onetwothree quick—but deliberate, like; one—two—three. And then you pulls the ring and be sure you pull it right out, wire and all, case any of it’s holding up. And don’t go thinking that you’ve bust it when it comes away in your hand, because you haven’t.”
His manner robbed the business of all fear. Simon had little difficulty in grasping the technique of landing. There were obvious risks of injury, but those did not distress him. He passed on with the squadron-leader to the aircraft where they met the young sergeant who was to serve as navigator with them, and for half an hour longer he examined the machine and the means of getting out of it.
“I shall pull her back to about ninety-five,” the pilot said. “You won’t have any difficulty.”
With the major from the interrogation centre, he had tea in the Air Force mess. Then they went back in the car and he met the brigadier again in the bare little office that had seen all their business. McNeil had not been idle.
“Fix things up with the Air Force?” he enquired. “It’s all right for to-night, is it? Fine. The sooner you’re back in France the better. Here are your papers.”
He passed an envelope across the table. It contained a pass made out in German and in French, signed by the
Oberstleutnant Commandant
of Le Tréport authorising the bearer, M. Charles Simon, to pass into Vichy territory for the purpose ofvisiting relatives, and to return into the occupied zone within ten days. An oval rubber stamp in purple ink defaced it—“
Vu à l’entée, Chalon
”, and the date.
Charles studied it carefully. “Is that the real signature?” he asked.
The major smiled. “We got a good deal of his correspondence in the raid.”
There was no more to be done, and no more to be said. Charles dined with the major in the mess, and then went up and lay down, fully clothed but for his boots, upon the bed. He lay awake for a considerable time, wondering what lay before him. Presently he grew drowsy and slept for an hour or two.
At one o’clock in the morning they came to wake him. He got up and put on his shoes and went down to the mess; they had thoughtfully prepared for him a drink of hot coffee laced with rum and a few sandwiches. Then he was driven to the aerodrome. On the tarmac the Blenheim was already running up, the exhausts two blue streaks in the blackness of the night.
“All ready?” said the squadron-leader. “Well, let’s go.”
Charles turned to the major and held out his hand. “I’m terribly grateful for all you’ve done for me, sir. Don’t worry if you don’t hear for a month or two. It’s going to take a little time.”
The other said gruffly: “Wish I was going with you, ’stead of sticking in this blasted job. All the very best of luck.”
The pilot and the navigator were already in the Blenheim. Charles was assisted up on to the wing, clumsy in his parachute harness, and settled into the small seat behind them. The hatch was pushed up behind him and snapped shut. The Blenheim moved to a burst of engine, and taxied out into the darkness of the aerodrome.
A few faint lights appeared ahead of them; the engines burst into a roar, and they went trundling down the field. The lights swept past them, the motion grew more violent, then died away to a smooth airborne rush as the lights dropped away beneath them and behind. The pilot bent to the instrument panel and juggled quickly with his massed controls. They swept round in a long gentle turn and steadied on the course for France, climbing as they went.
Charles remembered little of that flight. He sat there for two hours, gradually getting cold, watching the computations and the plotting of the navigator in the dim, shaded cockpit light. In the end the sergeant turned to him. “About ten minutesmore,” he said. “Are you all ready to go?”
Charles said: “All ready.”
The pilot swung round in his seat. “You’ll see to land all right,” he said. “The
His manner robbed the business of all fear. Simon had little difficulty in grasping the technique of landing. There were obvious risks of injury, but those did not distress him. He passed on with the squadron-leader to the aircraft where they met the young sergeant who was to serve as navigator with them, and for half an hour longer he examined the machine and the means of getting out of it.
“I shall pull her back to about ninety-five,” the pilot said. “You won’t have any difficulty.”
With the major from the interrogation centre, he had tea in the Air Force mess. Then they went back in the car and he met the brigadier again in the bare little office that had seen all their business. McNeil had not been idle.
“Fix things up with the Air Force?” he enquired. “It’s all right for to-night, is it? Fine. The sooner you’re back in France the better. Here are your papers.”
He passed an envelope across the table. It contained a pass made out in German and in French, signed by the
Oberstleutnant Commandant
of Le Tréport authorising the bearer, M. Charles Simon, to pass into Vichy territory for the purpose ofvisiting relatives, and to return into the occupied zone within ten days. An oval rubber stamp in purple ink defaced it—“
Vu à l’entée, Chalon
”, and the date.
Charles studied it carefully. “Is that the real signature?” he asked.
The major smiled. “We got a good deal of his correspondence in the raid.”
There was no more to be done, and no more to be said. Charles dined with the major in the mess, and then went up and lay down, fully clothed but for his boots, upon the bed. He lay awake for a considerable time, wondering what lay before him. Presently he grew drowsy and slept for an hour or two.
At one o’clock in the morning they came to wake him. He got up and put on his shoes and went down to the mess; they had thoughtfully prepared for him a drink of hot coffee laced with rum and a few sandwiches. Then he was driven to the aerodrome. On the tarmac the Blenheim was already running up, the exhausts two blue streaks in the blackness of the night.
“All ready?” said the squadron-leader. “Well, let’s go.”
Charles turned to the major and held out his hand. “I’m terribly grateful for all you’ve done for me, sir. Don’t worry if you don’t hear for a month or two. It’s going to take a little time.”
The other said gruffly: “Wish I was going with you, ’stead of sticking in this blasted job. All the very best of luck.”
The pilot and the navigator were already in the Blenheim. Charles was assisted up on to the wing, clumsy in his parachute harness, and settled into the small seat behind them. The hatch was pushed up behind him and snapped shut. The Blenheim moved to a burst of engine, and taxied out into the darkness of the aerodrome.
A few faint lights appeared ahead of them; the engines burst into a roar, and they went trundling down the field. The lights swept past them, the motion grew more violent, then died away to a smooth airborne rush as the lights dropped away beneath them and behind. The pilot bent to the instrument panel and juggled quickly with his massed controls. They swept round in a long gentle turn and steadied on the course for France, climbing as they went.
Charles remembered little of that flight. He sat there for two hours, gradually getting cold, watching the computations and the plotting of the navigator in the dim, shaded cockpit light. In the end the sergeant turned to him. “About ten minutesmore,” he said. “Are you all ready to go?”
Charles said: “All ready.”
The pilot swung round in his seat. “You’ll see to land all right,” he said. “The
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