Read Online The Hornet's Sting by Mark Ryan - Free Book Online Page B

footage could help prevent British planes from being blown out of the sky, it would surely book his passage into the RAF. He already missed flying more than he would ever miss another human being, including his wife and baby. And at least he knew they would be supported by four loving and healthy grandparents, who could offer comfort while he risked his life overseas.

    The day after Whitsun 1941, Tommy Sneum took a taxi to Elseminde. He was driven down a track through dusty fields full of turnips and knee-high barley, past a herd of more than a hundred cattle and up to the manicured lawns of an impressive old farmhouse.
    The lady who opened the front door seemed surprised at the intrusion.
    ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Tommy said. ‘May I speak with Lieutenant Poul Andersen, please?’
    ‘My husband is officiating at the racecourse,’ the woman said suspiciously, as though this information were common knowledge.
    Sneum thanked her and headed straight for the race meeting in Odense. Battling his way through the crowds, he found a steward and asked him to tell Andersen that Flight Lieutenant Nielsen would like to speak with him.
    Before long, a very stern-looking man in his forties approached from the main stand, clearly caught somewhere between curiosity and irritation. With slicked-back hair and cheekbones of granite, Poul Andersen cut an intimidating figure. Tommy was glad he hadn’t used his own name, and was suddenly concerned that this might not be the right plane-owner to approach.
    Andersen looked even more suspicious of Tommy than his wife had been. ‘You’ll have to make it quick,’ he said impatiently. ‘There’s another race in fifteen minutes.’
    ‘Then I’ll come straight to the point, sir. I hear you have a few planes on your farm. I’m looking for a bargain now, so that I’ll have something to fly after the war. If the price is right, I’m interested in buying one.’
    Andersen shook his head. ‘I have only one left, Nielsen, and I wouldn’t want to sell her. As you say, the war has to end some day.’
    Sneum wasn’t about to give up. ‘I could give you cash.’
    ‘Sorry, Nielsen. She’s not for sale. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must—’ p>
     
    At that moment, Tommy knew he had to gamble. ‘Sir, before you go, what would your answer be if I told you the plane would go west?’ Telling the truth, even in such an ambiguous way, was a terrible risk.
    Andersen stared at the younger man, instantly realizing that ‘west’ meant Britain. There was a tense silence. ‘Then she’s yours,’ he finally replied.
    ‘How much?’ Tommy asked.
    ‘No charge. Meet me when the races have finished.’

    Andersen drove Sneum back to the farm, down a track adjacent to the main house and through one of the turnip fields to a barn. Made of corrugated tin, it had been converted into a hangar. When Andersen threw open the double doors, Tommy’s heart sank as he was confronted by the dirty, dusty old fuselage of a de Havilland Hornet Moth. The registration number—OY-DOK—was scarcely visible through the grime. The rest of the plane was nowhere to be seen. In short, the grubby wreck that lay before them was pathetic.
    As he tried to hide his disappointment, Tommy was shown the wings. They had been detached before the plane was wheeled into the hangar and were now stacked neatly at the back of the building, dusty but apparently undamaged. In a big linen bag were some bolts, which might one day be used to reattach the wings and struts to the fuselage. Just as he was feeling slightly more optimistic, though, Tommy’s hopes were dashed again.
    ‘The tail fin didn’t fare so well in transit from Kastrup,’ explained Andersen. ‘It got a bit warped and torn, so we sent it to Aalborg for repairs. When it came back, we took it into the farm workshop. It’s still in there now, in a crate.’
    Tommy tried to muster some enthusiasm. ‘I see. That’s handy.’
    ‘The best thing about this plane’, added