to something. It strengthened my resolve to go through with it—to break into Vayle’s rooms, to badger the authorities, to do anything to expose the plan.

I opened the door and went back into the hut. Hardly any one looked up as I came in. Most of them were lying on their beds, smoking, or already asleep. I was glad. It gave me a chance to recover my confidence.

Kan, who was sitting at the table, smoking, suggested a game of chess. Anything to take my mind off my position. We settled down amongst a litter of unwashed crockery.

I had just driven his king into a corner and checked him with a knight, when the door opened.

“Party, party, ’shun!”

It was Ogilvie with Wing-Commander Winton.
They were accompanied by a man who looked like a workman.

“Where’s Sergeant Langdon?” Ogilvie asked. His voice sounded gruff and tense. I had a sudden premonition of trouble.

“He’s in his room, sir,” said Bombardier Hood. “I’ll fetch him.”

The sergeant had a separate room at the end of the hut. A moment later John Langdon appeared, looking very boyish with his hair all tousled and his eyes still full of sleep.

“Identification parade, Sergeant Langdon,” snapped Ogilvie. “I want every one lined up down the centre of the hut.”

“Very good, sir.” He turned about. “Bombardier Hood, right marker!” Hood took up his place at the far end of the room. “On Bombardier Hood in one rank fall in!”

Automatically we jostled into a line and stood at ease. “Detachment, detachment, ’shun!”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Now”—Ogilvie turned to the workman—“see if you can spot your man.” And as the fellow walked slowly down the rank, he said to Langdon, “A man in the uniform of a gunner has been reported asking rather obviously leading questions of the post-office men laying the operations lines.”

I stood very stiff, my eyes fixed on the wall opposite and my muscles tensed. I knew what was going to happen. I sensed rather than saw the man pause opposite me. Then his slow voice said, “I think this is the man.”

“Who is it? Hanson? Ah!” Out of the corner of my eyes I saw Ogilvie glance significantly at the C.O. “Well, Hanson, what have you got to say?”

My knee joints felt weak. The blood hammered in my head. “I think there’s some mistake, sir,” I heard myself saying. “I have never seen this man before,
and I have never spoken to any of the men laying the lines.”

“But you know they’re being laid?”

“Certainly, sir. Every one in the camp must know that by now.”

“What were you doing between seven-thirty and eight last night?”

“In the Naafi, drinking, sir. Sergeant Langdon will bear me out. He was there too.”

“Is that right, sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you still think this is the man?” Ogilvie asked the workman.

“I think so.” His voice sounded sullen. “I can’t be sure. His face was in the shadow. Also I’m not certain about the exact time. I didn’t think of that until afterwards.”

“Did you go to the civilian bar at all last night, Hanson?” Ogilvie asked.

“The supper canteen? Yes, sir. I went there shortly after eight with Chetwood and Furle.”

“I see. But you did not speak to this man?”

“No, sir. I was with the others the whole time.”

“This man says a gunner engaged him in conversation in the canteen and that later he saw him jotting down notes. He has now identified that gunner as you. And you admit that you were in the canteen at about the time he states.” Ogilvie turned to Chetwood. “Do you agree that Hanson was in your company the whole time, Chetwood?”

“As far as I can remember, sir.” I experienced again that sense of undeveloped hostility about me. Chetwood could easily have committed himself to a direct “Yes.” But he had hedged.

Ogilvie looked at me uncertainly. I could see that he did not know what to do. “You realise that this is a very serious charge, Hanson?”

I said, “Yes, sir. But it is quite untrue.” My voice trembled despite all efforts at control. “This is the first time I have ever seen this man.”

Ogilvie turned to the workman. “I don’t feel justified in pursuing the matter unless you can say definitely that this is the man.”

There was a pause whilst the fellow thought this over. He looked searchingly at me once or twice as though trying to make up his mind. At last he said, “I can’t be absolutely certain. But he looks very like him.” He hesitated, and then said, “Perhaps if he would submit to a search. As I told you, I saw him jotting something down on a piece of paper afterwards. If he is the right man he probably still has the paper on him.”

“How do you know he was taking notes of his conversation with you?” I felt Ogilvie was annoyed and I think he was inclining to take my side.

“I don’t. That’s why I suggest a search. That would satisfy me.”

Ogilvie glanced at the C.O. Winton gave an almost imperceptible nod. “All right.” Ogilvie turned to me. “Do you object to a search?”

“No, sir,” I said. “But I strongly object to being suspected on such flimsy grounds.”

“I understand. The whole thing is most distasteful to me.” He turned to Langdon. “Will you go through Hanson’s kit, Sergeant? All papers to be examined thoroughly and take care that you leave no hiding-place unsearched. Now, Hanson, come with me into the sergeant’s room and we’ll go through everything you have on you.”

It was a most degrading business. Ogilvie left nothing to chance. I understood his thoroughness. He was determined to prove definitely to his own satisfaction that I was all right.

When it was all over and they had found nothing incriminating,
he merely said, “That’s all, Sergeant Langdon,” and marched out of the hut. He was furious at the ignominious position in which he had been placed. I had some satisfaction out of the episode, for I surprised a look of something like frustration in the eyes of the little workman.

I felt excited now that the ordeal was over. It had achieved something. I now knew two of Vayle’s satellites. There was the workman who had planted the diagram in my Army pay-book that morning. And there was this little man with watery blue eyes that had a quick darting alertness and his fresh round face.

As soon as the door closed behind him I became conscious of the unnatural silence in the room. I knew that every one was just dying to discuss what had happened and that my presence embarrassed them. Rather than face the barrage of speculation and comment at my expense, I went outside. As I closed the door I heard Micky say, “Bloody sauce, coming in like that and holding an identication parade!”

I lit a pipe and went over to the pit to talk to the air sentry, a little Welshman called Thomas who was old enough to have been through two years of the last war. He asked me what Ogilvie had wanted. I told him what had happened. He thought it over for a moment. Then he said, “These civilians, they get panicky. They get so as they think every one but themselves is a spy. Indeed and I remember a case in ’eighteen. The poor devil was shot for something that he never did at all. And all because of a civilian who laid a charge before he had paused to consider.” And he launched into a long story about a soldier who had been shot at Arras just before the big offensive.

It was very hot out there in the glare of the sun. I took my battle top off and lay down on the top of the parapet. Thomas chattered on. He was a great talker.
I closed my eyes. The light on my eyeballs was red as it shone through my closed lids. I felt a sense of satisfaction. Things were moving, though as yet I had taken no positive action. It seemed to augur well. And yet at the back of my mind I felt uneasy. I had so narrowly escaped an extremely awkward situation. It was only chance that I was not now under arrest pending a court-martial. The next time I might not be so lucky. And that there would be a next time I was quite certain. They had shown their hand too openly to me not to make sure that during the next few critical days I should be out of the way.

But uneasy though I was, it did not prevent me from falling fast asleep on top of the sandbags. Mental strain, in addition to the nervous and physical strain from which every one was suffering, had made me incredibly tired.

I slept for nearly three-quarters of an hour. Yet when I went back into the hut some of them were still talking about what had happened.

“Just because a bloke’s picked out in an identication parade, it don’t mean he’s a Nazi,” Micky was saying. “Anyway,” he added pointedly, “he ain’t going to ’is grandmuvver’s funeral to-morrow.”

There was an awkward silence as I came in. Instinctively I knew that it was Chetwood who had caused Micky’s quixotic outburst. But strange to say, I did not feel afraid of their hostility for the moment. I felt confident and at ease. “Well,” I said, “I hope you boys have made up your minds whether I’m a Nazi agent or not.”

I had caught them on the raw. Chetwood, Helson, Fuller and Bombardier Hood all seemed trying to appear unconcerned. But at the same time they were watchful. And I knew that Chetwood and Hood, at any rate, were suspicious. I should have to be careful. From now on everything I said and everything I did
would be marked. I lay down on my bed, pulled a blanket over me and pretended to sleep.

The afternoon seemed to pass slowly, unaccustomed as we were to such a long period free of alarms. Some slept, others played chess or cards. The hut was quiet save for stampings and hammerings on the roof. Micky, with the aid of Fuller, was endeavouring to camouflage the hut with branches of hazel cut from the woods at the foot of the slope. I understood his frame of mind, and only wished that I could have found something to do that would have kept me occupied. In a way, I was as scared as he was, though, strangely enough, it wasn’t the prospect of being bombed that scared me. That was something tangible. I am a great believer in fate. If a bomb is going to get you, then it’s going to get you, and there’s damn all you can do about it. It might just as well be the wheels of a bus in peace-time. But I was deliberately walking into danger. There was a difference.

The second Take Post of the day came at about five, just as tea had arrived. It did not develop and all that came of it was that the baked beans on toast were cold. Micky had practically finished the hut by the evening, so that it looked like Malcolm’s army before Dunsinane.

I spent the evening trying to read, of all things, Liddell-Hart’s
Foch.
I was in a deck-chair out in the open patch of grass between the hut and one of the newly constructed pill-boxes. It was quiet and still—a beautiful summer evening that made one think of the river. The peace of it was incredible. The sun sank slowly in a golden glow. An Anson and an old Harrow, cumbersome yet very light off the ground, came in and took off after a short stay. That was the only activity. There might have been no war on. God! how I wished there weren’t! I was too conscious of how changed the scene might be in the short
space of twenty-four hours. And all the time I was progressing slowly through Liddell-Hart’s account of the follies of the last war, epitomised in the slaughter of Passchendaele.

I was sitting facing the roadway and shortly after seven-thirty my eyes strayed more and more from my book. Despite an assumption of calm, there was an unpleasant fluttering in my stomach. I found myself hoping that Marion would not come.

But she did, and my heart sank. I saw her when she was down near the hangars. Even at that distance I could see the fair straight hair beneath her cap catching the slanting sunlight. I watched to see whether she would turn in at Ops. But no, she came straight on, strolling leisurely towards the pit. When she was about fifty yards away I rose to my feet and went into the hut, to show her that I had seen her. I got my pipe, and by the time I came out again she had turned and was walking back towards Ops.

Well, the die was cast. I couldn’t turn back. I felt much easier now that everything was settled. I sat and read on until the light began to fail, shortly after nine. When I went into the hut I found it empty. The detachment on Stand-to were already in the pit. The others had all drifted off to the Naafi. I had a momentary sense of lostness. But it did not last, for I had too much on hand.