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Authors: Geoffrey Household
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the beacon in the northern hedge. The supports were admirably fitted for their purpose. Their sharp points bit firmly into the turf of the bank; with two long legs, one short and one slightly shorter, we had the thing straight enough for any practical use.
In the dark kaffir kraal of bramble bushes it wasn’t so easy to find the other beacon, and the time was now half-past nine. We made a lot of impatient noise, but the party sitting in the boundary hedge were too far away to hear us. At last we got it, and fixed it up on the very brink of the valley. Here the steep escarpment swept round to the east, abruptly ending Blossom’s down. We could only give that unknown and unfortunate pilot something under four hundred yards, instead of the five to six hundred that the proper reception committee had allowed. After we got the beacon in position, I paced out the distance and shifted a couple of sleepy cows. There were no other obstacles so long as the pilot stayed bang on his line and could stop before he plunged into the valley.
We then had time to sit down and work out the odds. If the plane landed according to the signals from the beacons, and if it didn’t go over the edge–two very bigifs– we had rather more than the three minutes which Peter Sandorski had demanded. The four men in the boundary hedge would come up to the level of their airstrip when they expected or heard the plane, but even there they would be a quarter of a mile from us, plus the distance that the plane traveled. When the pilot overshot their strip, they would think he meant to turn and come back, so that they wouldn’t begin to run up until he actually landed. Sandorski’s plan began to look less like a nightmare.
A little after ten the plane circled once, and came in over the hedge like a great silent owl. The pilot revved up as he touched, and taxied forward till his wing was nearly over the beacon. He saw or sensed the appalling drop in front of him, lurched round, switched on his light and spent an intolerable time maneuvering into a position where there wasn’t a cow or a thorn bush or sudden death in front of him.
As soon as his wheels came to rest, he put out his light. I suppose he had been instructed not to use it, and to trust to the beacon signals. We hammered excitedly on the door. Sandorski left it to me to do the talking in case his voice should be recognized. I sounded, he said, just like any other blasted Englishman. The rest of him was safely unrecognizable. In the dark he was a shapeless mass of sweaters and windbreakers, and his small head was extinguished between cap and muffler.
The door was opened from within, and a man peered doubtfully out into the night.
“Quick!” I shouted. “We haven’t a moment. Police on the way! Jump, man!”
He dropped to the ground, carrying a small suitcase with him.
“Anything else?”
“It is all,” the stranger answered.
The pilot stuck his head out.
”Here!” he protested. “Call this a landing strip? Not again! I’m not a–”
“Get out of here, you fool!” I yelled hysterically. “You’ll be arrested in a minute. Get out!”
“What’s ahead?”
“Three hundred yards and then a hedge. Jump it if you can’t fly it.”
“Cripes!” he said. “I’ll bring a horse next time.”
We had created a fine atmosphere of alarm and despondency. The plane roared and began to move. The pilot flooded the turf with light again, and revealed the real reception committee running towards us less than a hundred yards away. With the engine ticking over, it had been impossible for us to hear their movements.
He took no risk of being stopped. I wonder he didn’t kill the lot of them. But he cleared the hedge. While we ran I heard the steady drone of the plane in its safe and lonely world, and envied him.
We took the nearest way, straight down the slope. That for the moment increased our lead. I seized the passenger’s suitcase and got rid of it into a thick holly which I knew
In the dark kaffir kraal of bramble bushes it wasn’t so easy to find the other beacon, and the time was now half-past nine. We made a lot of impatient noise, but the party sitting in the boundary hedge were too far away to hear us. At last we got it, and fixed it up on the very brink of the valley. Here the steep escarpment swept round to the east, abruptly ending Blossom’s down. We could only give that unknown and unfortunate pilot something under four hundred yards, instead of the five to six hundred that the proper reception committee had allowed. After we got the beacon in position, I paced out the distance and shifted a couple of sleepy cows. There were no other obstacles so long as the pilot stayed bang on his line and could stop before he plunged into the valley.
We then had time to sit down and work out the odds. If the plane landed according to the signals from the beacons, and if it didn’t go over the edge–two very bigifs– we had rather more than the three minutes which Peter Sandorski had demanded. The four men in the boundary hedge would come up to the level of their airstrip when they expected or heard the plane, but even there they would be a quarter of a mile from us, plus the distance that the plane traveled. When the pilot overshot their strip, they would think he meant to turn and come back, so that they wouldn’t begin to run up until he actually landed. Sandorski’s plan began to look less like a nightmare.
A little after ten the plane circled once, and came in over the hedge like a great silent owl. The pilot revved up as he touched, and taxied forward till his wing was nearly over the beacon. He saw or sensed the appalling drop in front of him, lurched round, switched on his light and spent an intolerable time maneuvering into a position where there wasn’t a cow or a thorn bush or sudden death in front of him.
As soon as his wheels came to rest, he put out his light. I suppose he had been instructed not to use it, and to trust to the beacon signals. We hammered excitedly on the door. Sandorski left it to me to do the talking in case his voice should be recognized. I sounded, he said, just like any other blasted Englishman. The rest of him was safely unrecognizable. In the dark he was a shapeless mass of sweaters and windbreakers, and his small head was extinguished between cap and muffler.
The door was opened from within, and a man peered doubtfully out into the night.
“Quick!” I shouted. “We haven’t a moment. Police on the way! Jump, man!”
He dropped to the ground, carrying a small suitcase with him.
“Anything else?”
“It is all,” the stranger answered.
The pilot stuck his head out.
”Here!” he protested. “Call this a landing strip? Not again! I’m not a–”
“Get out of here, you fool!” I yelled hysterically. “You’ll be arrested in a minute. Get out!”
“What’s ahead?”
“Three hundred yards and then a hedge. Jump it if you can’t fly it.”
“Cripes!” he said. “I’ll bring a horse next time.”
We had created a fine atmosphere of alarm and despondency. The plane roared and began to move. The pilot flooded the turf with light again, and revealed the real reception committee running towards us less than a hundred yards away. With the engine ticking over, it had been impossible for us to hear their movements.
He took no risk of being stopped. I wonder he didn’t kill the lot of them. But he cleared the hedge. While we ran I heard the steady drone of the plane in its safe and lonely world, and envied him.
We took the nearest way, straight down the slope. That for the moment increased our lead. I seized the passenger’s suitcase and got rid of it into a thick holly which I knew
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