Coming Home
by
Alan North


Coming Home

Alan North 

Published in 1989 by The SPA Ltd.
Lloyds Bank Chambers,
Upton-upon-Severn, Worcs.

Alan North 1989

This book is copyright.  No part of it may "be reproduced in any form
without permission in writing from the publishers except by a reviewer
who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written
for inclusion in a newspaper, magazine, radio or television
broadcast.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

North, Alan, 1935-Coming Home.  I Title 823'.914 [F]

ISBN 1-85421-074-2

AMFMBEROF

Designed and produced by The SPA Ltd.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by The Eastern Press Ltd, Reading,
Berks.

Acknowledgements There are so many people to thank for helping and
encouraging me to complete this book that I can only mention a select
few.

The most important must be the brave men who served in Bomber Command
and in particular the crews who did not return.  Their courage was the
inspiration.

The R.A.F Museum at Hendon who provided willing advice and a wealth of
technical information.

My great friend Stanley Cohen for his unfailing support and Vincent
Ryder for his superb editing skills.

To my wife, Valerie, for her patience and tolerance of Lancaster Mark
III's and the Second World War dominating a normally tranquil
household.

Chapter 1

Using rudder, brakes and outer engine, Flying Officer Peter Watson
coaxed Lancaster UM7 round the last awkward turn on to the end of the
runway at R.A.F Wickenby.  Flight Sergeant Paul Robertson reached down
to pull a clipboard from between his feet, rested it on his knees and
called out the final take-off checks.

"Compass magnetic."

"Compass magnetic," echoed Peter "Propellers set to full fine."

"Set to full fine."

"Numbers one and two fuel boosters on."

"Boosters on."

"Flaps selected for take-off."

"Selected."

These last few seconds were almost a religious ceremony, thought Peter.
He understood why warriors in other times went through intricate
rituals before battle.  The mind had to be emptied of everything except
the need to strike and to survive.  His Lancaster provided its own
rituals.  The litany take-off checks, the stunning noise, the vibration
that drummed through his body, the smells of fuel, exhaust, hot metal
and rubber.  The assault on his senses narrowed his thoughts to the
single purpose of getting his bomber and crew to the target and back
home.

He stared through the window at the red blob of the Aldis signal lamp
in the control tower.  The lamp blinked and showed green.  Peter pushed
the throttles forward, the four Merlins boomed and the bomber rolled
along the runway picking up speed.  50 miles an hour.  60.  70.  80.
For an instant it seemed that UM7 would be defeated by her load of
500-pound bombs and 4,000 pound "cookie."  Then she was airborne,
passing over a farmhouse nestled among the trees as Peter reached for
the control to retract the undercarriage.

In the rear gun turret Leading Aircraftman Dick Holden braced himself
as the bomber turned to gain height.  Beyond his four Browning machine
guns he could see the farmhouse receding and the pattern of fields
around it.  Funny thing, he thought, he'd seen more fields from the air
since he joined the R.A.F than he had ever seen from the ground.  Born
and bred an East-Ender, he had never cared for the countryside any more
than he cared for living in a desert.  He felt comfortable and at home
only when surrounded by people, even strangers.  For the hundredth time
he wondered at his daftness in conniving to get assigned to aircrew
from basic training.  He'd had some vague picture in his mind of
sitting shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the bomber crew, all very
matey and glamorous.  Now he had the loneliest and least envied job in
Bomber Command, jammed in his turret, seeming to be miles away from the
rest of the crew, constantly rebuked by the skipper for chattering on
the intercom and always knowing at the back of his mind that most rear
gunners' luck ran out after a few raids.

"Hey, skipper.  Can we please have less aerobatics tonight?"  he called
over the intercom.

"You turned me inside out last time."

"OK, Dick.  Put a sock in it," said Peter.

"How about a course, Paul, or am I supposed to fly in circles all
night?"

Paul Robertson, hunched over his charts, answered: "Steer one three
five, skipper.  One three five."

"Roger.  Thanks Uncle."

Paul had grown accustomed to his nickname.  He was no older than the
rest of them, all in their early twenties, but he was always calm,
always precise, always self-contained.  He knew it made him a bit of a
mystery to the rest of the crew and he liked the feeling.

Peter brought the Lancaster round to the new bearing.  In the last
light of the setting sun he could see more than a hundred Lancasters
drawing together in a stream that climbed steadily as it made for the
coast of France.  Tonight's target was Pizen.  The bombers would zigzag
across France and Belgium, hoping the German de fences would not guess
their target in time to mass night fighters for an ambush.  At
intervals the bombers would drop clusters of metallic foil to drift in
the wind and confuse the German radar.  Ahead of them the small, fast
Mosquito fighter-bombers would try to distract the enemy fighters and
would race over the target at low level, shooting up flak and
searchlight positions.  But, Peter knew, sooner or later the radar and
the searchlights, the flak and the night fighters would find them.

They crossed the French coast at 20,000 feet, still climbing as the
last light vanished in the Western sky.  A curtain of flak showed the
coastal de fences were in action though the main German de fences were
concentrated on the approaches to the likely target areas.

Paul checked his charts by the light of a dim bulb.  The roar of the
engines and the vibration that made his charts blur and instruments
jiggle did not upset his concentration.  He had learned to navigate as
a boy in his father's trawler off the North Sea's Dogger Bank, a
graveyard for the unsure and the nervous.  Many a time he had found the
way through storms that screamed round the little wheelhouse and stood
the trawler on end as she climbed one towering wave after another.  He
had often been afraid but he had never seen his father show fear and he
had understood that he should not show it either.  Now, he would tell
himself when thing got rough, that the Lancaster was just a different
vessel in a different kind of storm.

Paul straightened his back and called over the intercom: "Navigator,
skipper.  Steer zero seven zero."

"Thanks, Uncle.  Zero seven zero," Peter acknowledged.

"Keep your eyes open, everyone.  Watch out for fighters."

They did not need the reminder, Dick Holden in the rear turret knew
that a split-second reaction might decide whether he or a Messerschmitt
109 had the other in his sights first, and there might be no second
chance.  Harry Patterson in the top turret steadily scanned the sky,
willing his imagination not to play tricks.  Every now and then he
squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds, a knack he had learned from
another gunner to prevent his eyes focussing only on one distance as he
searched the sky.  Harry had learned a lot of tricks since his first
raid.  He had worried about putting up a good show when the fighters
came at him and he realised too late that he had almost exhausted
himself with tension before he had to snap himself into action.  Now he
had his emotions under tight control during the long hours to and from
the target.  They were flying well above the patchy cloud tonight.
There was no moon but the bright starlight let him pick out the
silhouette of a Lancaster to their right and another behind and to
their left.  Over the intercom he heard Paul give the skipper a new
course.

"Course one one two, skipper.  One one two.  Three zero minutes to
target.  Three zero minutes."

The Lancaster banked and turned.  In his new field of vision Harry saw
the unmistakable silhouettes of two fighters coming in from behind in a
shallow dive.

"Bandits, skipper.  Seven o'clock.  Two," he yelled into the intercom
as he swung the turret, lined up the first fighter in his sights and
opened up with the Brownings.  Another line of tracer arcing towards
the fighters told him Dick Holden was firing and through the
ear-splitting noise he felt, rather than heard, cannon shells thudding
into the bomber.  Then Peter was throwing the Lancaster into a
corkscrew turn and the fighters had vanished from his view.

As the bomber levelled out Harry searched the sky for the fighters
making another run but all he could see was the Lancaster to their
right turning lazily on to its back and sliding into a vertical dive,
flames trailing from one wing.  There was no sign of anyone baling
out.

Peter checked his crew by intercom.  There were no casualties though
Dick Holden complained: "I'm OK, skipper.  But you fair shook my arse
off."

"Too bad, Dick.  Flight engineer, check for damage."

Warrant Officer Alan Bates called for reports from the rest of the crew
then examined the fuselage below Harry's turret.

"A few holes, skipper," he announced in his usual matter-of-fact
voice.

"Bit draughty.  Nothing to worry about."

"Thanks Alan.  Settle down everybody.  Keep your eyes peeled.  Target
coming up."

Pizen was already burning.  In the nose of the Lancaster Jimmy
Campbell, the bomb aimer, was almost hypnotised by the sight.  Scores
of fires seemed to dance in the shimmering heat, reddening the base of
columns of smoke that boiled up to reach the patches of low cloud.
Exploding bombs stitched patterns across the target area and by the
light of the fires Jimmy could see clusters of incendiary bombs
dropping into the inferno.  Cones of searchlights probed the sky as if
trying to grab the bombers.  Flak burst in a ragged canopy over the
city.

Jimmy felt his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.  Then a calm
voice in his ear said: "Bomb to the right of the green marker, right of
the green marker."  It was the bombing master, circling high above the
incoming bombers and calling down destruction on the city.  Through his
bomb sight Jimmy picked out the green marker flare burning just off the
centre of the target area.

"Come right, skipper," he called.

"Right ... right a bit... steady ... steady.  Bombs gone."  The
Lancaster bucked as 10,000 pounds of bombs fell away.  Jimmy stared
after them but there was no way of telling which were his bombs
exploding amid so many.

The searchlights seemed to be groping their way towards him now and he
had the feeling he always got over a target, that the searchlights were
hunting for him personally, not just any bomber and not just UM7 but
determined to find Jimmy Campbell.  He was relieved to hear Paul's
steady voice guiding the skipper away from the target.

"Two six five, skipper.  Two six five."

"Thanks, Uncle.  Two six five.  Let's go home."

Jimmy was glad to be leaving the dying city and the flak.  The
Lancaster turned and started to climb.  He craned his neck to take one
last look at Pizen then the searchlights hit him like a blow from a
fist.  He jerked his head back and yelled a warning that was lost in
the babble of shouts from the rest of the crew.  Peter was already
standing the bomber almost on one wing tip as he turned and dived,
vaguely aware of the whoomph of a shell bursting closer than the rest
of the flak.  Then they were in blackness again and Peter was heaving
the Lancaster out of the dive, flying by feel and instinct until his
eyes readjusted after the glare of the searchlights and he could read
the faintly illuminated instruments.  He swung the bomber back on
course and started to regain height.

"Think we caught some flak on the starboard wing," said Paul
Robertson.

"Burst pretty close."

In the darkness of the top turret Harry Patterson eased himself in his
seat after bracing himself against the dive and had started to relax
when his stomach tightened as he felt something warm oozing through his
left boot.  He wriggled his toes.  He must have been hit but there was
no pain.  What was it the medics said?  A small wound hurt like hell
but a bad one did not, until the shock wore off.  Christ, he told
himself, am I going to lose a leg?  Or bleed to death on the way
home?

"I think I'm hit, skipper," he called over the intercom, hoping his
voice did not betray the panic surging inside him.  He pulled off a
glove and slowly felt down his left leg, his fingers growing sticky as
they probed for the feel of torn flesh and bone.  The back of his hand
brushed against twisted metal and his fingers explored it.  He jerked
back his hand and licked it, laughing as he tasted coffee.  The shell
splinter had gone through his vacuum flask, missing his leg.

"Take it easy, Harry," urged Peter, trying to work out if Harry was
laughing or gurgling in pain.

"I'm fine, skip.  They pranged my vacuum flask."

Peter could feel drag from the damaged starboard wing but UM7 was
behaving well enough.  He checked the rest of his crew, finally the
rear gunner.

"You all right, Dick?"

"Will be as soon as I find my stomach, skipper.  It's..  Oh shit,
Lancaster behind us going down.  Can see three, no four, 'chutes."

"OK, Dick.  Gunners, test your guns.  Short bursts and for Chris'sake
don't hit any of our own chaps."

Dick swung his turret and let off a short burst.  The violent
manoeuvres and the flak had done no damage.  Harry Patterson tried half
a dozen times to get his turret to move before giving up.  His guns
were pointing to the left and could move up and down, a short burst
showing they were still working.

"Guns OK but turret's jammed, skipper."

"Roger.  Take a look Alan.  And you keep your eyes open, Dick.  I don't
want any surprises with the top turret out of action."

Alan Bates examined the turret mechanism by flashlight and gave Peter
his verdict.

"Can be fixed in a couple of hours on the ground but too chewed up for
me to put right.  Needs some replacements."

Harry felt the relief at finding he was not wounded starting to drain
away.  For the rest of the flight home he would be able to see any
fighters closing in but would be unable to fire back unless they
conveniently crossed in front of his guns.  It was going to be a long
trip.

At the controls, Peter felt his tension giving way to weariness, made
worse by the need to compensate for the drag from the damaged wing. UM7
droned on through the night sky and from time to time he had to blink
and shake his head to keep his concentration.  He knew his crew would
start to relax and he could not afford them the luxury.  A relaxed crew
could become a careless crew and there might still be night-fighters
out there, prowling like jackals looking for an easy kill.  He kept
chivvying them to stay alert until finally Dick Holden lost his
patience.

"What do you think we're doing, skipper playing bloody poker back
here?"

Peter was about to snap back when Paul handed him a mug of coffee and
said quietly: "French coast in fifteen minutes, skipper."

Peter zigzagged the Lancaster through the coastal flak so the gunners
and searchlights would not have an easy target and breathed more easily
when they were flying over the channel.  He always had mixed feelings
about flying over the sea.  It was good to know they were near home but
he dreaded the thought of having to ditch some dark night.  The idea of
being in a flimsy inflatable dinghy, flung about by every wave and
relying on air-sea rescue made his flesh creep.

Paul gave him his final course.  Approaching Wickenby, Peter brought
UM7 down to 2,000 feet and circled, taking instructions from the
control tower.  Ahead of him a damaged Lancaster was told to keep
circling until the rest had landed, in case it piled up on the runway.
When Peter's turn came he brought UM7 down on the east-west runway,
picked out with faint landing lights, eased back the engines as she
slid on to the concrete, brought her to a crawl and taxied slowly to
his dispersal point.

He went through the final rituals, leaving the bomb doors open for the
next load, and closed her down.

"Thanks, old girl," he said quietly, levered himself out of the seat,
crawled over the awkward spar that ran through the mid-section of the
bomber, shuffled out of the door and dropped to the ground.  The rest
of the crew chattered as they climbed into the back of the truck that
would take them to the de-briefing.  Peter spent a few moments with the
ground crew, telling them about the jammed turret and the damaged wing,
then joined his crew.  He wondered why Harry Patterson was nursing what
looked like a chunk of twisted metal and kept grinning at it.

In the de-briefing room a mug of hot tea was pushed into his hand and
the woman officer, petite but business-like, asked the standard
questions about flak, the tactics of the fighters, what they saw in the
target area, whether they saw any Lancasters going down or in trouble
on the way home.  At last it was over and Peter turned to follow his
crew into the mess hall when he spotted Simon Yates making towards him.
They had known each other since basic training, when they knocked
around with Andy Jacobs and Paul Millington.

Simon, who usually yelled a greeting across the room, signalled Peter
to join him in a quiet corner.

"Heard about Andy?  Looks as though he bought it tonight.  His plane was
seen going down just after Pizen.  Nobody seen baling out."

"Christ," said Peter.

"Well, we can only hope.  He never did marry that girl, did he? Perhaps
he was right."  He walked across to the mess hall, remembering the time
Andy tried to impress his girlfriend by riding his motorbike up the
steps of a hotel and spent two weeks in hospital.

In the mess hall he found a place at the table between Paul Robertson
and Jimmy Campbell.  As usual, Jimmy and Harry Patterson were verbally
knocking pieces off each other.  The perky Glaswegian and the droll
farmer's son from the west country seemed to have nothing in common but
they were almost inseparable and always carrying on a good-humoured
argument.  This time Jimmy, working his way through a meal of eggs,
bacon, tomatoes, toast and tea, was insisting that breakfast was the
only English contribution to civilisation.  Everything else had been
stolen from somebody else, usually the Scots.  The rest of the crew
kept the argument going, between mouthfuls of food, until finally Peter
said: "Well, I'm for my bed, and I don't give a damn who invented
it."

As he walked to his quarters the first streaks of daylight were in the
eastern sky and the ground crews were already at work on the damaged
bombers, assessing which would be out of action and which could be made
ready for another raid that night.

Chapter 2

The cracked bell in the squat belfry of the parish church of St.  Amour
clanked its reminder that it was time for early morning Mass.  In the
grey light a dozen people, muffled in shabby coats against the November
chill, let themselves out of their homes and clacked through the
cobbled streets towards the church.  In his kitchen, Henri Rosset
swallowed the last of his coffee, glanced in the little wooden-framed
mirror over the sink and ran his hand over his grey hair before jamming
on his beret.  The face that looked back at him was creased and tired
and he always felt half-dressed without a moustache.  But the one he
had boasted for more than twenty years was a copy of Marshal Petain's,
a tribute to his hero of the first war, and he shaved it off when the
old fool made a pact with the German invaders.

Henri pulled on his old army greatcoat, now dyed a safe black.  He felt
comforted by its weight.  Like me, he thought, this old coat has seen
wars but it's not worn out yet.  He unlocked the side door of the house
quietly, so as not to waken his wife, and stepped into the yard of his
car repair business.  For a few years before the war it had done well
and he had put some money into the bank.  There were only a couple of
thousand people in St.  Amour but his reputation had spread around the
countryside and even some of the car dealers in Lyon, an hour's drive
away, gave him work.  Now he had one battered truck and spent most of
his time cannibal ising the farmers' tractors to keep them running. 
But the good years had made him a lot of friends in that quiet corner
of France and that counted for something now.  In the Resistance a man
had to know who he could trust.

Henri walked briskly towards the church.  He liked to think he still
had a military bearing though nearly twenty-five years of his wife's
good cooking had filled out his paunch.  A German army truck roared
past him, two soldiers in the back glancing at him with mild curiosity.
He gave them a courteous nod.  There was no point in arousing suspicion
by showing his real feelings.  At the church door he blessed himself
perfunctorily and glanced round.  Dr.  Paul Duval was kneeling at the
end of a pew near the back.  Henri genuflected and knelt beside him.

"In no mine Patris.."  intoned the priest.

"Heard anything yet?"  Henri whispered.

"Nothing," said Duval.

"For God's sake what are they doing in London?  Didn't they get our
message or are they playing some stupid political game?"

"You know as much as the rest of us.  I talked to the chief last night.
She said we would wait two more days before risking another radio
message.  You know what will happen if the Germans trace the
transmitter to St.  Amour."

Henri stood, sat and knelt in unison with the rest of the little
congregation but his thoughts were elsewhere.  The parish priest
preached in gentle tones on the need for patience and hope in hard
times but Henri was burning with frustration and anger.  They had told
London three weeks ago that a German division was being pulled out of
the Lyon area to go to the eastern front.  In another week or so a
massive troop train would pass close to St.  Amour and provide a
perfect target for the Resistance but they needed weapons, ammunition
and, above all, plastic explosive.  Three times they had been given the
signal that it was to be brought in by light aircraft.  Three times
they had stood by at night, ready to light the home-made flares along
the makeshift runway at Andre Blanche's farm.  Every time they had
taken their lives in their hands and every time there had been no
plane.  No doubt the people in London had been sleeping safely in their
beds.

Dr.  Duval's nudge in the ribs told him that the Mass was over.  They
walked out of the church together and silently fell into step on their
routine walk to the cafe of Alphonse Leblanc.  Usually they took a
table near the window but this morning four German soldiers were
sitting there, talking and laughing over croissants and coffee.  Henri
and Duval took a table in the opposite corner and nodded a greeting to
Alphonse.  He brought them coffee and went back to wiping a cloth over
a spotless zinc counter.

Henri stared at the soldiers.  They were all in their early twenties
and fresh-faced.  They did not have the haunted, drawn look of Germans
who had fought on the eastern front.  This was what made the Resistance
work hard, he thought.  You saw, really saw, the people you might kill.
In that other war you didn't see them, or at least you didn't see them
as real people.  These four reminded him of the boys who joined the
army with him all those years ago.  They would be old men like him now,
if they had lived.  He had helped to bury Albert under a few spadefuls
of earth near Verdun.  The last he saw of Phillipe was a stump of leg
sticking out of a heap of mud after a shellburst.  Alain coughed
himself to death a. few weeks after a gas attack.  Anybody would have
thought one war was enough, even for the Germans.

One of the German soldiers noticed Henri's stare and muttered something
to the others.  They turned in their chairs and looked at Henri.

"Something bothering you, grandfather?"  asked one in good French.

Alphonse and the doctor froze but Henri reacted with the guile that had
become second nature.

"No, no," he said evenly.

"It's just that I usually sit with my friends at that table.  An old
man's habits die hard."

"That's the trouble with you people," said the soldier.

"All habits and always living in the past.  You're history, you're
finished.  You get in the way of people who have a future."

He rose, threw some coins on the table and strolled out casually,
followed by his companions.  Alphonse released his breath in a sigh,
reached under the counter for a bottle and three glasses and joined his
friends.

"You are a good actor, Henri my friend," he said, pouring the cognac.

"But be careful."

Henri relaxed.

"I'm a natural actor.  When this war's over I'm going to make a fortune
in the cinema big cars, beautiful women, lots of money," he chuckled.
He was feeling good.  The story would go round St.  Amour of how Henri
chased four German soldiers out of the cafe by just staring at them.
Perhaps it was not exactly true but it would keep up morale and make
him seem a bit more important.

Dr.  Duval sipped his cognac to hide his irritation.  Henri was a good
man but his damned self-importance would get him into trouble one of
these days.  He glanced round to make sure nobody else was coming into
the cafe and turned to Henri.

"The chief has another idea.  She wants to know, if the explosives
don't come, can you fix something to sabotage the train?"

Henri let him wait for an answer, appearing to be deep in thought.

"Probably," he said at last.

"It has been done before.  A steel wedge in the points might derail it.
Something like that."

"But we found out in the early days that it is not the best way.  We
might only derail the locomotive.  What use is that?  We need to
destroy the train.  We must have the plastic explosive, timers, more
weapons and ammunition."

Alphonse leaned back in his chair and grunted "Let's hope they come in
time.  Let's hope somebody in London knows there's a war going on."

Dr.  Duval walked back to his surgery, still feeling uncomfortable
about Henri Rosset's attitude.  Boastfulness was not a good sign in a
man under stress, it could be the beginning of an emotional see-saw
that would end in a crack up.  He would have to keep an eye on the old
man.  The doctor collected his black bag and a stethoscope from his
surgery, dropped them on to the passenger seat of his car and set out
on his morning rounds.  There were only two patients he had to see and
there was not much he could do for either of them.  There was no cure
for old age.  The man who would take up most of his morning was fitter
than the doctor, though the filing cards in the surgery showed he was
plagued with a succession of minor ailments that demanded regular
attention.  Duval smiled.  The idea of Francois Dufy being a
hypochondriac was a private joke shared by a dozen people in St. Amour.
He turned the car down a narrow cobbled street, stopped outside a
small house, picked up his bag and walked through the front door
without knocking.

"Still ailing Francois, I hope?"  he asked, smiling at the bull of a
man who held out an enormous hand in greeting.

"Of course, doctor.  I think the trouble is that my wife does not feed
me properly."  A grin split his broad ruddy face.  Duval put his bag on
to the table and sat with Dufy in front of the fire.

"What do you hear from your brother?"  he asked.  Pierre worked in the
railway yards at Lyon.

"They are starting to load the troop train, a monster of a train.  Two
big locomotives and about a hundred wagons.  Pierre thinks it will take
them three or four days at least."

"Well guarded?"

"Too well.  Soldiers all over the yards, regular patrols along the
train and it looks as if they are going to put machine gun posts on
some of the wagons.  It is not going to be easy."

Duval pursed his lips and stared into the fire.  The Resistance group
had pressed London to let them attack the train.  Perhaps it was going
to be a good thing if the explosives did not arrive.  Perhaps they were
taking on too much.

"Any ideas?"  he asked after a long pause.

Francois shrugged his massive shoulders.

"If we blew up the line ahead of the train it would be safer but it
would not do much good.  A line can be repaired in a few hours.  We
have to get at the train itself when it is passing St.  Amour.  I'm
trying to think of ways to get it to stop near the old bridge.  Some of
us can hide under the bridge then crawl out and plant explosives under
the wagons.  But that will only work if the train is passing at night.
In the daylight we would be seen immediately and.."  he did not finish
the sentence.

"Exactly," said Duval.

"And it will only work if we have the explosives.  The chief says we
should wait two more days before we ask London again."

Dufy rose.

"Well, she usually knows best," he said, "if some of our generals had
been as good as that girl France would not be occupied now."

Duval collected his bag and held out his hand.

"Take care of yourself Francois," he grinned.

"You are a sick man."  He winced as his hand was crushed in an iron
grip-As the doctor drove away he noticed that the four German soldiers
who had been in the cafe were strolling through the town.  Doors that
had been open were slammed as they approached and re-opened when they
had passed.  When they glanced in a window curtains were drawn in an
angry gesture.  Children who had been playing in the street crossed to
the other side and stared at them balefully.  It does not count for
very much," thought Duval, 'but it helps to remind the Germans that
they are hated."  He turned the car out of town, towards the farm of
Andre Blanche.

He saw the chief as soon as he turned into the farmyard.  Helene
Blanche, a slim young woman with a withdrawn expression on her pale
face, walked up to the car.

"What did Francois say?"  she asked in a flat voice.  Duval told her
about the loading of the troop train and Dufy's half formed plan to
sabotage it near St.  Amour.  She leaned against the car door,
listening attentively then said abruptly: "That plan is no good.  It
depends upon too many things.  A good plan does not rely upon good
luck.  I will think of something else."  Impatiently, she beat her
small fist against the roof of the car.

"If only the British would get those supplies to us," she muttered.

"How are we supposed to fight if we have not got the things to fight
with?"  She looked down at Duval.

"Tell Alphonse to listen again tonight.  Just listen.  No transmission.
We only risk that if we are desperate."  She turned on her heels and
walked back into the farmhouse.  Duval watched as she closed the door
behind her, remembering her as a child who would throw down her
skipping rope and run to fling her arms round him.  This war was
wrecking lives in more ways than one, he thought.  He drove back to his
surgery and walked to the cafe.

A family was sitting at a table so he just looked in the window without
breaking stride and scratched an ear.  From behind the counter Alphonse
nodded his acknowledgement of the signal and carried a tray of food to
the family.  The rest of the day dragged for the cafe proprietor and as
midnight approached he sat in his upstairs room checking his pocket
watch every few minutes.  Just before midnight he went down into the
darkened cafe and stood watching through the window until he was
certain the street was deserted before taking a coin from his pocket
and prising out a panel in the wooden partition running along the base
of the window.  He lifted it aside and reached into the space until his
hands closed on the headphones.  Slipping them on, he felt again until
he found the control knob and switched on the radio receiver.  As usual
it was left tuned to the correct frequency so he would not need to use
a light to see the dial.  Alphonse sat on the floor and waited.

The BBC service for occupied France started with the blood-stirring
first notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.  There was a bulletin of
news from the war fronts but Alphonse paid little attention.  He tensed
when the announcer said: "Here are to nights messages," and started to
slowly read out a list of cryptic sentences.

"The swallows fly high..  There is water in the well..  My book is
green..  The dogs bark..  The knife is sharp..  The stone is heavy."
Most of them were fake messages to confuse the Germans, Alphonse knew,
but some of them meant something to one Resistance group or another. He
pressed the headphones to his ears.

"There is snow on the mountain..  The fish are swimming..  The coat is
blue..  My box is full..  The..."  Alphonse switched off the receiver
and jerked off the headphones.

"My box is full," he repeated to himself.  The supplies would be here
tomorrow night.  He stowed away the headphones, fitted the panel back
into place and thumped it to make certain it was secure.  So, he
thought, perhaps this time the signal means something.  It had been
sent three times and each time they had been disappointed.  He went to
bed thinking of the train.

Early next morning Dr.  Duval and Henri Rosset had their usual morning
coffee at the cafe and left a few minutes later knowing they had a long
day ahead of them.  The doctor paid another visit to his healthy
patient Francois and called at three other houses where minor ailments
were invented for the sake of his records, in case the Germans checked
them.  By nightfall a dozen men were making their way, on foot and by
different routes, to Andre Blanche's farm.  They needed no
instructions, the routine was familiar by now.  Old cans stuffed with
rags were collected from their hiding place in the woods and filled
with paraffin.  In a clearing not far from the farmhouse they were set
out in two rows, ready to be lit to make a flare path.  The men settled
down under the trees, ready for a long wait.

Chapter 3

Air Commodore Giles Maitland took the steps three at a time as he left
R.A.F Group Headquarters at Bawtry Hall at first light and made for the
black Hillman staff car waiting to take him to R.A.F Wickenby.  He was
in a dour mood.  Visits to airfields were part of his routine but today
problems were piling up on his desk.  He would have skipped the visit
if it had not been for this business of finding one good aircrew for
one operation.  The people at Wickenby had better not waste his time.

Two junior officers in his wake tried to keep up and almost collided
with him as he stopped three yards short of the car and glared at the
mud spatters along the bottom edge of the doors.

"It's as filthy as a Cairo tram," he snarled at the girl driver.

"Why the hell didn't you get it cleaned while you were hanging
about?"

She was about to snap that she had only had time for a cup of tea after
driving all night when she caught a warning wink from one of the junior
officers.

"Sorry, sir," she mumbled and opened the rear door for him.

Nobody spoke on the journey.  The junior officers knew that
interrupting their chiefs thoughts would be inviting trouble.  The Air
Commodore gazed out of the window, not seeing the fields ploughed to
within inches of the hedge to drag the last bit of food from the earth,
nor the villages that used to be pretty and lively and were now
unpainted, gaunt and seemingly hunched in readiness for another hard
winter.

His mind was on the Intelligence report that had reached him in the
early hours.  It confirmed what he had believed to be true for three
weeks.  The Germans were pulling one of their best divisions out of
France and sending it to the eastern front, as the Resistance had
reported.  Confirmation had come from a source he was not allowed to
know.  It did not matter to him whether an agent had been planted in
the German High Command or the boffins at Bletchley Hall had cracked
another enemy code.  All he needed to know was that the information was
good.

A whole division on the move was a worth-while target and London had
told him that, for its own reasons, it wanted the Resistance to do the
job and to get the credit.  All he had to do was to see that the
Resistance got what they needed.  Well, he thought, he had tried one
way and failed and now he was going to have to try another way.  It was
going to be a lousy mission for the crew that got the job but nobody
had ever said that aircrew was a cushy number.

They were a good lot now, these bomber chaps, he mused, and at last
they had good aircraft but the whole damned business was getting more
technical every month.  His mind flashed back to the early days of the
war, when he was flying a two-engined Whitley bomber and every mission
seemed like a crazy party, like the leaflet raid over the Rhine valley
when they were hit and Lofty was spraying the fire extinguisher on the
flames and singing "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."  But all that was before
the bigger bombers started rolling off the production lines and Air
Marshall "Bomber' Harris launched his campaign of mass destruction.

As the staff car drew up at the entrance to R.A.F Wickenby, the roar of
a Lancaster taking off snapped Maitland out of his reverie.  An R.A.F
policemen, well primed, marched up, stamped to attention with
exaggerated precision and barked: "Good morning, sir.  May I see your
identification please?"

"You know damned well who I am, don't you?"  growled the Air
Commodore.

"Sorry, sir.  Those are my orders."

"And if I didn't follow them you'd be the first to have me posted to
Burma," he thought.  He examined their papers and whipped up a salute
before raising the barrier.

"Bloody chair borne warriors," he muttered as the Hillman turned
towards the base headquarters and the three officers climbed out.

Squadron Leader Roy Jameson led them into the base commander's office
and Air Commodore Phillips rose to greet them.  Maitland promptly sat
behind the commander's desk to make it clear who was in charge.

"Duncan," he said.

"The chaps with me are Squadron leader Sandy Crawford, who is on Group
Intelligence, and Wing Commander Neil Walker, our man for cooperating
with the Resistance in France.  We have a job for you.  The Germans are
pulling back a good division from France to prop up the eastern front.
A Resistance group operating just outside Lyon tell us that the main
movement by rail is due to pass through their area pretty soon.  The
Resistance are keen to have a go and they have shown they have their
heads screwed on the right way but they are desperate for explosives
and weapons."

Air Commodore Phillips pulled his pipe and tobacco pouch out of his
pocket.  He could guess what was coming next.

"We have tried three times to get help to them," Maitland went on.

"Each time by light aircraft and each time they bounced by German
night-fighters.  So we have to try something new.  It's a job for your
best crew."

Group Captain Howard Franklin had slipped into the room almost
unnoticed.  Maitland looked at him and made a mental note of the strain
that was showing on his thin features.

"Howard, we know your record in training crews for special operations.
When I say your best, I mean your best."

Franklin nodded his acknowledgement of the compliment but said nothing.
Experience had taught him not to be too enthusiastic too soon.  He had
lost good men on operations that had not been thought out properly.

Maitland hesitated, knowing what Franklin was thinking, then went on.

"The Resistance have picked a landing place just outside the town of
St.  Amour they are still expecting a light aircraft.  We can't risk a
radio message telling them the new plan.  It's this.  There will be
maximum effort against Stuttgart tonight.  Everything you can get up
will take part.  One of your Lancs will carry a container of
explosives, weapons and so on, plus a few bombs.  It will take off
before your squadrons and join the vanguard heading for Stuttgart.

When it reaches the target area it will drop its bombs then veer off on
a course edging around Switzerland, drop its container at St.  Amour,
follow a course just east of Paris to avoid fighter stations and join
up with the last of our returning aircraft."

Franklin chewed his bottom lip.  These special operations always
sounded so damned easy at the planning stage but there were always a
dozen things that could go wrong.  His mind raced as he thought of ways
to minimise the risk.

"What height for the container drop?"  he asked.  Wing Commander Walker
intervened.

"Not more than a couple of hundred feet.  The Resistance won't have
time to go looking for a container that drifts away from the dropping
zone.

Air Commodore Phillips lit his pipe, waved away a cloud of blue smoke
and asked in a conversational tone: "What's the starting price on this
one, Giles?"

"Stuttgart itself will be no picnic so the chance of your chaps getting
there and from there to the dropping zone are about evens.  Your chance
of getting your chaps back are less than that.  The Luftwaffe must know
from the wreckage of the first light aircraft what sort of operation we
are running, though they won't know where we intend to make the drop.
They ambushed the next two and they'll be wide awake tonight." Maitland
looked at the others.

"Have you anyone in mind?"

Squadron Leader James glanced at Franklin for confirmation as he
replied: "I'm flying tonight with UM7 and Peter Watson.  He's good.
Responsible, levelheaded and a damned good flier."

"How about his navigator and bomb aimer?  They also have to be good."

"They can be relied on."

"Right, I'll leave Neil and Sandy here to brief him.  Oh, and you're
not flying with him tonight.  That's an order," snapped Maitland.  A
crew might be expendable, he thought, but there was no sense in
throwing away a good squadron leader who was just going for the hell of
it.

Maitland stood, shook hands all round and strode out.  As he closed the
door behind him he could hear the excited chatter erupt in the office
but suddenly he felt old and tired.  He was glad he did not have to
meet this fellow Watson and add another face to the mental gallery of
young men he had sent over Europe knowing there was a good chance they
would never come back.

He took a deep breath, straightened his back and marched into the outer
office.  A sergeant clerk wrestling with mounds of paper work looked up
then leaped to attention as Maitland glanced round and snarled: "This
place looks like a leaflet raid in a submarine.  Bloody disgraceful,"
and stamped out.

Fifteen minutes later Peter Watson and his crew were being briefed in
the commanders' office by the two staff officers.  Neil Walker outlined
the mission tersely, skating over the risks and saying nothing about
the previous failures to land supplies.

"All well and good," said Paul Robertson finally.

"But let's have it straight.  How dangerous is it?"

Walker looked him straight in the eye.

"We reckon your chances are pretty good.  On the way out to Stuttgart
the fighters will be concentrating on the main bomber force behind you.
Any that see you dive away over the target will assume you are in
trouble and go for other bombers.  It's only on the return trip that
you may have a little trouble.  Watch out for fighters."

At the back of the group Sergeant Philip Lester, their wireless
operator, spoke up and the others jerked their heads round in surprise.
He was the quiet one, nicknamed Monk for his long silences, who seemed
to carry disappointment round with him like a cloak.  Only Peter knew
he despised himself for failing miserably at pilot training.

"I was just thinking, sir, isn't this the sort of thing usually done by
light aircraft?"  he asked "Quite right," said Walker.

"We have tried but they've been beaten back by the weather."

While his navigator and bomb aimer got down to their detailed briefing,
Peter drew Squadron Leader Sandy Crawford to one side.

"What's this bullshit about the weather what's so special about the
weather round Lyon?"  he asked "Well there tends to be a lot of flying
metal amongst it," said Crawford, and they both grinned.

"With all due respect, you're devious buggers at Bawtry," said Peter.

"It's one of the qualifications of the job," laughed Crawford.

"Anyway, this is a worth while mission.  You could do a hell of a lot
of good.  Best of luck."

The briefing over, the crew wandered slowly across the airfield to have
a look at the repairs to UM7 and watch the container being loaded. Alan
Bates climbed into the Lancaster to check that the upper turret was
working again then stood under the starboard wing, cupping his hands
round his eyes to examine the repairs.  The warrant officer in charge
of the ground crew grinned.

"Just needed a bit of spit and ingenuity," he said.

"It was only..  God Almighty."  He was staring at the tractor bringing
the big container towards UM7.

"How the hell am I supposed to get that beast in?"  he asked.

"Try spit and ingenuity, mate," said Alan, and strolled off towards the
mess, leaving the warrant officer bellowing orders at his crew.

Jimmy Campbell stood for a few minutes watching the container being
manoeuvred into place, ready to be lifted into the bomb bay.  It seemed
too big to fit but he supposed somebody had worked it out.  He was not
looking forward to tonight.  The bombing run over Stuttgart would be
enough for one night but this time he would have to fly over some
God-forsaken part of France looking for a tiny flashlight signal and a
flare path that would be as dim as a Wee Free's birthday cake.  It was
enough to make a man wish he was back driving a Glasgow bus, going like
the clappers down the Gallowgate on a Saturday night to clock out
before the pubs closed and having the usual Monday morning ticking off
from his boss.  What the hell, it was all the same in the long run, as
his old man used to say.  He exchanged a few words of cheerful abuse
with the sweating ground crew and joined a noisy mob kicking a football
at the edge of the airfield.

In the sergeants' quarters Paul Robertson sat on his bunk, knees drawn
up to hold a writing pad and stared at the blank sheet.  He ought to
write something for his mother just in case he did not come back.  He
could leave the letter on his bunk, and whoever sorted out his kit
would know what to do.  It was something he ought to do for his mother.
Her husband had died without even a chance to say he was joining the
armada of little ships heading for Dunkirk.  She should have something
to hang on to if he did not make it.  He remembered how Aunt Hilda had
kept the letter her Charlie had handed to the chaplain before going
over the top on the Somme.  She had carried it in her big leather
handbag until the day she died.  Yes, he should write something.  But
the words would not come.  They were close, he and his mother, just as
he had been close in a different way to his father.  But none of them
made a show of their feelings.  Paul grunted, threw the writing pad
down to the end of the bunk and reached for a cigarette.

In his tiny room in the officers' quarters Peter kicked off his shoes
and glanced in the mirror, running his fingers through his light brown
hair.  Rosemary was right, he thought.  He used to look as fresh as a
schoolboy but now there were dark rings under his eyes.  Well, there
might be a spot of leave before Christmas.  That would put him right.

He stretched out on the bed, hands clasped behind his head.  Leave."
walking in Cobham woods, the smell of fresh earth, the swish of his
boots through fallen leaves.  Home, with his mother fussing over him
while he and Rosemary tried to snatch every moment to be with just each
other.  Leave, with Rosemary.  God, he was glad they had married when
they did, instead of listening to advice to wait until the war was
over.  They seemed to have been meant for each other since they were
childhood friends.  And everybody liked Rosemary.  His heart had always
jumped when they walked into the tennis club or the pub and people had
turned to smile and wave to Rosemary.  He was wondering what she was
doing that day when he drifted into sleep.

There was a sharp rap on the door.  Sid, the orderly, clumped in with a
mug of tea in his hand and the usual grin on his face.

"Three o' clock, sir."

"Yeah, OK."  Peter shook his head to get his memory working.  Yes, that
was it.  Take-off at 1600 hours.  Stuttgart and whatever the hell they
called that dropping zone in France.  Sid had already laid out his
flying suit and was looking under the bed for the flying boots.

Chapter 4

The other bomber crews were still in the briefing room as Peter walked
to the vehicle that would take him to UM7.  He grinned as the silence
was broken by a roar of cheers, whistles and foot-stamping from the
Nissen hut.  That would be Mark Russell, the met.  officer, making one
of his terrible schoolboy jokes.  Mark thought he was a great wit and
the lads enjoyed egging him on.  The truck stopped under a wing of the
Lancaster and Peter climbed out, his parachute thumping against the
tail board, and looked round the airfield.  There were few people about
and it looked quiet, almost peaceful, though in half an hour it would
be a bedlam of noise as the other bombers prepared to take off.  He
hauled himself into the bomber, crawled over the spar, wriggled into
his seat and ran an eye over the controls before clicking on the
intercom and checking that the rest of his team had settled in.  Paul
Robertson picked up his clipboard and they ran through the litany of
pre-flight checks.

"Ignition, contact number three."

"Number three."

"Ground flight switch, on flight."

"On flight."

"Altimeter, set to air feed."

"Set."

"Instrument vacuum, set to four and a half inches."

"Set."

"Radiator shutters open."

"Open."

"Test engines."

One after another the Merlins grunted then roared into life and UM7
taxied slowly to the end of the runway.  Peter went through the final
checks, feeling again the ceremony of noise, smell and ritual taking
charge of him and leaving him with only one reason for his existence.
The Aldis lamp shone green, he pushed the throttles forward and felt
the heavily laden UM7 start to roll.  It took longer than usual to pick
up speed.  Peter watched the end of the runway coming towards him, too
slowly at first then too quickly when there was not enough distance
left to abort the take-off until, with only a hundred yards to go, he
urged to bomber into the air and they were roaring over the trees and
the farmhouse.  The Lancaster circled the base three times before
gaining enough height to set course.  From the rear turret Dick Holden
could see the other crews spilling out of the Nissen hut after their
briefing.

"Navigator, skipper.  Set course one two four, repeat one two four."

"Roger, one two four."  Peter acknowledged.  In the fading daylight he
could see a few Lancasters from other bases ahead of him and around
him.  There would be a lot more behind him soon.  A maximum effort
could || mean a thousand bombers carrying destruction to Stuttgart. The
aircraft closed up as they crossed the sea, and in his upper turret
Harry Patterson looked back at the narrow carpet of bombers outlined
against the last gleam of daylight in the western sky.

"Dutch coast coming up, skipper."  Paul reported.  Peter could see the
flak bursting in crimson and orange patches as the first bombers
crossed the coast, then it was around him and as suddenly they were
through it.

"Nice to be made welcome," said Dick Holden.

"OK, Dick, let's keep the chatter down.  Watch out for fighters
everyone."

But there was no sign of fighters as the procession of bombers
zigzagged across Holland to Stuttgart.  The minutes went by with
nothing interrupting the monotony of the noise of the engines, the
drumming vibration and the blackness outside.

"Pathfinders over target.  Markers going down," reported Philip Lester,
interpreting a cryptic radio signal.  Peter felt the hairs starting to
stand up on the back of his neck and Alan Bates put words to his
thoughts.

"Something bloody peculiar going on," he said.

"I'd be damned glad to know if they are going for the main force behind
us or are waiting to ambush us at Stuttgart."

"Me too," said Peter.

The answer came thirty minutes before they reached the target.  Ahead
of them the black sky was suddenly torn apart by a crisscross pattern
of tracer as the fighters pounced.  It seemed that every Lancaster in
the vanguard was firing and being fired at.

"Bandits.  Nine o' clock," yelled Dick Holden and UM7's turrets roared
as two Messerschmitts hurtled past, going for a Lancaster ahead of
them.  The bomber jinked to escape but too late.  A sheet of crimson
spread along one wing and it dropped out of the sky in a long, curving
fall.

"Two more.  Behind us," shouted Harry Patterson.  In the rear turret
Dick Holden had a fighter in his sights and was squeezing off a long
burst from the Brownings when he was thrown against the side of the
turret as UM7 was flung into a corkscrew dive and he had a glimpse of
his tracer spraying aimlessly into the night sky and the fighter
passing only feet above him.  Peter levelled out and the thud of cannon
shells slamming into the bomber told him a fighter had come up under
him as he came out of the dive.

"Another two, skipper.  Seven o' clock."  Harry's warning was drowned
in the roar of the bomber's guns and the thump of more cannon shells
tearing into it.  In the bomber's nose Jimmy Campbell swallowed his
vomit as UM7 corkscrewed again and his vision became a blur of flak
over Stuttgart, tracer shells making ribbons of light, a blazing bomber
cartwheeling downwards and the black earth below.

Smoke seeped through the fuselage and, as the bomber levelled out, Alan
Bates grabbed a fire extinguisher and stumbled towards the trickle of
flame that showed where leaking oil was burning.  He yelled at Philip
Lester to help.  The wireless operator remained crouched over his
dials.

"For Chris'sake pull your finger out, Monk," he shouted, and thumped
his shoulder.  Lester slid sideways, his dim lamp showing lifeless eyes
and the mess of blood and bone that had been his chest.

Peter could smell his own sweat as he wrestled with controls that had
become clumsy.  The warning needle on a dial made him look along the
wing to his left and he saw the glare of flames from the outer port
engine.  He cut the engine and switched on the built-in fire
extinguisher, watching the flames sputter and vanish.  The starboard
outer engine was overheating but he decided not to cut it yet.  There
was a lot of drag from the damaged port wing and he might need every
scrap of power to get them out of trouble.

"I can see the markers ahead," called Jimmy, spotting the green flares
burning just off the centre of the city, with the first fires spreading
close to them.  Flak raked the sky over Stuttgart.

"Bugger that," said Peter.

"Let's get rid of the bombs and get on to the supply drop.  Opening
bomb doors."

He reached for the control.  There was no familiar clunk and whirring
of bomb doors opening.  He tried again.  Nothing.

"Bomb doors jammed," he told the crew.

"We are getting out of here.  Alan, see what you can do.  I've got to
ditch the bombs.  We are losing height."

Peter almost laughed as the calm voice of Paul Robertson gave him a
course for St.  Amour as though they were on a routine training flight.
He nursed the Lancaster on to the new course then cursed himself for
forgetting to check for casualties.

"Everyone OK?"

"Monk bought it," said Alan.

"He's dead."

Peter grunted.  Monk had always been the odd man out, never really one
of the gang, never sharing his thoughts or his feelings.  It was rather
typical of him to die without a word.

"Dick here, skipper."  The usually strident voice was strained.

"It's my left leg.  Bleeding a good bit and it's going numb.  And
before you say anything, Harry, it's not bloody coffee.  Some of us
don't have your luck.  I'm trying to get a tourniquet round it but I
keep dropping the blasted thing."

"OK Dick.  Hang on, and get that tourniquet on even if you have to use
your teeth."

That means we can't bale out, thought Peter.  Getting home was going to
be a good trick, even if they got rid of the bombs and the container.
They were down to 12,000 feet and still losing height, the Lancaster as
clumsy as a farm cart.  The dials told him the starboard outer
engine was now overheating badly, so he cut it and felt UM7 become even
more sluggish.  Alan was at his side.

"Bomb doors are knocked about a bit, skipper.  I think I might be able
to get them open if Jimmy gives me a hand but I don't know if I can get
them closed again.  Do you want me to give it a go?"

Peter thought hard.  It was a hell of a choice.  If the bomb doors
could not be forced open he would have to get a crippled bomber back to
England with a full load, losing height all the way.  If they got rid
of the load but the bomb doors would not close the extra drag would be
almost as bad as a full load.

"OK Alan.  Try to get them open.  Jimmy, come back and give Alan a
hand."  They must try to finish the real mission and if he had to ditch
they would be better off without the load.

In the bomb bay Alan and Jimmy sweated despite the bitter cold as they
worked by flashlight, Jimmy hammering the torn metal round the hinges
and Alan struggling with makeshift repairs to hydraulic lines and
electrical wiring.

"ETA ten minutes," called Paul.

"Course three three four."

"Thanks Uncle.  Three two four."

"No skipper.  Three three four.  Three three four."

"Sorry.  Three three four.  I repeat, three three four."

Peter shook his head and flexed his shoulders to regain his
concentration as he edged the bomber on to the new course.

"Right skipper," called Alan.

"Try them now."

Peter reached for the bomb door control and grinned as a grinding and
screeching of tortured metal told him they were opening.  He was
vaguely aware of Jimmy scrambling past him to get to the nose while the
slipstream caught the open doors as if a giant hand was trying to pull
down UM7.  They were down to 500 feet when Jimmy yelled "Right on,
skipper.  Dead ahead.  Flashes three short, one long.  That's the
signal."

Peter could just make out the dim flare path, the flickering specks of
light disappearing and reappearing in the ground mist.  He let the
Lancaster sink to 200 feet.  Jimmy called directions, though there was
little Peter could do to manoeuvre the bomber.

"Steady as you go, skipper.  Steady-steady."  container gone.  Shit. Go
you bastard, go.  Christ skipper, it's stuck.  Release mechanism must
be useless."

Peter saw the flare path disappearing under them and heaved the
Lancaster over a low wooded hill with only feet to spare.  He put UM7
into a shallow turn and started to breathe again.  There was a pain in
his stomach, his tongue seemed to be swelling in his mouth and he
recognised the symptoms of fear.

"Think, think, think," said a voice inside his head.  There was no way
he was going to get UM7 home now.  There was only one thing to try,
even if it risked a pile-up.  He tried to keep his voice steady over
the intercom.

"I can't keep her up much longer.  I'm going to put her down on that
flare path.  It's going to be rough.  Hang on to your balls."

It's not going to be a landing at all, it's going to be a controlled
crash he told himself as he brought UM7 round in a lumbering circle.
The ground would be rough, the flare path was too short and there were
trees and a hill at the end of it.  They were down to 100 feet when he
made out the faint lights half a mile ahead.  He reached for the
control and lowered the undercarriage, fleetingly grateful for the
thump that told him that it was working and the wheels had dropped into
place.  He lowered the flaps just before they reached the end of the
flare path, cut the two remaining engines and gripped the control
column.

The Lancaster slumped down, hit the ground and leapt back into the air
with a screeching of metal and the clatter of equipment breaking loose,
bounced again on one wheel, landed straight and rumbled along the rough
ground.  Peter jammed his feet against the brake controls, saw the last
flares disappearing behind them as UM7 ran on, saw the darkness ahead
start to take on the shape of trees and crouched, arms round his head,
waiting for the impact.

It was a while before he realised there was no sound except his own
rasping breath.  UM7 had stopped.  He looked up and saw a tree that
seemed close enough to touch.  Then Paul was thumping him on the
shoulder and shouting, "Bloody good show."

Chapter 5

Jimmy Campbell had expected to die and he lay in the nose of the bomber
for several seconds, wondering if this ringing noise in his ears and
the taste of blood in his mouth was what dying felt like.  His mind
started to clear and he fought back the temptation to giggle as he
realised he was still alive though groggy from smacking his head
against the bomb sight.  Scrambling back to the cockpit he saw the
skipper sitting with his hands over his face.

"Thanks, skipper.  Brilliant, bloody brilliant.  You OK?"

Peter dropped his hands, stared through the window into the darkness
and nodded.  He knew he ought to be thinking of what to do next but his
mind was a blank.  They were on the ground so he ought to get out.  He
stood up and felt his legs shaking.  Shock, that was it.  He had to
pull himself together.  Jimmy produced a forbidden flask of Scotch.
Wrong thing for shock, Peter thought, as he gratefully took a long
swig.

"Thanks Jimmy.  Remind me to put you on charge when we get back."

"Right now I'd be glad of a spell in the clink."

Bad joke, thought Peter.  They were probably all heading for a long
spell in a prison camp.  Christmas in Stalag Luft something or other.
The thought made his body sag but the Scotch helped.  Well, at least
they were alive.  Or he and Jimmy were.  He ought to see about the
others.

Paul and Alan had found Philip Lester's body sprawled across the deck,
thrown there by the force of the landing, and were rolling it to one
side, trying to keep their boots out of the pool of congealing blood.
Harry Patterson was climbing down from the upper turret, rubbing
bruised ribs.

In the rear turret Dick Holden felt himself swimming back into
consciousness, the numbness in his injured leg giving way to a
throbbing ache and the leg of his flying suit sticky with blood below
the tourniquet.  There were tiny pin pricks of light bobbing in front
of his eyes.  He blinked but they were still there.

"How are you doing, Dick?"  It was the skipper pushing his head and
shoulders into the cramped turret and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Not too bad, skipper.  I think we have company."

Peter looked up, saw the lights and realised people were walking
towards the bomber.

"OK, Dick.  Take it easy.  I'll see what this lot have to say then
we'll get you out of here."

The crew, except Dick, were on the ground when the group of shadowy
figures emerged from the thickening mist.  Some of them stood staring
at the outline of the big bomber, so different from the little plane
that brought their supplies last winter.  One of them stepped
forward.

"I am Dr.  Paul Duval.  I speak English, though not good.  You have
brought the explosives and things?"

"Yes," said Peter.

"They are in the big container."

"Good.  Then we must take them and you can fly back to England.  We
must be quick."

Peter stifled a laugh.

"We can't take off again.  We were supposed to drop the container from
the air but our bomber was badly damaged and we had to land.  It is not
possible to take off again.  We have to.."  his voice trailed away as
he realised he had no idea what they were going to do.

Duval sucked in his breath and translated quietly for the others. There
was a babble of angry voices, edged with fear.  Paul Robertson
listened, glad he had sharpened his French by chatting with visiting
seamen, and edged closer to Peter.

"They're shit scared the Germans will find it tomorrow and turn over
the whole town looking for supplies.  Can't blame them."

The torrent of bitter voices died away as the Resistance group listened
to a young woman and an older man in a long greatcoat arguing, toe to
toe, in harsh whispers.  At last the woman turned away and spoke to the
crew.

"I am Helene Blanche.  This is my father's farm.  Henri Rosset here
thinks we should take the supplies then you should surrender.  The
Germans will think you crashed after a bombing raid and leave us alone.
I don't think they are so stupid But we are wasting time.

We must get the supplies."

Henri Rosset burst into another flood of protest but Paul cut him
short.

"We have a wounded man and a dead man on the bomber," he said in
French.  Rosset subsided into silence and the angry stiffness seemed to
go out of the others in the Resistance group.

"I will do what I can for your injured comrade," said Duval.

"The other one.."  he shrugged his shoulders.

Peter felt he ought to take charge of something.

"Right.  Alan, you and Jimmy give them a hand with the container.
Harry, give me a hand to get Dick out."

He turned to Paul and added quietly.

"Hang about and keep your ears open.  See if there's any sign they're
going to turn us over to the Germans.  We can always try to make a dash
for it.  I don't fancy spending the rest of the war in a prison
camp."

Half an hour later Dick was leaning against a tree, coughing on a
cigarette a Resistance man had handed him and trying to ignore the pain
in his leg.  The container, hacked loose from its retaining cables, lay
open under the bomber's wing, revealing a collection of packages sewn
into waterproof oilskin.  The girl checked them by the narrow beam of a
small flashlight.  As she murmered instructions a man would step
forward, pick up the package she indicated and disappear into the
darkness.  The last half dozen men dragged the empty container to a
nearby track, heaved it on to the back of a battered truck and flung a
tarpaulin over it.

"Formidable," remarked Paul, noting the air of authority about the girl
and the readiness of men twice her age to take her orders.

"She has reason to be," said Dr.  Duval.

"Now we will put your wounded comrade on the back of the truck and take
him to my place in St.  Amour.  He will be safe with me, I think, and
there is probably some metal in his leg that must come out."

Dick failed to suppress a groan as he was lifted into the truck and
laid on the tarpaulin.

"You'll be fine," said Peter.

"You are in good hands."

"Oh, sure," grunted Dick.

"Home from bloody home.  Anyway, thanks for getting us down in one
piece.  More or less.  See you all soon."

The girl shone her flashlight in the back of the truck.

"We must remember to clean this blood away," she said coldly, then
climbed into the cab with Dr.  Duval.  Henri Rosset persuaded the
engine into life at the third attempt and the truck bumped along the
track into the darkness.

The crew were alone with UM7 and the passive figure of Andre Blanche,
the farmer, sitting near the tail with a cigarette cupped in his hand.
The silence and the cold mist that was turning into thick fog were like
a weight on their shoulders.  Paul walked across to Andre Blanche,
crouched beside him and engaged him in a conversation which drew a few
reluctant words at a time from the farmer.  Paul straightened up and
went back to the others standing in a silent group, stamping their feet
and swinging their arms to fight off the cold.

"About what I thought," said Paul.

"I asked him if we could set fire to the plane and make a dash for it,
letting Gerry think we had baled out and the bomber crashed.  He said
he didn't think they'd be fooled and anyway they'd search the town
looking for us and find enough stuff to put himself and his pals in
front of a firing squad."

"So, what's next?"  asked Harry Patterson.  His voice showed depression
was starting to creep in.  The farmer stood up, walked to the front of
the bomber, relieved himself against a wheel, then walked towards them.
He pointed down the track and led the way.

Round a turn in the broad track the shape of a couple of barns and an
ungainly farmhouse loomed out of the darkness.  They crossed a cobbled
yard and silently followed the farmer into a big square kitchen.  An
unshaded light bulb hanging from the ceiling showed whitewashed walls,
bare except for a religious picture and a small mirror over the stone
sink, a bare stone floor and a heavy wooden table, its top white from
generations of scrubbing, set out with enamel bowls, loaves of bread
and a slab of cheese.  Madame Blanche, stirring a pan of soup over the
open fire, looked up, smiled and waved them to the table.

The farmer ate in silence, not even exchanging a word with his wife,
while the crew, their spirits lifted by food and warmth, made
appreciative noises about the soup.  Paul was surprised to find himself
feeling at home and tried to puzzle it out.  It looked nothing like the
kitchen in Grimsby yet there was something familiar about it.  A memory
flashed into his tired mind.  He was a lad and he and his father had
come back from a rough trip in the trawler.  He expected his father to
talk about it but he sat at the kitchen table eating silently while his
mother did something at the cooker and he had realised for the first
time in his life that the reason these two people did not say much to
each other was not because they did not want to talk but because they
did not need to.  He had discovered that when two people loved each
other it was not like it was on the screen at the Scala, all kisses and
violins, but was something so strong it was almost frightening.  That
was the first day he had felt really grown up.

"Where did you learn to land like that, skipper?"  asked Jimmy
Campbell.

"Did a lot of them during training.  Got a proper bollocking every
time," laughed Peter.

Paul Robertson paused from hacking a piece of bread from a loaf and
asked: "How many of us speak French?  Mine's not bad.  I know skipper
never got past the pen of my aunt stage.  Anybody else?"

The others shook their heads.

"Some people tell me I'm not even fluent in English," said Jimmy
Campbell.

"No matter.  Just wondering," said Paul.  So much for making an escape
across France, he thought.  Even with the help of the Resistance they
would need some sort of cover story but he was the only one who spoke
French and they all looked as British as Cheddar cheese.  He would have
to work something out, even if it meant making it on his own.  Anything
was better than being bottled up behind barbed wire for the rest of the
war.  Well, almost anything.  He looked up and noticed Harry Patterson
was staring at the wall, his face tight with thought.

"Penny for them, Harry."

"Oh, nothing special."  He had been wondering what his folks in their
Devon farmhouse would think if they knew he was sitting in a farmhouse
in France.

Andre Blanche, his bowl empty, pushed his chair back, got up from the
table, walked over to a wooden cupboard near the fireplace and took out
a bottle and a fistful of glasses.  He banged a glass in front of each
man and filled it.

"Salut," said Paul and took a long drink.  His throat caught fire and
his eyes filled with tears.  The farmer raised his glass in salute and
emptied it without blinking.  The others sipped cautiously.

"Tastes like one hundred octane fire water," whispered Jimmy.  Madame
Blanche smiled at what she took to be a compliment.  She walked to the
door, opened it and waited for them to follow.  Her husband solemnly
and silently shook hands with each of them as they left.  They followed
her across the cobbled yard, stumbling in the darkness, and heard the
rattle of metal and creak of hinges as she opened a barn door.  A musty
smell enveloped them as they groped their way in, bumping into each
other until each found a level patch in what felt like untidy mounds of
straw and stretched out their aching bodies.

In a few hours time, thought Peter, Rosemary and his mother would be
told his plane was missing.  The other crews, if they saw anything at
all in that murderous ambush over Stuttgart, would have reported that
they saw UM7 falling away with one engine burning and no sign of anyone
baling out.  If only there was some way of letting them know he was
safe.  Safe?  The word snagged in Peter's thoughts.  God only knew what
would happen to them now.  A prison camp, perhaps something worse.  Did
the Germans consider helping the Resistance a firing squad job?  They
must get out somehow but his mind refused to produce ideas.  He would
think about it tomorrow.  The others in the barn were silent but he
knew they were not asleep and guessed they were sharing his jumbled
thoughts.  He would have to do something.  He was the skipper and he
could not allow them to become depressed, not if they were going to be
living on their wits from now on.

"Home from home, isn't it?"  he called out, thinking it was a bloody
feeble remark.

"Always knew you lived in a barn, skipper," said Harry "Wake me with a
nice cup of tea.  Not too early," said Alan.

"That soup was good," said Jimmy Campbell.

"Just like my mother makes.  I like the missus, but her old man's a
sour bugger."

Peter was sliding into sleep as he heard Paul Robertson reply, "He's
risking his life for us.  In my book that counts as good manners."

Chapter 6

The cold biting his legs made sleep difficult for Paul.  He rolled on
his back, and in the thin grey light of dawn he could see the rusty
metal roof of the barn.  Could it be only twenty four hours since he
was in his bunk at Wickenby?  The thought was interrupted by the
creaking of hinges as the barn door opened to reveal the solid figure
of Andre Blanche, a blanket folded over one arm and two heavy spades
grasped in the other massive hand.  He just stood there, saying nothing
but conveying a grim message.  The noise had wakened the others and as
each sat up or tottered onto aching legs the impulse to exchange a
greeting died in their throats at the sight of the figure in the
doorway, solemn as death itself.  Without a word they pulled on flying
boots, fastened jackets and filed out of the barn.

The fog was thick and the cobbles gleamed dully as the silent
procession followed the farmer across the yard and along the track
where the trees, set well back on either side, were only a faint
outline.  They turned a corner and saw the black shape of UM7, almost
merging with the dark trees beyond.  When they reached the Lancaster,
Peter took the blanket from the farmer, nodded to Paul and they both
climbed in.

Philip Lester lay where he had been rolled, his flying suit now
glistening with damp, and Paul wished they had left him in a more
dignified position.  Peter rolled the body onto its back, clenching his
teeth at the sight of the mangled chest, pulled off the identification
tags and helped Paul wrap the flier in the blanket that would be his
coffin.  As they lifted him up Peters' boot slid on something but he
did not look down to see what it was.

They buried Philip Lester a couple of hundred yards inside the wood, in
a small clearing the farmer had picked out.  Peter could remember
little of the burial service and he knew hardly anything about the dead
man so he simply recited the Lord's Prayer and the Twenty-third Psalm.
The farmer scattered leaves and twigs to conceal the freshly turned
earth then took out his clasp knife and carved a notch near the base of
the nearest tree.  He would know where to find the grave when the war
was over.

When they left the wood Paul took one of the spades and climbed back
into the Lancaster.  He crawled to the nose and smashed the spade
against the bomb sight again and again until it broke loose.  There was
probably a better way of removing it, he thought, but it was never
going to be used again and the main thing was to keep it out of German
hands.  He picked up the sight and the spade, collected his charts as
he passed his seat and threw them all to the ground before jumping
down.

"Best place for these is the bottom of that pond I saw when we came
down the track," he said to Peter.  As he had guessed, one man doing
something positive changed the mood of the crew.  They shook off their
despondency and walked round UM7, looking at the holes the cannon
shells had punched in the fuselage and the blackened cowling over the
burnt-out engine.

"Surprised it's not worse," said Alan Bates after his second
inspection.

"If we'd got her back she wouldn't have been a write-off.  A good day's
work by a ground crew, a few replacements and an engine change would
have fixed her up."

"The nearest ground crews are all German," Jimmy mocked.

"I don't think they'd oblige."

Paul picked up the bomb sight and charts and fell into step alongside
Peter as they trudged back to the farmhouse.

"What's our next move, skipper?"

"Damned if I know, but don't spread it around.  Maybe we could make a
run for Spain."

"Perhaps.  I suppose the Resistance would help but I don't fancy our
chances.  We'd never pass for French workers or anything like that and
we don't know when Dick will be fit enough to walk.  And another thing,
I don't like the idea of leaving the locals to explain away an R.A.F
bomber and a missing crew.

"Fair enough, but what's the alternative?"

Paul shrugged.  He still thought he could make it on his own but it
would be better if the suggestion came from Peter, so nobody would feel
he was running out on them.  They came to the end of the track and Paul
walked over to the pond and hurled the bomb sight into it.  He looked
around for a heavy stone, wrapped the charts round it and flung them
after the bomb sight.  There was a finality about the action that left
the crew subdued as they walked across the yard to the farmhouse, where
Madame Blanche was waiting for them in the doorway.  She waved them
towards the table where bread and cheese were set out, used the edge of
her apron to lift the coffee pot off the fire and turned to fill their
mugs.  Paul was sipping his coffee, guessing that it was roasted
acorns, when the door opened.

It was the first time they had had a good look at the girl, Dr.  Duval
and Henri Rosset.  There was another man with them, his cheerfulness
contrasting with Rosset's bleak expression.  Helene would only be about
his own age, Paul thought, though it was hard to tell with her auburn
hair scraped back tightly into a bun, her slight figure wrapped in a
shabby tweed coat, her pale face set like a mask and that strange look
in her brown eyes, half guarded half defiant.

"You met Dr.  Duval and Henri Rosset last night," she said.

"This is Alphonse Leblanc.  He owns the cafe."  She helped herself to
coffee and stood staring into the fire, her back to them.

Leblanc shook hands vigorously with each of them and, from professional
instinct, glanced at the table to see what they were eating.  The
doctor took a chair and started a halting explanation.

"Your comrade will be able to walk in three or four days, I think.  The
wound was not dangerous, but he lost a lot of blood.  He is asleep
now."

"Thanks, doctor," said Peter.

"That is good news."

Henri Rosset pushed his hands deeper into his greatcoat pockets and
looked around until he picked out Paul as the one who spoke French.

"You understand about last night?  I know you don't want to surrender
to the Boche but we are all soldiers and soldiers have to make
difficult decisions.  But we have had time to think of another plan."
He had practised his little speech and waited anxiously for the
response.

"I understand perfectly," said Paul.

"The matter is forgotten."  He would not forget, he thought, but he
could hardly blame the old man for panicking.

The girl turned away from the fire and spoke brusquely:

"It would have been better if you had not landed here, but now we must
do something about your plane.  The Germans must know it is somewhere
round here, everybody heard you landing.  Even if we burn it the
Germans will find it and if they search St.  Amour..."  She shrugged an
explanation.

"So I have decided we must hide it."

"Hide a bloody Lancaster?"  Jimmy exploded.

"That's crazy."  The girl ignored him.

"It will be put in the space between the two barns.  Then we will do
something to make it look as if there are three barns."

"Good God," said Peter, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.  The
others stared at the girl then broke into a babble of excited chatter.
Except Paul, who pulled a pencil from his pocket and started making a
sketch on the palm of his hand.  He rubbed it out and started another.
The girl sipped her coffee and watched him appraisingly over the rim of
her mug.

"We must do it today, while we have the fog," she said, and turned back
to stare into the fire.  Paul examined the palm of his hand.

"It may not be as daft as it sounds," he said to Peter.

"I would guess the space between the barns is about forty yards and the
Lanc's wing-span is about a hundred feet."

"A hundred and two feet, to be exact," said Alan Bates.

"But can UM7 be moved?"  asked Peter.

"Reckon so," said Alan.

"I had a good look at her this morning and the undercarriage looked OK.
But how would we move her?  It's not like pushing a truck, you know."

Dr.  Duval intervened.

"There is a tractor here on the farm, and Henri's truck and we can all
push, push."  Excitedly, he threw out his arms in a pushing motion
across the table and sent an empty mug rattling across the stone
floor.

"Ground's frozen.  That will make it easier," said Paul.

"Could we take out the guns and stuff make her lighter?"  suggested
Harry Patterson.

"Take too long, for what difference it would make."  Alan replied.

"The four bombs are still in the bay but the release mechanism's jammed
and I don't fancy just cutting them free and letting them drop."
Silence fell on the little group round the table as the difficulties
began to sink in, while the Resistance men waited expectantly.

"Well, it's worth a try," said Peter at last.

"And I don't see any alternative."

The girl threw the dregs of her coffee onto the fire, dropped the mug
on the table, murmured instructions to Rosset and Leblanc and walked to
the door without waiting to see if the crew were following.  In the
farmyard Paul and Alan paced out the distance between the two barns and
decided it was just wide enough to give the bomber's wings a few feet
clearance on each side.  There was enough length, with about ten feet
to spare.  Duval turned to Peter.

"Henri is bringing men from the town to clear this," he said, waving an
arm at the space between the barns where, even in the fog, it was
obvious it had been a dumping ground for years.  Rolls of rusty barbed
wire, tattered sheets of corrugated iron, broken feeding troughs, the
remains of a bicycle, a pile of broken stone and a collection of old
tractor tyres were half concealed by weeds, now dead and limp but still
standing waist high.

"Helene seems to think of everything," Paul said to Duval.

"Is that why she is your leader?"

"You need not know everything," said Duval.

"But our first leader was her lover and when he was killed Helene took
over.  She is clever and, how do you say, strong.  Not like the little
girl I used to know."

The rasping noise of a big Peugeot tractor starting up told them Andre
Blanche was ready.  The tractor clattered along the track ahead of the
crew, its foul-smelling exhaust drifting slowly into the fog.  Alan
Bates guessed the distance the trees were set back from each side of
the track, and felt relieved that there would be enough space for the
bomber.  He clenched his hands in his pocket as they turned the bend,
and the great bulk of UM7 appeared.  Perhaps this was a daft idea,
after all.  He stood for a minute looking at the Lancaster, the
clearing where they had landed and the line of the track then turned to
Peter.

"I think we'd better pull her backwards about a hundred yards, turn her
towards the track and tow her nose- first.  She'll be more manageable
that way."

"OK, you're the flight engineer," said Peter, but the joke was lost on
Alan who walked towards the tail and bent down to examine the wheel.
Paul passed on instructions to the farmer, who nodded and manoeuvered
his tractor to a spot twenty yards behind the bomber's tail.  He
released the brake on the winching drum and Alan dragged the cable
across the hard ground while the rusty cable drum screeched in protest.
As soon as he picked it up Alan realised that the clumsy steel hook on
the end of the cable would not keep its hold anywhere on the tail wheel
assembly.  Straining against the stiffness of the plaited steel wire he
put two turns round the main strut, fed the hook through the loops and
hoped for the best.

"Stand clear," he shouted.

"I don't know if the cable will hold."

At his nod, the farmer started inching the tractor forward, using the
winch as a tow rope because he knew that trying to wind it in would be
hopeless.  The wire rope became straight as a rod, the hook squealed as
tension pressed it against the strut, UM7 creaked then lurched a few
inches out of the depressions its wheels had made in the ground.  Alan
walked between the bomber and the tractor as the Lancaster rolled
slowly across the frozen ground.  Ten yards.  Twenty yards.  Fifty
yards.  He was starting to relax when there was a sharp crack of metal
against metal as the hook lost its grip and the steel cable hurtled
through the air.  Alan flung himself flat and had not hit the ground
when he heard the cable hiss inches over his head.  Shakily he got to
his feet.

"That will do," he called out.

"Let's get her nose pointing towards the track."  The crew closed in
and took up positions with their backs to the tail, straining against
it, flying boots scraping on the frozen ground as they tried to gain a
foothold.  For an instant the bomber seemed to move but after five
minutes they knew it would not.  Alan, his chest aching from the
effort, was bending over with his hands on his knees when he heard the
tractor.  The farmer was bearing down on them at a steady speed, giving
them only seconds to scatter clear before the nose of the tractor
thumped into the rear gunner's turret, snapping metal and splintering
perspex but pushing the tail round until UM7's nose pointed towards the
track.  Andre Blanche reversed the tractor, avoiding Alan's gaze, and
moved it to a point ten yards in front of UM7.

Alan looked at the damaged rear turret and shrugged his shoulders.  The
farmer was right.  A bit more damage did not matter now.  In fact it
was not as bad as he thought it would be.  He walked to the back of the
tractor, got hold of the winching hook and led it back to the
Lancaster.  This time the hook fitted where the ground crew tractors
hitched on.  He gave the farmer a thumbs up signal.  Slowly UM7 rolled
across the ground, and as it neared the potholed track Alan realised
almost too late that if a wheel dropped into a hole the extra strain
would snap the winch rope.  Shouting to the others, he picked up an
armful of stones from the edge of the clearing and flung them into the
pot-hole nearest the left wheel.  The others followed suit, and as UM7
rumbled along the track they ran back and forth, picking up stones
after a wheel had passed and dropping them into the next pot-hole. Like
some bizarre Oriental procession in the swirling fog, the tractor
chugged along with the farmer bolt upright at the wheel, UM7 rolling
along behind it, her nose pointing proudly upwards, and under her wings
men scuttled backwards and forwards as if crouching in homage, until
their arms and legs cried out for relief.  It was only when they heard
shouts around them and found themselves stumbling over cobbles that
they realised they were into the farmyard.  Jimmy staggered up to Alan
and leaned on his shoulder.

"Good show," he gasped.

"But I'm bloody glad I didn't join the Navy.  I wouldn't want the job
of hiding a battleship."

All round them men from the town were gazing at the bomber, staring at
the guns and the ragged holes in the fuselage, the more daring walking
between the open bomb doors to look up at the four 500-pound bombs
still brooding there.

Alan rubbed his frozen fingers on his jacket and felt himself stumble
with fatigue as he walked across to the clearing between the barns. The
men from St.  Amour had done a good job.  The weeds still made it
difficult to walk through but most of the junk had been thrown amongst
the trees at the back of the clearing.  Alan walked along the edge of
the trees until he found one near the middle which would serve his
purpose.  He found Paul talking to one of the townsmen and asked him to
tell the farmer they would take the winch rope round the tree at the
back of the clearing and pull UM7 in backwards.  The farmer listened,
nodded, bent down from his driving seat and threw a bundle of sacking
at Alan.  He stared blankly at it for a moment before realising he had
to wrap it round the tree to prevent the winch rope digging in.  With
the tractor in position he took the winch rope round the tree and back
to the tail of UM7.  Please God make it hang on this time, he thought,
and gave the thumbs up to Andre Blanche.

The tractor edged forward, the winch rope pulled taught and UM7 slowly
rolled on to the rough ground, her wheels crunching over bits of
debris.  Her tail was only a few yards short of the back of the
clearing when there was a harsh metallic rattling and a deep thud. Alan
shouted a warning as he threw himself flat.  When he raised his head
the cable was still taught.  The farmer had stopped the tractor and was
looking back to see what had happened.

Amid the weeds under the Lancaster was the black, damp and menacing
shape of a 500-pound bomb.  Paul was the first to approach it.

"Well, it didn't go off," he said laconically.

"All the jolting must have freed a bit of the mechanism."

"We'll leave it where it is for now," decided Alan.

"The Lanc's wheels will pass each side of it.  Let's get this job
finished before we are all too whacked to do it."  He signalled the
farmer, the tractor crawled forward again and UM7 rolled backwards
until her nose was ten feet behind the front of the clearing.  Alan
walked a few yards and turned to look at the Lancaster, dark against
the fog-shrouded trees and looking like a primaeval bird that had found
its way into a farmyard.

"I see it and I still don't believe it," he said aloud to nobody in
particular.  The farmer, watching the winch cable wind back onto the
drum, looked across and gave him a wide grin then pointed to the
farmhouse.  As they walked towards the open door Peter caught up with
Alan.

"Well done," he said.

"To tell you the truth I didn't think we could do it.  Just thought we
had to try.  Let's hope this fog hangs on for another day so we can get
the false front up."

"The plane will make a nice souvenir for somebody after the war," joked
Jimmy Campbell.

Inside the kitchen Alan caught sight of somebody in the mirror over the
sink, the dark hair matted, the broad face caked with dirt except where
rivulets of sweat had run down until disappearing into the stubble on
the chin.  With a dull shock he realised he was looking at himself.

Madame Blanche clucked with sympathy, rummaged in a cupboard under the
sink and produced an iron-hard block of soap, a rough towel and an old
open razor.  Alan painfully cleaned himself up, wincing as he scraped
at his beard.  The rest of the crew took their turns, muttering
obscenities as they nicked themselves with the unfamiliar razor.

"Ready for commanding officer's inspection," said Jimmy as he took his
place at the table and helped himself to stew.

"Your face looks like a butcher's block," mocked Harry.

"Next time you get shot down remember to bring a decent razor."

"First you have to find some way to get back to England," said Paul
quietly.  He looked up as Helene came in but she avoided his glance.

"Today was good and tomorrow we must finish the work," she said.

"You will be in the barn again tonight.  Somebody will be on guard.  I
do not think the Germans will come in this fog but if they do you will
only get one warning.  You must run and hide in the woods.  Wait there.
If we cannot help you another Resistance group will look for you.  It
is arranged."

Paul asked: "Can we help to keep guard?"

"No.  You do not know what to expect or what to do.  I think perhaps
now you want to sleep."  The abrupt dismissal was like a slap in the
face.  Peter rose, murmured his thanks for the meal and led the way out
of the kitchen.  Paul hung back.

"I am sorry we have caused you all these problems," he said to the
girl.

"It is not your fault, it is the war," she replied in a flat voice.

"But we have put you in danger."

"We are always in danger in the Resistance.  War is dangerous.  Didn't
you know?"  She turned away, then spun back to face him.

"I am sorry.  I should not have said that.  It was stupid."  Paul
noticed her embarrassment made her voice lighten, as if a facade of
hardness had slipped for an instant.

"If the Germans come we will run and I suppose if we are caught we will
be prisoners of war, but what will you do?"

Her voice was dull and flat again.

"If there is time we will try to escape.  If there is not time I will
shoot my parents then shoot myself.  I will not let the Gestapo get
us."

She turned again, walked over to the fire and stared into it.  Paul
slipped through the door and walked slowly towards the barn.  Christ,
he thought, this war was beginning to look different.  It wasn't just
about dropping bombs and dodging flak and fighters.  It was about a
young girl coldly deciding when it would be necessary to kill her
parents.  He thought of putting a gun to his own mother's head and
squeezing the trigger.  He felt sick.

The discussion went on long into the night in the room over the cafe in
St.  Amour.  Henri Rosset was a troubled man and his companions were
finding it hard to answer his arguments.

"The British bomber is a disaster for us," said Henri.

"How long do you think it can be kept hidden.  You remember Charles?"

The others did not need to be reminded of the day the Germans had found
plastic explosive hidden under the floorboards in a bedroom of the
little house.  Charles, his wife and two sons were last seen being
bundled into the back of an army truck.  The Germans blew up the
explosives where they found them, bringing down the house and wrecking
those each side.  The rubble had been left there as a warning.

"But the bomber is here now.  We cannot change that," said Dr. Duval.

"First we must hide it as well as we can, then we can think what to do
next.  Francpis, what was this idea you started to tell us about?"

Dufy eased his big frame into old armchair.

"Not my idea.  It was the chief's.  She asked me where we could find
things to put in front of the bomber so it would look like another
barn.  I have found what we need, at Jean-Paul's place.  One of his
barns fell down last winter.  There is enough stuff there to do the
job.  I can get a few men to help tomorrow morning.  We will need your
truck, Henri."

Rosset shrugged.

"Yes, I will bring my truck to Jean Paul's place as soon as it is
daylight.  But when we have finished hiding the bomber, what then?"

The others avoided his gaze, knowing they had no answers.

"Nothing, just nothing," Henri went on.

"Nothing until the Germans find it and then what will happen to us?  If
we do any sabotage jobs we will risk starting a search and the bomber
will be found that much sooner.  So what do we do?  Just sit on our
backsides and hope the Germans are too thick headed to find a hidden
bomber before the war is over?"  He reached for the brandy and poured
himself another drink.

"Do you mean we should not attack the troop train?"  blurted Alphonse,
catching Duval's warning head shake too late.  Henri emptied his glass
before replying.

"I have been wanting to blow up that train more than I have wanted
anything in my life.  But now I don't know, I just don't know.  I
thought we could do the job and then just keep our heads down for a few
days while the Boche went crazy looking for hidden explosives, the
usual thing.  Then things would quieten down again.  But now they would
find the bomber for certain and that means the chief would be caught or
on the run and the rest of us..  ."  his voice trailed off.

Francois Dufy looked at him thoughtfully and exchanged glances with
Duval.

"Ah, well," said Dufy.

"I know I want to get that train.  I want to do something that really
counts, not just these pin pricks, blowing up a truck or a bridge."

Duval tried to steer the conversation away from the problem.

"We will work out something," he said.

"Or the chief will.  She has brains, that one."  He struggled to think
of something to change Henri's mood and was annoyed when Alphonse
returned to the subject of the bomber.

"Did you see the size of those guns on the bomber?"  he exclaimed.

"My God, what we could do with those!  and the bombs!  I'd like to see
what they do when they drop on the Boche."

Henri looked into his empty glass and said slowly: "In the last war we
soldiers did the fighting and the civilians were safe at home.  Now the
airmen drop their bombs on cities and fly back to their safe bases.  It
doesn't seem like proper fighting to me."

Duval's temper snapped.

"I've got a wounded British airman at my place and there's a dead one
buried in the woods.  They've been in a proper fight, believe me."
Henri shrugged and rose to his feet.

"Perhaps you are right," he said.

"But I preferred it the old way.  A man knew what he was supposed to
do."  He held up a hand in farewell and left.

Francois Dufy broke the long silence that followed.

"I like Henri," he said.

"He's a good, honest man.  But I don't know whether we can trust him
now.  He is not as strong as he used to be."  Duval kept his feelings
to himself.  There was nobody he could think of to take over from
Henri, with his contacts round the countryside and his business which
gave him an excuse for wandering about in that ancient truck.  And what
would they do about Henri himself?  He had heard stories in Lyon of
Resistance groups disposing of a comrade because his nerve had broken
and he might betray them, accidentally or otherwise.  It had never come
to that in St.  Amour and he could not imagine any of them shooting
Henri like some old horse that had broken a leg.  They were not
strangers brought together by the war, they were all old friends.
Anyway, Henri might get over it.  They all had black days when it
seemed the war would go on for ever.  He consoled himself that Henri
was something the chief would have to worry about, not him.

The cafe owner looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

"I suppose we should get some sleep," he said.

"There will be a lot of work tomorrow at Andre's place."  He turned to
Dufy.

"I'm surprised that Jean-Paul agreed to let us have the stuff, he has
always kept his distance."

"He doesn't know yet," said Dufy.

"But he will agree, I'll see to that."  When Duval had left and
Alphonse had gone to bed, the big man sat waiting until dawn before
leaving the cafe.  He walked through empty streets in thick fog to the
edge of the town, ignored the winding track leading to the farm of
Jean-Paul Chaban and headed straight to the farmhouse across the fields
that had been familiar to him since he was a boy.  He stood under the
bedroom window and gave the long, low whistle that had been their
signal since they were kids getting up to mischief round the farms and
streets of St.  Amour.  The front door was opened quietly by Jean-Paul,
a wiry man of his own age.  He was still stuffing his shirt into the
top of his trousers but there was warmth in his greeting.

"Oh, I thought it was you Francois," he said sleepily.

"Anything wrong?"  Dufy brushed past him, walked through the house to
the kitchen and dropped on to a wooden chair.

"Sorry it's so early Jean-Paul," he said.

"But I have a favour to ask."

The farmer raked the embers of the fire, threw more wood on to it and
reached on a shelf for the coffee pot before he spoke, caution in his
voice.

"You know I'd do anything for you, Francois.  If it's personal.  Is
it?"

Dufy examined his fingernails.

"Just say yes or no," he said.

"It is not anything important.  I would like some of the timber and the
metal from your old barn that fell down last winter.  It is still out
there and no use to you."

The farmer played for time.

"Yes, that was a bad winter," he said absently.

"I was lucky the snow did not bring down the other barn."  Then he
turned away from the coffee pot over the fire and looked hard at
Francois.

"This is not personal, is it?  You have no use for those things at your
house.  If it is to help somebody else you are welcome to them.  But if
it has something to do with the other business, well you know how I
feel."

Dufy moved uneasily on the chair.

"I am not saying what it is for and I would not lie to you, of all
people.  For God's sake just say yes or no.  Better, just say yes."
Jean-Paul handed him a mug of coffee and sat beside him.

"I did not think I would ever have to explain this to you again," he
said.

"You know I respect what you and the others are doing but you know that
when we lost our boy in 1940 it nearly killed Nicole.  When she found
out about my work with the group she made me promise to quit.  She said
she couldn't survive if she lost he husband as well.  I've kept that
promise.  You know all that, and you've never tried to get me involved
since then.  Why now?"

"Jean-Paul, old friend," said Dufy.

"I am not trying to involve you.  I have not said I want bits of barn
for the group.  I just said that I, Francois, want them.  Can't you
leave it at that and say yes?"  The farmer grew irritated.

"Don't treat me as if I were an idiot."  he snapped.

"I planned some of your first attacks, remember?  I cannot fool myself
and I cannot fool Nicole."  The two sat silently until Jean-Paul went
on quietly: "You know, if I only had myself to think about I would
still be with the group.  But if you do something and it is traced back
to me it is Nicole who would suffer.  There is only so much a woman can
be expected to do for her country."

Dufy sat deep in thought then reached into an inside pocket, took out
his wallet, counted off several twenty franc notes and put them on the
table.  Jean-Paul went white with rage.

"In the name of the Blessed Virgin are you, Francois, trying to bribe
me?"  he hissed.

Dufy held up two big hands to calm him.

"Not you, for God's sake."  He said quietly, "Forget about the old
barn.  I just thought of a different favour to ask.  It is not long
until Noel, and I have not bought anything for my wife.  I thought you
might be going to Lyon today, there is not much to do around the farm
at this time of year, and in this fog.  You know what she likes,
perhaps you could find something."

Jean-Paul looked at him, pushed the money back across the table and
said: "Pay me when you know how much the present cost.  Something for
the house perhaps?"

"That would be fine," said Dufy with a smile.

"The first train leaves in 45 minutes.  If you leave soon you will
catch it."

Jean-Paul stood up and stretched out his hand.

"I suppose I will find some thieves have been at work by the time I get
back.  Now you had better get out of here before Nicole sees you and
puts two and two together.  And be careful, old friend."

Dufy left by the back door and hid behind the farmhouse until, twenty
minutes later, he heard the front door open and close, the grating of a
big key in a lock and Madame Chaban's voice, half pleased at the
prospect of a day in Lyon and half exasperated to be given so little
time to get ready.  The footsteps faded and he waited until they were
well along the track to the town before he walked round the farmhouse
and examined the untidy heap of timber and corrugated metal that had
been a barn.  The tarpaulins that had been used when the roof fell in,
until the weight of snow on them had brought the whole lot down, had
been rolled up and left to one side.  They would do very well," thought
Dufy, and sat on a piece of timber until he could hear the unmistakable
sound of Henri's truck through the fog.  Henri backed his vehicle up to
the wrecked barn, climbed out of his cab and gave Dufy a small nod of
recognition but did not speak.

Within a few minutes half a dozen men had arrived, coming in ones and
twos across the fields from the town, and started loading the things
Dufy pointed out.  The big man watched them for a while then set about
making it appear that thieves had been at work.  Picking up a spade he
smashed the kitchen window, reached in to unlatch it, pushed it open
and climber through.  Moving round with easy familiarity he picked up a
potato sack, dropped in a few items of food and the cast iron pans that
Madame Chaban had used all her married life and climbed back through
the window.  Spotting a bag of tools under the tractor he picked it up.
A few minutes later his haul had been hidden in a ditch.

He knew Jean-Paul would understand and, if questioned, would concoct a
story about thieves from Lyon making a foraging raid for anything that
would sell on the black market, including the remnants of the barn.
Dufy plodded across the fields towards St.  Amour.

It was early to be seen visiting the doctor but the fog was a
protection and Dufy took the risk.  Dr.  Duval broke off from his
breakfast and led him into the surgery.

"What is it this time, Francois?"  he asked.

"Back ache or laryngitis?"

Dufy smiled and said: "It's my ears.  They want to know what you heard
this morning from you know who."  Duval frowned.

"I've told you before that it is not really your business.  It is
information for the chief, not gossip.  If there is anything you need
to know you will be told."

Dufy accepted the rebuke placidly, told the doctor that the things
needed at Andre's farm would be there soon, and left.  As he walked
through the cobbled streets to his home he reflected once again that
being in the Resistance was much like being in the army, the officers
never told the troops anything until they wanted something done.

Duval returned to his breakfast.  He could understand Dufy being
curious and knew he could be trusted but Helene was always complaining
that the group behaved like a secret club instead of with the
discipline of a military unit.  The doctor shook his head.  How could
they behave like a military unit when they had to rely on such a
strange collection of informants?  The report Dufy was interested in
was from a woman who would never see her seventieth birthday again.
Every night she cleaned the offices at the old police station, now used
by the German army and by the Gestapo when they wanted a temporary
headquarter in the town.

Every morning she came early to the surgery, collected her pills for
rheumatism, left any interesting bits of paper she had found in the
rubbish baskets and told him if there was any unusual activity.  This
morning she had told him everything was quiet at the police station.

"So', Duval thought with relief, 'the Germans know nothing about the
bomber yet."

Chapter ?

Major Egon Schuman's nerves were on edge as the time grew closer for
the routine morning staff meeting at the German military headquarter in
Lyon.  The general would want his report on the search for the bomber
that was heard flying low and obviously in trouble and, after
thirty-six hours, he had nothing useful to tell him.  For the last hour
he had been dredging through other recent reports looking for
something, anything, that would save face by showing progress on some
other task but every possibility had to be discarded as too feeble. The
general might let a noncommittal report go by without much comment but
he would explode if he caught a staff officer trying to cover up
failure like a schoolboy who had not done his homework.  Major Schuman
did not know which would be worse, the general's anger or the sly grins
of the other officers who looked down on him as a fussy pen-pushing
administrator who had hardly heard a shot fired in anger.  He sat
staring through the window at the fog then, gathering up his papers,
strode up the marble staircase of the old chateau.  He walked into the
conference room just as the others jumped to attention at the entrance
through the far door of General Friedrich von Weissman.

The first half hour of the meeting was spent on detailed arrangements
for the imminent movement of the division to the eastern front and
their replacements.  It was all too familiar to the general.  He would
lose a good division and in its place he would get a ragbag of units
from other divisions that had been chewed up on the eastern front.  He
was only commanding the Lyon area himself because he had lost his
infantry division defending a worthless position in the Ukraine and the
High Command had to find him another job.  He listened to his staff
officers' concise, professional reports then turned to Major Schuman.

"Found that bomber?"

"No, sir.  We still have nothing except the reports that it was heard
flying low and obviously in trouble, then silence."

"What are you doing about it?"

"All units and the police have been ordered to report any sign of a
crash, Two Storch aircraft are standing by for a search when the fog
lifts.  The fog is the problem."

Schuman stiffened as one of the other officers turned to his neighbour
and asked in a loud whisper if he remembered that time they moved a
whole armoured division under cover of fog.  The general's glare
silenced him.

"Find it," he said to Schuman.

"I've had the Luftwaffe on to me this morning.  If it is a bomber it
may have the new bomb sight they want to get their hands on.  They want
results.  Report to me directly twice a day."

Schuman swallowed hard before snapping "Yes, general."  He knew what
that meant.  He was being put to the test and if he made a mess of it
he would be out of the staff job, his chance of promotion would vanish
and he would spend the rest of the war in some infantry unit.  The
general watched him for a moment, satisfied he had been understood.
Lighting a fire under this officer might get results before he was put
under pressure to mount a search using hundreds of soldiers and
disrupting his detailed organisation of the troop movement.

Back in his office, Schuman stared at the wall map of the Lyon area. So
it had come to this.  His whole career depended upon finding one
crashed bomber.  His grandfather had been honoured for his part in
organising the Prussian artillery that crushed the French at Sedan in
1870.  His father played a key role in Hindenburg's defeat of the
Russians at Tannenberg in 1914.  His own reputation was now going to
turn on finding a heap of wreckage.  No wonder his family was
disappointed in him.  If it had not been for their connections, Schuman
knew, he would not even be a staff major.  Now if he did not find a
crashed bomber quickly he would end up as a junior infantry officer,
along with the shopkeepers and tradesmen who had never read a book on
military tactics until they were sent for officer training.

"Well," he thought, "I will find that bomber and I will personally put
the bomb sight on the general's desk."

First thing was to get those Storch aircraft off the ground, fog or no
fog.  The little hedge-hopping reconnaissance planes could scour the
fields and woods until they found the wreckage.  He picked up the
telephone and barked a command, drumming his fingers on the desk until
the officer in charge of the air liaison unit came on the line.

"Anything to report?"

"About that crashed bomber?  Of course not.  Our planes cannot get off
the ground in this fog."

"They must.  The general has given this absolute priority."

"Visibility is down to three metres.  Our pilots cannot see to take off
and if they took off they would not see anything on the ground.  If the
general can arrange for the fog to lift we will do our job."  He was
senior in rank and he was not going to be bullied by a staff major.

"Very well.  I will report your decision to the General.  You will let
me know the moment visibility improves.  Report twice daily."  Schuman
hung up before he could hear the caustic reply he knew would be coming.
He spent the next hour on the telephone, questioning and bullying unit
commanders in the area and always getting the same response.  They had
nothing to report and even routine motorised patrols were almost at a
standstill because of the fog.

He was standing, feet apart, his eyes searching the wall map as if the
crashed bomber would be marked on it, when the telephone rang.  It was
Hauptman Hartmann of the Gestapo.  He expected the usual sneering tone
and was surprised at the Gestapo officer's strained politeness.  That,
he knew, meant Hartmann was in a co-operative mood for a change.

"As you know, major," said Hartmann, "the enemy has been trying to drop
supplies to their collaborators in this area.  Perhaps this business of
the crashed aircraft was another attempt."

"I doubt it," replied Schuman.

"Our reports suggest this was a heavy bomber, not the kind of light
aircraft used to land supplies."

"Whatever it was, you will agree that it is important that we find it
before any Frenchmen do."

"Naturally," said Schuman.

"Though I think all we'll find is a heap of wreckage and a few
bodies."

"Quite so," said Hartmann.

"But please let us keep each other informed on progress.  We shall be
making our own enquiries."  He hung up.  Perhaps that pompous fool of a
military officer would come up with something.  He needed another
success against the Resistance if he was going to satisfy his superiors
and even if it were not a supply plane the Resistance would scour the
wreckage for weapons.

When Schuman put the telephone down he took out a handkerchief to wipe
his sweating hands.  He could guess what that phrase 'making our own
enquiries' meant.  The Gestapo had its own disgusting methods but if
Hartmann could get a clue to the whereabouts of the bomber it could
solve his own problem.  He leaned against the window, gazed into the
greyness of the fog and mentally started to compose his evening report
to the general.

Chapter s

Peter Watson was walking through Cobham woods, kicking a stone along,
at peace with the world, but the stone kept getting heavier and his
foot was hurting until he lurched into wakefulness and looked up to see
Alan Bates gently kicking his foot, other figures moving around in the
gloom of the barn.  He resented finding himself back in the real
world.

"Wakey, wakey skipper.  There's no room service here."

Peter sat up and rubbed his face.  Paul Robertson, Jimmy Campbell and
Harry Patterson, like Alan, had already pulled on their flying boots
and jackets.  Peter groped in the straw for his boots and as he dragged
them on he struggled to bring his thoughts into focus.  They had only
spent two nights in the barn but it was beginning to feel familiar. No,
more than that, almost routine.  That was wrong, he thought.  It was a
mistake simply to carry on wondering what would happen next and mad to
slide into the cosy belief that they could spend the rest of the war in
a French barn.  They had to do something, he was their skipper and he
ought to come up with a plan.  But no plan grew in his mind, only the
memory of an escape specialist lecturing at training school and
hammering in again and again that every hour wasted in making a break
reduced the chances of success.

"Shake a leg, skipper."  He grunted his acknowledgement of Alan's
impatience and followed the others into the farmyard.  The fog was
still holding.  Thank God for that, thought Peter.  They passed the
brooding shape of the Lancaster between the barns.  That bomber was
anchoring them to this place, he knew.  While it was there they could
not run and leave the locals to face the music if it was found by the
Germans, and sooner or later it would be.  So it would be cowardly to
run and leave the bomber and madness to stay.  There seemed to be no
answer.

In the farmhouse kitchen Madame Blanche and Helene, already eating,
greeted them with a nod and a murmur.  Helene looked at Paul as if
trying to read something in his face.  He leaned over and whispered: "I
have said nothing to the others about our conversation last night." She
gave him a tight little smile then spoke to them all with her usual
brusqueness.

"We must finish hiding your bomber while the fog is still here.  My
father and other men from St.  Amour are getting pieces from another
farm where a barn fell down last winter.  Henri will bring the pieces
here in his truck.  If the Germans see him on the road they will think
he is doing an ordinary job for somebody.  The men will help to build
in front of your bomber."  She paused, wondering if her English was
good enough to make them understand her.

"I can help," said Harry Patterson.

"Fixing things around the farm was a regular job in the old days."

"Did that include building the bloody things?"  asked Jimmy Campbell,
only half in jest.  He was beginning to wonder again if the idea of
hiding a bomber made any sense.

"Putting up a false front can be done, if we have the material," said
Paul.

"But what about a roof?  If the Germans send up a spotter plane the
Lancaster will stand out a mile."

"This is not a problem," said Helene with a finality that made Paul
grin.

"When the other farmer's barn fell down the roof fell down first.  He
put some, what do you say terra plans  to keep out the snow but then
everything fell down.  We will do the same.  It will look like an old
barn that has lost its roof."

"Tarpaulins," said Paul.

"Yes, that could do it.  Stretch them between the two barns.  At least
they will hide the plane from the air."

"And don't forget," Peter interjected, "A spotter pilot will be looking
for a crashed bomber.  He won't expect to see one in a farmyard, he'll
be searching fields and woods."  The prospect of doing something
positive lifted his spirits and pushed his earlier worries to the back
of his mind.

"OK," he said.

"Let's go and take a look."

Three of them followed him out of the door but Paul still sat at the
table with Helene while her mother stood at the sink preparing
vegetables for soup, not understanding a word of their conversation but
knowing better than either of them what was happening.  This was the
first time for more than a year that Helene had talked with a young
man, except to give orders or demand explanations.  It was not natural
for a girl her age.  And she had been such a contented girl until that
night Jules had tried to bluff his way through a German road block with
a Sten gun under his overcoat and had finished up lying dead in a
ditch.

"Damned Boche!"  Madame Blanche beheaded a turnip with a blow from her
heavy knife and glanced in the mirror over the sink.  Helene and that
young Englishman were sitting as stiff as if they were strangers
chatting on a train but it was something.

Paul was curious about the girl.  He guessed her show of indifference
to other people's feelings had something to do with a fear of letting
her own feelings burst into the open.  Chaps who lost close friends on
raids were sometimes like that, as if they lived in fear of grief
getting the better of them and withdrew into themselves, ignoring the
friends who wanted to help.

He started cautiously, asking Helene about St.  Amour.  She spoke in
halting phrases about the town, the church, the cafe, the garage, as if
she were a teacher giving a geography lesson.  She said nothing about
any of the people.

Paul started to talk about his home town, not about Grimsby but about
his father and the other trawler men who were his father's friends and
their odd nicknames, Buller who would go to sea when no-one else dared,
Pudge who was always winning bets by lifting as much weight as any two
other men, Killer, who was mild-mannered at sea but on shore fought
under that name in wrestling matches.

The girl listened with her hands in her lap, looking into his face and
occasionally giving half a smile.  At last he won a short laugh from
her by telling her about his first trip on the trawler, when he nearly
went overboard with the net.  Then the moment was lost in the clatter
of Henri Rosset's truck arriving in the farmyard.

"We have work to do," she said abruptly, and led the way out of the
kitchen.  At the sink Madame Blanche started to sing quietly to
herself.

Henri's truck was piled with lengths of timber, sheets of corrugated
metal, and half a dozen men perched on top.  Henri climbed out of the
cab and looked at the Lancaster without trying to hide his
nervousness.

"Did any Germans see you?"  asked Helene, but Henri continued to stare
silently at the bomber.  It was Alphonse Leblanc who answered.

"No, not a sign of them.  There's almost nothing moving in this fog."

"We'd better make a start," said Harry Patterson, dragging the first
metal sheet off the truck.  Within minutes there were heaps of metal
and timber in the farmyard and Henri, who had not spoken a word,
climbed back into the cab and clattered off for another load.  Taking
instructions from Harry the crew helped to sort lintels from cills and
battens from the door frame but they soon realised the local men were
as familiar with timber buildings as the crew were with aircraft and
were content to be used as carriers and human props while sections were
roughly nailed into place.  By late morning they were plastered with
sweat, dirt and flakes of rust but the facade was in place, a decrepit
patchwork of wood and metal rising to a few feet above the bomber's
nose, leaning backwards a little but propped up with long timbers
resting in holes dug under the bomber's wings.  Harry picked up a
handful of dirt and worked his way along the facade, looking for shiny
new nail heads and rubbing dirt over them.

"Not a thing of beauty but it will do," said Peter, rubbing grit out of
his eyes.  They were standing around the farmyard waiting for Henri to
bring the tarpaulins and at first he thought the sound of an engine in
the distance was Henri approaching.  Then something about the steady
drone, unlike the straining note of the truck, made him freeze.

"That's a spotter plane," he shouted and a dozen heads tilted back as
eyes searched the fog above them.  The drone faded then came closer.

"About half a mile away, I reckon," Paul muttered quietly, as if the
pilot might hear him.

"As long as we can't see him he can't see us," said Peter, knowing as
he said it that it might not be true.  The spotter plane's engine faded
again and then grew louder.

"He's coming right over us this time," said Paul.  They peered into the
fog, seeing nothing but knowing the plane could only be a couple of
hundred feet above them, waiting to hear if it circled, then laughing
with relief as it carried straight on.

"Quiet, everybody," snapped Paul.  He stood very still for a few
moments, listening to the engine noise until it faded away.

"OK.  He's continuing his search pattern.  He didn't see the
Lancaster."  Then he gasped as the sound of an engine filled the
farmyard, but this time it was the truck.  When Henri got out of the
cab there were beads of sweat on his forehead and his hands were
trembling slightly.  He had heard the spotter plane.  While the others
hauled the tarpaulins off the back of the truck Henri sat on the front
bumper, elbows on his knees and his head bowed.

By the time they had stretched the heavy tarpaulins between the two
barns Harry felt as if his back was breaking.  The men from St.  Amour
were nervous about climbing on to the bomber and the crew had to roll
and heave the dead weight of the heavy fabric over UM7's wings and main
fuselage, where it snagged on the guns in the upper turret.  At last
Harry could lie on his back on one of the bomber's wings and watch the
tarpaulins slowly lift as the townsmen heaved on ropes passed round
makeshift pulleys fastened to the barns on either side.  There was
hammering as ropes were secured to the barn walls and Harry realised
they had done it, they had hidden a Lancaster bomber.  He laughed out
loud.

"What's so bloody funny?"  gasped Jimmy Campbell, stretched out on the
other wing.

"Just look at it, you twerp.  We've done it.  We've hidden a bomber in
Gerry's backyard."

"Great," said Jimmy.

"Now what do we do for an encore?"

Peter, sitting with his back to one of the wheels, heard the remark and
it brought all his anxiety flooding back.  The dilemma was still there.
They couldn't try to run for it while the bomber was there and they
couldn't stay.  The thought circled aimlessly in his mind until he was
shaken out of his worry by the scraping of metal against metal over his
head.

"What's going on up there?"  he called.

"Me, skipper," replied Alan Bates.

"Thought I'd take a look at the engines.  Just something to do."  Like
hell it is, Alan mused.  A half-crazy notion had formed in his mind
while they were dragging the tarpaulins over UM7 and he wanted to see
if there was at least a glimmer of sense in it before mentioning it to
the skipper.

In the murky light of the fake barn he worked with the help of a
flashlight taken from the survival pack in the bomber and the few tools
in his kit.  He was a flight engineer, not a fully trained maintenance
mechanic, but keeping damaged bombers flying had taught him how much
could be done with some skill, some common sense, some ingenuity and a
lot of luck.

"No point in wasting time on the outer port engine that caught fire
over Stuttgart," he told himself.  That would be a write-off.  Both
inner engines were working when they landed.  That was important
because one of them provided power for some of the controls.  He
concentrated on the outer starboard engine that Peter closed down
because it was overheating badly.  There was no sign of damage to the
top of the casing and after a quarter hour's struggle, with tools that
were not meant for the job, he was able to lift the casting section
aside.  Alan peered into the engine, his eyes following the flashlight
beam section by section.  He had half expected to see an oil-soaked
tangle of ruptured and twisted pipes and cables where a cannon shell
had struck but he had to go over the engine a second time before he
found what he was looking for.  Almost out of sight, near the base of
the engine housing he could just make out the jagged edges of gouged
metal.

"Stupid sod," he said.

"You should have started from under the engine."

"What the hell.."  started Harry, who had dozed off on the top of the
wing, then realised Alan was talking to himself.

"What are you playing at, Alan?"

"Never mind.  Just give me a hand.  Go and find a stepladder or some
crates."

A few minutes later Alan, standing on a mound of wooden boxes, was
examining the base of the engine housing while Harry held the
flashlight.  The others clustered under the wing watching, Peter
feeling his pulse start to race as he guessed what was behind Alan's
silent intensity.  A section of the housing was lifted clear.  Alan
took the flashlight and looked inside, then put his head closer to the
engine as his fingers moved slowly along the network of pipes and
cables.  He drew out his hand, slowly wiped it on his jacket and stood
silently for a moment before climbing down.

"It's not bad, skipper.  Not bad at all.  The cannon shell hit the air
intake and that took most of the force.  A piece of shrapnel went up
into the engine, flattened one pipe, bent another and frayed a couple
of cables."  He handed Peter a splinter of metal hardly an inch long.

"The engine was running crazy because it was being fed in spurts and it
was not getting enough air.  And maybe the damaged cables were giving
you a cockeyed reading on your dials."

Jimmy Campbell asked the question that Peter was bracing himself to
ask.

"You mean you can fix it?"

"Maybe.  I could give it a try."

Peter clenched his hands until he felt the little piece of metal dig
into a palm.

"How about the rest of the damage the holes in the fuselage and all
that?"

"None of it's critical.  It could be patched up if we can get our hands
on some thin metal and a few more tools.  The old plane would be a pig
to fly but she could fly."

Questions chased each other through Peter's mind.  Even if the engine
could be repaired could they test it without making a racket that would
be heard by any German patrol within miles?  Three engines would give
them enough power to take off, but where from?  Dare they take off at
night and risk ending up as a burning heap of wreckage if he made a
mistake?  But at least it was an answer to his problem, perhaps an
answer that would leave them all dead, but an answer.

"OK chaps," he said.

"We'll give it a go."

He expected the others to whoop but all he heard somebody quietly
saying "I'll be a monkey's uncle."  They filed out of the barn and
looking from one grimy face to another he could see something there he
had not seen since Wickenby, the look of men beginning to feel
enthusiastic.  Peter was feeling better himself.  He thought he could
feel a little warming comfort from the pale sunlight.  The sun?  He
looked up and around.  The fog had lifted.

Chapter 9

The glint of late afternoon sun falling across his desk was the first
good thing that had happened to Major Egon Schuman all day.  In an
hour's time he would have to make another face-to-face report to the
general and now he could tell him that with the fog lifting there was
an excellent chance of spotter planes and ground patrols finding the
missing enemy bomber.

Last night's report was a disaster.  The general always expected his
staff officers to be positive, a word he used again and again.  When
they told him they had a problem he expected them to tell him how they
were solving it.  Major Schuman had to tell the general last night that
he had nothing to report, the routine ground patrols were at a
standstill because of the fog and the spotter plane pilots said they
could not even take off.  The general looked unimpressed and then his
lip curled in contempt when the major said he was cooperating with the
Gestapo.

This morning Major Schuman had finally bullied air liaison into sending
up, one spotter plane so he would have something positive to tell the
general.  He was not surprised when the furious air liaison officer
telephoned him later to say his pilot had seen nothing but fog and
nearly piled up when landing.  Major Schuman considered checking now to
make certain he was taking full advantage of the clearer weather but
decided against it and took his hand from the telephone.  If for some
reason the spotter planes were not going up for the last hour of
daylight he would have nothing positive to report to the general.  He
jumped when the telephone rang.  It was Hartmann of the Gestapo.

"Good afternoon, major," he purred.

"So pleasant to talk to you again.  Is there, perhaps, any news about
that enemy bomber?"

"Nothing definite yet.  We have had the spotter planes up today and
with the fog lifting they should find something soon."

"Excellent work.  I so admire your efficiency at military headquarters.
Please let me know as soon as you hear anything.  We are doing our
best, of course.  In the next twenty-four hours we shall pick up one or
two people from every town in the area.  We usually find that one of
them knows something or can be persuaded to find out.  I shall keep in
touch."  Major Schuman hung up.  He paused in front of the full-length
mirror to check that his uniform was in perfect order and then strode
out to report to the general.

General von Weissman gave him half his attention for a few minutes then
dismissed him.  He had better things to think about, he told himself,
than a crashed bomber and a staff officer who would be more use as a
school teacher.  He would have been rid of him months ago if it were
not for his family's influence with the High Command.

At Andre Blanche's farm Helene was facing her own command decisions.
Dr.  Duval had slipped into the kitchen while the crew were eating and
signalled her to follow him into the yard.

"I am worried about Henri," he said.

"You know what he is like usually, a good man but always full of his
own importance and striding about as if he was the reincarnation of
Marshal Foch.  But he has changed in the last two days.  He is
frightened of his own shadow and this afternoon he walked past me in
the street as if he did not know me.  I think he is losing his
nerve."

"Yes," said Helene coldly.

"I saw that here today.  He is not the Henri we have known.  It may
pass but we had better take precautions.  Tell our friends to watch him
everywhere he goes and report to me immediately, and I mean
immediately, if he is approached by the Germans or is seen talking to
strangers."

Duval nodded.

"I will see to it.  I am sorry for Henri but he knows everything about
our group.  We would be finished if the Germans questioned him when his
nerve has broken."

"Exactly," said Helene.

"And warn Alphonse that he may have to take Henri's place in the attack
on the train.  He understands the explosives but will need time to get
used to the idea.  Now, you'd better come inside and hear this new plan
of the British."

Duval followed her into the kitchen and greeted Peter.

"Your comrade Dick is a good man.  Very, what is the word cheery?  He
will be able to walk in a day or two, I think.  Now, what is this plan
of yours?"

Peter told him they thought they could repair the bomber well enough to
take off, saying nothing of the technical details or of his problem of
how to find somewhere to take off.  Duval was enthusiastic.  He knew
nothing about aircraft but he did know he would feel a lot safer if the
bomber was out of the way.

"We need some help," said Alan.

"Some tools and some thin metal.  One or two other things.  Henri
Rosset has a garage.  Perhaps he would have them?"

Paul caught the flicker of worry in the doctor's face.  So, he knew, he
was right.  He had felt that morning that the old boy was cracking up.
Now he knew the Resistance leaders thought so too.  The poor old
bugger.  He was old enough to be enjoying his retirement in peace, not
taking risks that would test a commando's nerves.

"Perhaps you could check around and let us know tomorrow morning," he
suggested.  Duval gratefully accepted the idea and Helene exchanged a
knowing smile with Paul.  Those pale blue eyes of his did not miss
much, she realised.  He was a natural leader, like Jules.

"Well," said Alan, "If I can lay my hands on a decent wrench and a
couple of volunteers I'm going to have a go at getting those bashed
pipes off, right now.  Volunteers line up on the right."

"We'll all come," laughed Peter.

"They also serve who only stand and watch."

In a corner of an outbuilding Andre Blanche pointed out a box of old
tools, thick with oil and dirt, and waved them to help themselves.  An
hour later, his legs shaking with the fatigue of the extra effort after
an exhausting day, Alan climbed down from his pile of boxes and showed
Peter two lengths of pipe, one bent at a sharp angle and the other
almost flattened along two inches of its length.

"I don't suppose we'll find anything round here that would do as a
replacement," he said in a voice flat with weariness.

"They'll have to be repaired as best we can.  Easy if we had the right
bench tools but it can probably be done somehow or other if we haven't.
The damaged cables I can fix by shortening and patching up.  We'll just
have to hope the vibration doesn't rupture them.  For the metal patches
we will have to see what the Resistance come up with and we can always
cannibalise some of the parts inside the plane."

"Nice work, Alan," said Peter.

"We'll have to try getting these bomb doors closed."  He was walking
under the Lancaster, looking up into the bomb bay, when he tripped over
something and fell flat, his shins grating against metal.  Staggering
to his feet he saw what had tripped him.  It was the tail pin of the
500-pound bomb that fell while the bomber was being towed into
position.

"Christ," he said.

"What are we going to do with the bombs?"

"Why not advertise them in the local paper?"  suggested Jimmy Campbell
after a pause, and ignored Harry Patterson's groan.

"We'll sort something out tomorrow," said Peter.

"Let's get some sleep."  They made their way into the barn next door
and dropped down onto the straw but sleep did not come easily for
Peter.  His body ached for rest but the problems of getting UM7 off the
ground spun in his mind.  They were rid of the heavy container and
somehow they would get rid of the bombs.  That would lighten her.  With
the fuselage patched up there should not be too much drag.  They had
not lost any fuel so that was not a problem.

"All we need is a concrete runway to appear overnight," thought Peter.
The runway at Wickenby was the last picture in his mind as sleep took
hold.

In the bedroom of the garage in St.  Amour there was no sleep for Henri
Rosset.  He sat up in bed, his wife Marie sleeping soundly beside him,
and rested his head against the brass bedpost.  The British had
finished them all with that bomber, he told himself for the hundredth
time.  It was all over, all the secret meetings, all the planning, all
the sabotage missions, all the respect in the eyes of the townspeople
when they greeted him in the street.  Finished.  In a few days they
would be dead or wishing they were dead.  He knew how the Gestapo
worked.  As soon as the bomber was found they would round up people,
the torturers would get to work and the Resistance group would be wiped
out.  He dozed off but his head was filled with the screams of his
Marie begging him to tell the Gestapo what he knew and he woke with his
whole body shaking and his nightshirt soaked in sweat.  He looked down
at his wife, still sleeping quietly, and he gently rested his rough
hand on her hair.

"Perhaps I should shoot her myself," he thought, but he knew he could
never bring himself to kill the woman who meant more to him than life
itself.  He would find someway to save her, whatever had to be done. He
got out of bed, walked down to the kitchen, took a bottle of brandy and
a glass from the cupboard, sat at the table and tried to think.

At the railway station in Lyon, Francois Dufy stepped off the last
train of the day from St.  Amour, a small overnight bag clutched in one
big hand, and walked through unlit streets, noticing out of the corner
of his eye a shadowy figure at the corner as he turned down the street
to his brother's house.  A few minutes later, after his third tap on
the door, it opened a couple of inches and Pierre hissed: "Go away
Francois.  It is not safe."  The big man pushed the door open
effortlessly, flinging his brother against a wall, and slammed the door
shut behind him.

"I cannot go anywhere at this hour, Pierre.  What's going on?"

His brother sat at the bottom of the staircase, rubbing a bruised
shoulder.

"The Gestapo are picking up people.  I think I may be on their list, so
I sent Louise and the kids to her sister.  I only stayed to warn you,
now I'm going to the group's hide-out.  Get out of here, fast."

Francois looked down at his brother.

"What makes you think you are on the Gestapo's list?"

"I don't know.  Its a guess.  We think one of the men at the yard is an
informer.  And he's been watching me.  I have to cross the yard to get
a look at the troop train and yesterday I saw him hiding behind a
signal box, watching me."  Pierre looked up.

"This morning I spotted him hanging around the corner of this street.
When he saw me he scuttled off.  There's something going on."

"Why hasn't your group taken care of him?"

"The chief said he needed more evidence before he ordered his execution
and I haven't had time to get word to him today."

Francois pondered for a while, recalling the furtive shadow at the
street corner, then said: "You know what this means?  If he puts the
Gestapo on to you they will come looking for me and the whole St. Amour
group would be at risk.  What do they call this man?"

"Jacques something or other.  I forget.  I've never spoken to him.  He
hardly speaks to anybody."

"Well, leave him to me.  You get to your hide-out for a day or two."
Francois turned to the door, stood with his hand wrapped round the
brass knob for a minute while he got his plan clear in his mind then
stepped into the street.  He walked at a steady pace, retracing his
route from the station, until he reached the street corner and
whispered: "Jacques?..  Jacques?"  A shadow separated itself for an
instant from the bulk of the houses and Francois lunged.  He grabbed a
huge fistful of clothing and dragged the man to him.

"Spying, eh Jacques?  he hissed.

"A Frenchman doing the Gestapo's dirty work for them?"  The man stopped
his feeble struggle.

"They made me," he pleaded.

"They.."  Francois did not let him live long enough to finish the
sentence.  He brought his open palm up under the man's chin with all
his force and heard his neck snap.  He held the limp figure upright
while he decided what to do next then slung him over a shoulder and
walked evenly along the dark streets until he reached a bridge over the
railway lines.  It was a good drop, he reckoned, and would look like a
suicide.  He sat the sagging figure on the parapet of the bridge,
facing the drop, and gave it a push.  He listened for the thud and the
sound of a train approaching, then turned back the way he had come
until he found a derelict house, the door and windows boarded up.  He
kicked open the door and settled down calmly to await daylight and the
first train to St.  Amour.

Chapter 10

Dick Holden realised that for the first time his leg was not throbbing
with pain.  He eased himself up into a sitting position in the
comfortable bed and looked round the bedroom of Dr.  Duval's house, the
striped wallpaper, the chintz-covered armchair, the dressing table with
its few knickknacks and the heavy curtains that had been left open a
little to let a shaft of pale sunlight into the room.

It was more comfortable than the bunk at Wickenby but in his present
mood it was a poor second best.  The doctor had stirred up a mixture of
hope and confusion in Dick by his garbled account of the crew's plans
to repair the Lancaster and fly home.  It sounded improbable, yet the
doctor had been emphatic.

They wouldn't take off and leave me here," Dick told himself.

"Or would they?  No, the skipper is not like that.  But supposing they
haven't got time to collect me?"

Dick got out of bed, hissed through his teeth as he put his weight on
the wounded leg and sat on the edge of the bed.  That little test told
him there was no hope of walking to the farm.  He would not get more
than a few hundred yards.  He was gently rubbing his leg when there was
a rap at the door and Dr.  Duval walked in, his face heavy with
worry.

"We must move you," he said.

"We have heard that the Germans are picking up people in every town
around here.  They will be in St.  Amour soon and they will come here.
They always do when they are searching, because they think I may have
been helping wounded Resistance men."

"Yes, I see," said Dick.

"So will you take me to the farm?"  Perhaps things were working out.

"No," said Dr.  Duval.

"If the Germans search the farm you will not be able to run away, and
you still need treatment for that leg."  He pulled some coloured forms
from his pocket.

"We will take you to the hospital here in St.  Amour.  These papers say
you are an Italian worker who had an accident."

Dick took the papers and stared at them then looked at Duval.

"But I don't speak any Italian or any French.  I'd never get away with
it."

"It is the best we can do.  The staff at the hospital will not ask any
questions.  If anybody else tries to speak to you pretend you are in
too much pain to talk.  If the Germans come pretend to be asleep.  If
there is time one of the staff will give you something to make you
sleep.  Now hurry."  He picked up the heavy dressing-gown from the foot
of Dick's bed and handed it to him.  Leaning on the doctor, Dick
negotiated the stairs and limped through the surgery into the street,
where Duval half pushed him into the back of his car.  As they drove
through the cobbled streets a black German staff car hooted them out of
the way and Dick caught a glimpse of two men in leather coats and black
trilbies sitting in the back.

He was expecting a big hospital, like those he knew in London, and was
surprised when Dr.  Duval turned the car into the drive in front of
what looked like a large old house.

"This is our hospital," he said.

"Now remember, say nothing to anybody.  Not even a please or thank-you.
Nothing, nothing, nothing."

Dick nodded.  His misery helped him put on a show of a man in too much
pain to speak.  A few minutes later he was lying on an iron bedstead, a
straw-filled mattress under him.  He looked through half-closed eyes
around the narrow room.  There were five other beds, four of them empty
and one occupied by a bulky figure who seemed to be sleeping.  The
white-painted walls were bare except for a black crucifix over the
door.  Dick had never felt so lonely in all his life.  The figure in
the other bed stirred, an elderly man who propped himself up on one
elbow and muttered a greeting.  Dick groaned, turned on his side and
pulled a blanket over his head.  The door opened an inch, Dr.  Duval
looked in then turned back, spoke in fierce whispers to a nurse and,
satisfied that his patient would be protected as far as possible, went
back to the car and drove to the farm.

He arrived to find the farmyard deserted and it was only when he
switched off his noisy engine that he understood.  The drone of a
spotter plane was growing louder.  Then he saw it, small and bird-like
with its broad wings, lifting itself over a clump of trees and slowly
passing overhead.  Two or three miles further on it turned and droned
back again, half a mile further to his right.  He sat for ten minutes
watching it cruising backwards and forwards until it passed out of
sight and the noise of its engine faded away.  He saw Peter and the
others warily leave the makeshift barn and look round the sky.  He got
out of the car to talk to them.

"Things are getting more difficult," he said to Peter.

"The Germans are picking up people.  We have moved your comrade to the
town hospital.  He will be safer there but he must not be there for
very long.  The hospital staff can be trusted but other patients and
visitors may start, what do you say, making gossip?"  Peter nodded his
agreement but it was Paul who spoke.

"I think we should try to get him out of there, tonight perhaps.  Dick
wouldn't stand a chance of faking it if the Germans questioned him."

"But," protested Duval.

"What if the Germans search this farm?  He cannot run away."

"We can carry him," said Paul.

"We'll manage somehow.  Anyway, with luck we should be out of here in a
day or two.  Right, skipper?"

"Looks like it, the way Alan is working," said Peter.  He decided to
say nothing about the business of taking off.  The rest of the crew
must have thought about it, he knew, but nobody mentioned it because
nobody wanted to shatter the others' hopes.  Alan Bates broke into his
thoughts.

"Does Henri Rosset have those things we need?"  he asked the doctor.

"Something is being arranged," said Duval, who had forgotten about it
in his anxiety.  He climbed into his car and drove to the cafe of
Alphonse Leblanc.  The owner was washing glasses behind the zinc
counter but after Duval had spoken to him quietly for a minute he put
down his cloth, shrugged into his jacket, put the 'closed' sign on the
door and walked quickly to the garage.  In the kitchen Henri, red-eyed
and unshaven, was slouching at the table, an empty bottle at his elbow
and another half-empty in front of him.  Alphonse felt pity rather than
disgust.

"I have come to borrow your truck and some other things," he said
gently, making no pretence at asking permission.  Henri shrugged and
mumbled.  Alphonse left him and started sorting through things in the
workshop, taking what he thought might be useful without any clear idea
of what some of the tools were for.  He added them to the pile in the
back of the truck and looked round the yard, examining small piles of
discarded car and tractor pieces until he saw several sections of sheet
metal leaning against a wall.  They were rusty but straight.  He threw
them into the back of the truck and set off for the farm.

Alan Bates searched through the tools in the back of the truck with
growing irritation.  He ought to have known that there would be nothing
for working on pipes.  The man was a car mechanic, not a plumber.  But
the big vice would help, the sheet metal was a Godsend, there was a
decent pair of snips for cutting it, a good blow-torch and an old
biscuit tin full of small gauge bolts and screws.  Not a bad haul,
really.  He called over Harry Robertson and Jimmy Campbell and gave
them brief instructions on making patches, using a hammer and a big
nail to make bolt holes.

"You won't get a neat fit but do your best.  The important thing is to
cover the hole to cut down the drag.  And use plenty of bolts, we don't
want the damned things peeling off in mid air."  He heaved the big vice
out of the truck and staggered to the space just inside the fake barn
that he had turned into his workshop.  After a few minutes work with a
blowtorch on a pipe clamped in the vice he was confident that he could
do the job and started whistling as he worked.

At German military headquarters in Lyon, Major Schuman was less than
happy.  The air liaison officer had just telephoned to say his Storch
spotter planes had covered every inch of the area from a height of
fifty feet.  It was not possible for them to miss a crashed bomber and
they had seen nothing.  He made it very clear to the major how he felt
about staff officers who wasted his pilots' time and squandered fuel on
an idiotic mission just because somebody had heard a noise in the
night.

The major wondered what he should tell the general.  Perhaps he could
tell him the bomber must have been in trouble but was able to fly on.
No, that would not do.  Too many units had reported hearing the bomber
clearly, followed by silence.  Or he could imply that the spotter
planes had been inefficient in their search.  That would not do either.
The general would take it up with the air liaison officer and he would
be caught in the middle of a row between two senior officers.  One or
the other of them would make him pay for it.  Major Schuman wondered if
he should check again whether the routine motorised patrols had
anything to report but decided against it.  They had clear instructions
to report immediately if they saw anything suspicious.  That left only
one other source to try.  He picked up the telephone and called
Hauptman Hartmann.

"Yes, major.  You have something to report?"  The tone was sharp now,
as if Hartmann no longer cared if he co-operated or not.

"Just that the spotter planes have covered the area and say they have
seen nothing.  The general was wondering if you had heard anything."
Schuman hardly knew why he had lied to trick a response from Hartmann
it was something about his tone that suggested he knew more than the
major but it worked.

"You may tell the general that we have just received reliable but
incomplete information that there has been secret activity in the St.
Amour district, second-hand information that enemy fliers are being
hidden.  We are investigating."  Hartmann hung up and cursed himself.
He should not have let that information slip.  A Gestapo officer need
not be impressed by a direct request from a general.  Himmler carried
more weight than the whole High Command and he expected his officers to
follow his example.  Well, even if the army sent troops blundering all
over the St.  Amour area he would find those fliers first.  He had very
little information to go on but that did not worry him.  These
operations usually started with a fragment of information.  This time
an informer had relayed some gossip overheard on a visit to a relative
in St.  Amour, a muttered conversation between man and wife about some
enemy fliers being hidden.  If there was any truth in the story he
would find those fliers.

Major Schuman was elated.  He had prised that information out of
Hartmann and now he had something positive to tell the general.  He
would not wait until this evening.  He picked up the telephone and told
the general's aide that he must see the general as soon as possible.

Von Weissman did not welcome the intrusion and, as soon as he saw
Schuman's self-satisfied expression, decided he would take him down a
peg or two.  He listened patiently to the major's report.

"Very well, major.  What do you suggest we do now?"

"Encircle the area with troops and slowly tighten the circle until we
have found the fliers, sir.  Crack them like a nut."

"Brilliant thinking, major.  You would use two or three thousand troops
for perhaps forty eight hours to catch half a dozen enemy fliers.  That
means part of the division that is ready to move would have to unload
its vehicles and equipment.  A day to get ready, two days for the
operation, at least a day to pack up again and God only knows how many
days before we get priority again on the communication lines between
here and the eastern front.  So an army corps on the eastern front is
short of a fresh division for that length of time.  And that could mean
a battle lost.  Half a dozen fliers caught and a battle lost.  Thinking
of that calibre, major, loses wars."

Schuman went white and drew himself to attention.

"I apologise to the general, sir.  I did not think thoroughly."

"I can see that.  Now come here and learn something about soldiering."
The general walked over to the wall map and placed a finger tip on St.
Amour.

"Your objective is to catch a small number of enemy fliers, if they
exist.  Your means are the resources available for routine operations,
no more.  Your method is this.  You order an immediate curfew in St.
Amour and for a radius around it of about five miles.

You draw in all the troops used on routine patrols from a twenty-five
mile radius and if necessary you add the cooks and clerks as well."

Schuman interrupted.

"Yes, of course, general.  Then move them in quickly to gain the
advantage of surprise?"

"No, you idiot.  Listen to me.  You set up road blocks in broad
daylight on every road and track around your area of operations.  Make
them as conspicuous as you like.  But leave one minor road with no
block.  There, that one perhaps."  The general drew his finger tip
along a secondary road leading from St.  Amour to Lyon.

"As soon as it is dark you put machine-gunners on each side of that
road.  Good men who know how to take up position silently.  Now, you
are beginning to understand?  The fliers will believe their only chance
to escape is along the road they think we forgot to block.  During the
night they will make a run for it and..."  The general smacked the map
with the palm of his hand.

"Yes, general," said Schuman.

"With respect, sir, an excellent plan."

"I'm glad you like it.  You are going to be responsible for making it
work.  Take charge of the operation and tonight place yourself with the
machine-gunners.  Get on with it."

Two nice little traps," the general thought as he went back to his
desk.

"One to catch the fliers and one to catch the major.  If he bungles it
he will be demoted and posted out and his family can hardly object.  If
he pulls it off he could be promoted and posted out, and his family
will be pleased.

Chapter 11

Helene Blanche sat at the kitchen table, making a rough sketch plan of
St.  Amour, with Paul Robertson craning over her shoulder.

"There's the hospital," she said, pointing.

"When Dr.  Duval gets here he will tell us which room your comrade is
in.  What is your plan?"

"It's not much of a plan yet.  I thought we would wait until it is
dark, take Henri's truck and leave it somewhere near the hospital, get
Dick out and carry him to the truck and bring him back here."  Even as
he spoke he realised he was making it sound as easy as collecting
groceries in an English village.

"Well, it is a simple plan," said Helene.

"It is always better to have a simple plan than a difficult one.  But
we must also know what we will do if things go wrong.  What if there
are German guards in the hospital?"  She waited tensely for his
response.

"We wait as long as we have to until we see a chance to get in. Perhaps
we could get one of the staff to draw the guards away."

Helene relaxed.  If he had suggested blasting their way into the
hospital she would have cancelled the operation, but his instincts were
good.  The rescue needed cunning and patience, not suicidal courage.

"Very well," she said.

"We will go as soon as it is dark.  You must borrow some of my father's
old clothes.  You can't go like that."  She pointed to his scruffy
flying suit and they both laughed.  Paul rested his hands on her
shoulders.  She sat quietly for a moment then said: "We must see what
your friends are doing," and stood up.

In the makeshift barn, which Jimmy Campbell now insisted on calling
Hangar One, Alan Bates had got one repaired pipe back in the engine and
was wrestling the other into place, hoping the clumsy wrench did not
strip the threads.  When that was done, he reckoned, it would take him
two or three hours to fix the damaged cables.  Jimmy and Harry
Patterson, who had been shouting and joking when they started fixing
patches to the fuselage now worked with silent determination as arms
started to ache and fingers grew stiff and clumsy.  Peter was walking
across the farmyard, his head down and shoulders hunched, when Paul and
Helene left the farmhouse.

"What's the problem, skipper?"  asked Paul.

"Big one," said Peter.

"I've been to that clearing where we landed and paced it out.  There is
not a hope in hell of getting the plane off in that distance.  We only
landed by the skin of our teeth and that was more of a crash that a
landing."  The three stood in dejected silence until Helene spoke.

"There is the big field," she pointed beyond the pond to the undulating
field, thick with stubble.

"I've looked at it," said Peter.

"If the ground was frozen hard it might work, though it would be a
bloody rough take-off.  But that ground was ploughed this year and it's
soft today.  The plane would sink in before she got up any speed.  I
think we just have to wait for a hard frost then risk it."  Peter
looked down at their shadows cast by the pale sun and at the soft mud
sticking to his flying boots.

"God knows how long we'll have to wait," he said, almost to himself.

"Anyway, don't say anything to the others yet.  Got to keep their
spirits up as long as possible."

"It will work out," said Paul with a forced cheerfulness.

"Anybody who can land a Lancaster on a handkerchief and then hide it
can get it off again somehow."  He was glad of the distraction when he
saw Dr.  Duval's car race into the farmyard and skid to a stop.  The
doctor did not get out but leaned through the window and shouted.

"The Germans have announced a curfew from three o'clock," he yelled.

"Their loud speaker trucks are going round St.  Amour saying anybody
seen on the roads after that will be shot.  They are putting road
blocks all round the town.  I must get home.  I only have a few
minutes."  He revved the car engine but Helene ran forward and grabbed
the door handle.

"Where is the British airman?"  she demanded.

"Ward Two, first on the left from the entrance.  But you cannot do
anything about him now.  He will just have to take his chances.  You
must get ready to run yourselves.  The Germans must have found out
about the bomber."  The car crunched into gear and raced out of the
farmyard.

The three stood staring after it until Peter finally muttered: "Christ.
Now what?"  They walked into the farmhouse and slumped round the
kitchen table.

"I still think we should get Dick Holden out of that hospital," said
Paul.

"We owe it to him and if the Germans pick him up they'll know the rest
of us are around here somewhere."  Helene nodded.

"I agree, but we will need a new plan now.  We cannot take Henri's
truck into St.  Amour during a curfew."

"Do the Germans allow any vehicles on the streets during a curfew, like
the doctor's car perhaps?"

"No, nothing except their own cars and trucks."

"That's it then," said Paul after a pause.

"We'll grab one of their trucks."

"How the hell are you going to do that?"  exclaimed Peter.

"The doctor said there are road blocks round the town.  If there are
road blocks there will be trucks.  We will just have to trust to
luck."

Helene sat thinking for a minute then rose and walked over to the
wooden cupboard near the fireplace.  At first Paul and Peter thought
she was getting a drink but she lifted out all the bottles and glasses,
poked her fingers through two small holes in the panel at the back and
pulled it clear.  Reaching through the back of the cupboard she drew
out a Sten gun, two pistols and clips of ammunition.  She laid them on
the table then replaced the panel, the bottles and glasses.  Handing
the Sten gun and a magazine to Paul she loaded one pistol and slipped
it into her pocket then loaded the other and handed it to Peter.

"We will have to leave as soon as it is dark," she said.

"You and your men must be ready to run away if the Germans come here.
My mother and father will go with you.  If there is no time to run you
will surrender.  But you must not let my parents fall into the hands of
the Gestapo.  You understand?"

Peter felt his stomach churn and the pistol slip a little in his hands
as his palms started to sweat.

"But," he stammered, "I've never killed anybody in my life."

"You have killed hundreds with your bombs," said Helene coldly.

"Does it make any difference just because you did not see them die?  You
must do as I say.  It is your duty."

Paul leaned across the table and rested a hand on Peter's arm.

"You've got to do it, skipper," he said.

"You know what the Gestapo will do to her parents if they take them
alive.  You can't let that happen.  At least this way it will be quick
for them."

Peter pushed the pistol into the top of his trousers, rubbed his hand
over his sweating upper lip and swallowed hard.

"OK," he said.

"You have my word on it.  Let's hope the Germans don't come here."  And
he thought, "Let's hope we can get UM7 off the ground pretty damned
soon."  He did not mind fighting in the sky and he did not mind dying
if it came to that but this was not his kind of war.  Helene turned to
Paul.

"I think we should find a road block on the other side of town, then we
will not have to go through it again after we have been to the
hospital.  They usually put one on the main road to Lyon.  We'll try
there."

They left the farm as soon as it was too dark to see the length of the
farmyard, Helene leading the way along the edge of the fields on a
course that would take them round the outskirts of St.  Amour and bring
them out on the main road to Lyon.  Paul felt clumsy in the farmer's
old trousers, the legs too short and the seat flopping behind him.  He
had exchanged his jacket for an old overcoat that sagged from his
shoulders and barely reached his knees.  These clothes were made for a
gorilla," he told himself.  The Sten gun slung under the overcoat
thumped against his hip and slipped back into the same place every time
he tried to adjust it.  Helene had not spoken a word since she watched
him hiding the Sten gun under his overcoat.

In the dark and empty streets of St.  Amour another over coated figure
slipped out of a doorway, looked both ways then lurched against the
wall before pushing against it to get his balance.  Henri Rosset had
made his decision.  His drunken mind was a fog of fear and confusion
but the thought that had been growing in it all day had now taken hold.
The loudspeaker van blaring the curfew announcement had told him he was
right in thinking the Germans would soon find out about the British
bomber.  They were all finished, all the Resistance group.  But he
would save his Marie.  If he went to the Germans first and told them
what he knew it would all be over quicker and there would be no need
for them to pick up his Marie.  He would soon be dead himself, he had
no doubt of that, but Marie would be safe.  That was all that mattered
now.  He stumbled along the street, half falling into a doorway as a
German patrol vehicle passed the crossroad a hundred yards ahead.

"Must not get shot yet," he told himself.

Straightening up, he slowly made his way to the crossroad and looked to
his right, where he could just make out the shape of the Swastika flag
over the old police station.

The sentry lifted his rifle and took aim as he saw the figure shambling
towards him then lowered it when he heard the word "information"
amongst the babble of words pouring from the old man.  He waited until
he came close enough then grabbed him by the arm and half dragged him
through the doors.

"This drunken old fool is saying something about information," he
reported to the army sergeant.  The sergeant looked at Henri with
disgust then picked up the telephone and spoke briefly.  A minute later
a Gestapo officer came through an inner door, glanced at Henri and
barked at the sergeant.

"I said report any information, not every drunk.  And what are the army
patrols doing if this stinking wreck can walk through the town without
being stopped?"  He was turning on his heel when Henri mumbled
something barely audible about a British bomber.  The Gestapo officer
grabbed him by his lapels and yelled into his face.

"A British bomber.  You know about a British bomber?"  Henri nodded and
mumbled.  The officer let go and reached for the telephone.  At the
other end of the line Hauptman Hartmann listened then issued brief but
firm instructions.

"Do not question him yet.  I will be with you in an hour.  We will
bring him back to Lyon.  When he has told us what he is willing to
tell us then we will get the rest out of him."  Hartmann was already on
his way out of the office, barking for his aide and his car, before he
began to savour the prospect of success.  He would find the enemy
bomber where the army had failed and if this drunk knew anything about
the sabotage groups he would clean them up as well.  There would be a
commendation in it.  Perhaps a posting to Paris.  He sat in the back of
the staff car and hummed contentedly as it purred along the main road
to St.  Amour.  The car slowed as it approached the town.

"Road block," reported the driver.  They stopped where two army trucks
had been parked side by side across the two-lane road, a third truck on
the grass verge to prevent any vehicle by-passing the road block.  A
sentry looked into the car, saw the uniforms, and saluted.

"I may only be a cook," he thought "But I know a Gestapo uniform when I
see one.  They would not take kindly to his asking for identity
papers."  He bellowed to a driver to let the staff car through.  The
truck parked on the verge moved forward fifty yards and stopped.  The
car bumped over the grass verge, regained the road and sped into the
darkness.  The truck driver climbed out of his cab and walked back to
ask the sentry who was so damned important to be let through in such a
hurry.

In the long weeds a few yards to the side of the road Paul nudged
Helene and whispered: "This is our chance."  In a crouching sprint they
raced towards the solitary truck.  Paul pushed Helene towards the
driver's door and ran round the nose of the truck to face the other two
vehicles.  Pulling the Sten gun from under his overcoat, he cocked it,
knelt on one knee and fired a long burst into the engines and tyres. He
had a brief impression of spurting flames and shouts as he threw
himself into the cab and Helene rammed home the gears and they sped
towards St.  Amour.  They slowed down as they reached the edge of the
town.  Paul's heart stopped pounding but Helene was laughing and
crying.

"You alright?"  he whispered.

"Yes, Jules.  I mean Paul," she said and wiped the back of her hand
across her face.  She drove carefully along the cobbled streets, past
the old police station with a German staff car standing outside, along
a winding street to the hospital.

"Is that it?"  asked Paul, staring at the outline of the old mansion.
He had expected a big building, with ambulances around and a buzz of
activity.  It was silent, heavy curtains preventing even a chink of
light from the windows.  He could just make out the outline of a German
army truck to one side of the front door and he gulped as Helene calmly
drove through the gates and parked alongside it.

"It would look unusual if we parked anywhere else," she explained.

"I am going to see what is going on inside.  Wait here."  She slipped
out of the cab and walked towards the front door.  Paul could see the
sliver of dim light as she slowly pushed it open two or three inches
then the light vanished and she was climbing back into the cab.

"There are two soldiers sitting in the entrance hall," she said.

"They are relaxed but they are awake.  We must get them away if we are
going to get your friend."  Paul sat gazing at the hospital, discarding
one plan after another, then made a decision.

"We have to make a diversion to get those two away but I don't know how
until I have seen inside.  I'll get in from the back.  Stay here unless
you see me at the front door.  If it sounds as if things have gone
wrong get out of here fast.  Don't wait for me."

Before she could say anything he was out of the cab and walking quietly
along the path round the side of the hospital, wishing he was dressed
well enough to bluff his way out of trouble by pretending to be a
doctor.  Something loomed up in front of him and he found himself
grasping a sheet hanging on a clothes line.  Ducking under it he
followed the path to a back door.  The handle turned easily and he
peered inside.  There was no light but the steamy smell told him it was
the hospital laundry.  The rattle of crockery meant the adjoining room
was the kitchen.  He inched open the door in time to see a young girl
put down a tray and go out through the far door, leaving the light on.
Paul stepped into the kitchen, looked round the tables, the shelves and
the big old coke-fired oven with a pan of water standing on it and a
plan took shape.

He walked to the far door and opened it an inch.  As he had guessed, it
led into a corridor with the wards to either side and straight to the
front entrance.  He could see one of the German soldiers lounging in a
chair.  Leaving the door open a few inches he went back to the stove
and tipped over the pan.  As water poured on to the red hot coke a
cloud of foul-smelling fumes belched from the oven, filled the kitchen
and drifted through the half open door.  Paul raced back through the
laundry from and out of the back door, collided with the sheet again,
found the path and sprinted to the front door.  Helene was at his side
almost immediately.  They stood listening.

Shouts from inside made Paul grin.  He pushed open the door.  The two
soldiers, handkerchiefs pressed to their faces, had charged into the
kitchen.  One, retching while he worked, was trying to rake the coke
out of the oven while the other had flung open a window.

Paul and Helene raced across the entrance hall into Dick Holden's ward.
Only two beds were occupied.  In one an old man sat up coughing.  In
the other a figure covered by a blanket did not stir.  Paul threw back
the blanket.  Dick was unconscious, breathing heavily through his
half-open mouth.

"The staff must have put him to sleep so he could not be questioned,"
said Helene.

"Did a bloody good job of it," grunted Paul as he heaved Dick into a
sitting position then slung him over his shoulder.  Helene held the
door open while Paul staggered through.  He glanced down the corridor
and found himself staring at a nurse, her mouth open in surprise.  For
an instant he thought she was going to scream, then she turned back to
close the kitchen door on the soldiers and stood with her hand of the
doorknob.

"Good girl," said Paul.  He was across the entrance hall in a few heavy
strides and through the main doors.  Throwing Dick over the tail-board
of the truck he scrambled into the cab as Helene started to back out
and turn into the street.

"Will there be any road blocks between here and the farm?"  he asked.

"Probably not," said Helene "They usually put them round the outskirts.
I think we are safe now.  We will take your friend to the farm then get
rid of this truck."  She slowed as they approached the crossroad. The
German staff car was pulling away from the old police station, heading
towards the main road to Lyon.  Helene drove towards the farm.

In the back of the staff car Henri slumped between Hartmann and his
aide.

"He smells vile," thought Hartmann, 'but he was a good catch."  By
daylight he would have told him everything he needed to know.  Hartmann
wondered if he should go to military headquarters in person to tell
that fool Schuman that the Gestapo had succeeded where the military had
failed.  He would enjoy seeing the expression on the major's face. They
were leaving St.  Amour when he noticed the red glow ahead and soon the
driver stopped where two army trucks were burning in the road, a
handful of soldiers waiting for them to burn themselves out before they
could be moved.

"I know another way to Lyon," said the driver, turning the car.

"Then get a move on, we have wasted enough time," snapped Hartmann.  He
knew a report would be on his desk in an hour or two to explain the
burning truck.  The car swung back through St.  Amour, took the
secondary road to Lyon and the driver pressed the accelerator.

Major Egon Schuman had chosen his position carefully.  He was crouched
near a machine gun emplacement on a little knoll rising to one side of
the road.  The other machine gun was placed between two trees on the
other side.  Both had a clear field of fire along the road from St.
Amour.  The men had their orders.  His pistol shot would be the signal
for them to open fire.  Time had dragged but he had remained tense and
ready for action.

The back of his neck tingled when he heard the whine of a car being
pushed to its limits.  He stood up and drew his pistol from its holster
and cocked it.  Two slits of light from dimmed headlights sped along
the road towards him.  He raised his pistol, waited another second then
fired.  The machine guns hammered and went on firing as the car
swerved, slewed and stopped half off the road, the horn blaring.

"Stop firing," shouted the major.  The horn gave a dying wail and there
was silence.  Pistol at the ready, he picked up a flashlight from
between his feet and walked slowly towards the car.  There was no sign
of movement.  He shone the flashlight through the jagged hole where the
windscreen had been.  All the occupants were dead.

Chapter 12

Paul felt light-headed as the truck moved at an even speed through the
cobbled streets and the rumble gave way to the whine of heavy tyres on
asphalt when Helene turned on to the road leading to the farm.  He
recognised the feeling.  It was like this after a raid, a mixture of
relief and surprise at being alive that often had the crew giggling
like children as UM7 came into land at Wickenby.  This time there would
be no debriefing, no big meal, no easy sleep in the security of
England.  Yet there was something about that night's work that was
oddly satisfying as well as frightening.  Paul groped in his mind for
the right word.  Honest, that was it.  It was an honest contest face to
face with an enemy, not machines against machines or bombs against
gunners thousands of feet below.  He leaned back in his seat.

"How far to the farm?"  he asked.

"About two kilometres," said Helene.

"It is a straight road."

"It would be," thought Paul.

"The French make straight roads, not like the winding roads in
England."  Suddenly he reached out and grabbed Helene's arm in a grip
that made her gasp.

"Stop," he shouted.

"Stop, stop.  I want to get out."  She braked hard and turned to him,
laughing.

"Don't worry.  I don't think my father wanted those trousers back."

"Bloody cheek," said Paul.

"It's not that at all."

He climbed out, walked in front of the truck, walked towards the side
of the road until he felt his feet on the grass verge then turned and
paced across the road until he felt the grass under his feet on the
other side.  He did it twice more then climbed back into the cab.

"You say the road is straight as far as the farm?"  he asked.

"Yes quite straight."  Helene was puzzled.

"What about trees are there trees on each side?"  Paul peered out of
the cab but could see nothing.

"Yes, there are trees each side.  About fifty metres each side."

"Glory, glory hallelujah," whooped Paul and leaning over grabbed Helene
in a tight hug.  She felt a thrill run through her body but she kept
her hands on the steering wheel and turned her face away a little.  She
willed her body not to respond but her hands were sliding off the
steering wheel when Paul drew his arms away and sat back in his seat.

"Glory, glory," he said again.

"Let's get back to the farm."

Helene started the truck and listened to Paul humming to himself.  She
was uncertain whether there had been more than excitement in his
embrace and even less certain about her own reactions.

"What is it Paul?"  she asked at last.

"I think I know how Peter can get UM7 off the ground," he said.  Before
he could explain they were turning down the track into the farmyard.
Helene stopped the truck in front of the farmhouse and Harry Patterson
emerged from the darkness.

"Thank God you're OK," he said.

"We've been taking turns waiting for you.  Have you got Dick?"

"In the back," said Paul.

"Out like a light.  Give me a hand with him."  They hauled Dick out of
the truck and followed Helene into the kitchen.  Helene put the Sten
gun and pistol back into their hiding place while Paul and Harry laid
Dick on the table.  Paul threw his overcoat over the unconscious
figure.

"I'll let the others know you're back," said Harry.

"Right," said Paul.

"Tell Peter I have some good news for him.  I'll be with you soon."

When Harry had gone Helene and Paul sat side by side on the threadbare
piece of carpet in front of the dying fire.  Paul knew he ought to get
rid of the German truck but he pushed the thought out of his mind.

"Who is Jules?"  Paul asked after a while.  She started hesitantly then
discovered that she could bring herself to talk about her dead lover
for the first time in more than a year.  Gradually the words started to
pour out, about the day they met as students, the day he left her in
1939 to join the army, they day in 1940 when he appeared at the
farmhouse door, exhausted and almost inconsolable after quitting his
unit when it was ordered to surrender.  He set up the local Resistance
group, a natural leader in his element with Helene as his planner. They
had their successes and then there was that night just over a year ago.
He had to get a message to London and that meant getting to the
transmitter hidden in the cafe.  He had not expected the German road
block.

"He was challenged and he reached for the Sten gun under his overcoat,"
said Helene.

"But he was not quick enough.."  She had been staring into the fire as
she talked but now she turned and looked into Paul's eyes.

"Tonight when I saw you with the Sten gun under your overcoat and I
knew we were going to a roadblock, I..  I. Oh, God."  She flung her
arms round Paul and buried her head in his shoulder, her slender body
shuddering with wave after wave of sobs.  He held her tightly for long
minutes, kissing her hair and murmuring soothing noises until, as if
emptied of grief, she grew quiet and lay still in his arms.  She raised
her head and turned her face towards him, starting to murmur something
until he put a finger on her lips, drew her down on the floor and
kissed her.  She held his head in her hands then dropped them in
surrender as his fingers searched.  They made love and slept in each
other's arms.

Paul woke, ran his hand gently along Helene's back and kissed her
lightly on the cheek.  Propping himself up on one elbow he looked at
the last fading embers of the fire, turned his head to hear Dick Holden
still snoring in his drugged sleep and tried to get his thoughts in
order.  He got up, took the overcoat off Dick and stretched it over
Helene.  Dropping another log on the fire he waited until the growing
flames threw some light into the room then dressed in his flying suit
without taking his eyes off the still figure under the overcoat.  He
bent to touch her hair lightly then let himself out into the farmyard.
The glimmer of light in the eastern sky meant he had no time to waste.
In the barn he looked around until he spotted Peter and shook him
roughly.  There was a grunt as Peter's eyes opened.

"Wake up, skipper.  I've found you a runway."

"Oh, it's you Paul.  You've done what?"

"I'll tell you later.  Come on, we have a job to do before it's
daylight."  He stood impatiently while Peter pulled on his boots, and
led the way into the farmyard.  Peter grabbed his collar, dragged him
back into the barn and shut the door.

"Christ Almighty," he said.

"The Germans are here."  Paul froze for an instant then laughed and
punched Peter in the ribs.

"That's my taxi, you silly bugger.  I borrowed it from the Germans last
night.  We have to get rid of it.

Peter still looked shaken as they climbed into the army truck.

"How did you get hold of this?"  he asked.

"It's a long story," said Paul.

"But before we dump it I want to show you something."  He drove out of
the farmyard and turned on to the road to St.  Amour before bringing
the truck to a halt.  In the grey light they could see the road
stretching before them, almost dead straight and with trees set well
back on each side.  Peter whistled quietly.

"You are a bloody genius Paul," he said.

"It's long enough and straight enough.  Hang on, I'll check if it is
wide enough."

"No need, skipper.  I did it last night.  It will do, so long as you
don't veer to either side.  Only one problem.  Can you get the
Lancaster out of the farmyard on to the road?"

"I will, even if I have to carry the bloody thing," said Peter.

"But seriously, I reckon I can, though it may mean chopping down the
odd tree or two."

"Great, we can talk about that later.  Now we must think what we can do
with this truck.  We can't leave it anywhere that will connect it to
the farm.  It's getting light and we are pushing our luck."  He sat
tapping his fingers on the steering wheel then started the truck and
drove steadily towards St.  Amour.

Peter watched the road and made mental calculations about the take-off
distance.  He grew tense as they approached the edge of the town.

"This is a trick I learnt last night," said Paul.

"If you don't want to attract attention to a truck leave it where it
looks at home."  He drove through the cobbled streets, over the
crossroads and recognised the turning he was looking for.  He swung the
truck towards the hospital, drove through the gates and stopped near
the entrance.  There were no other vehicles there.

"This will do," he said.  Peter stared at him open-mouthed.

"And what do we do now?"  he asked.

"Hike it.  Now if we can.  If it gets tricky we lay up somewhere until
dark.  Come on, let's make a move before it's broad daylight."

Paul led the way round to the back of the hospital and over a low wall,
dropping into a narrow alley running along the back of a row of old
houses.  The brightening band of light in the eastern sky gave him a
rough sense of direction.  He turned right, away from the town centre,
and followed the alley until it led into a street.  He looked
cautiously round the corner in time to see a German motorcyclist
speeding towards them and ducked back.  The tearing noise of the
motorcycle died away.

He looked out again and spotted the outline of a church two hundred
yards to their left, on the other side.  Peter followed him in a sprint
across the street, through the iron gates and round to the back of the
church.  They leaned against the stone wall, gasping for breath.

"Follow me," said a voice that startled the last breath out of them.  A
priest, a small smile on his tired old face, appeared round the corner
of the church and beckoned them.  He unlocked a small door and led them
into a room, bare except for a table and four chairs.

"You will be safe here for a while," he said in English.

"I think we ought to tell you we are British airmen," said Peter.

"You are not making much secret of it, are you?"  said the priest,
looking at their flying suits, and smiled at their evident surprise at
his fluent English.

"I was an army chaplain for many years, mostly in Algeria.  I had good
friends among my English colleagues in Gibraltar.  I wonder where they
are now."  He was pensive for a moment then asked, "You have been shot
down and now you are trying to get back to England?"

Peter told him they wanted to get to the farm of Andre Blanche.  He
offered no explanation and was asked for none.

"I will see what can be done," said the priest.

"Wait here.  I may be an hour or two."

They sat at the table and after a while Paul started to tell Peter
about the rescue of Dick Holden.  The skipper listened without
interrupting, feeling more inadequate as the story unfolded and knowing
more certainly that he might be a good flier but he would make a
hopeless soldier.

"A damned fine show," he said gruffly when Paul paused.

"There's something else, skipper.  A confession, if you like."

"Well we are in the right place.  Go ahead."

"I hope none of you think I'm running out, but I'm not going back with
you.  I'll stay with you at the farm until you take off then I am
staying here to work with the Resistance.  This is my kind of war.  I
joined up to get back at the Germans for my old man's death at Dunkirk
and I'd feel better about doing it here than by dropping bombs on
cities.  Does that make any sense to you?"

"I suppose it does," said Peter after a long pause.

"But you know this can be a dirty war too.  If you are caught you will
be shot, or worse."

"It's all about taking risks anyway, isn't it, skipper?  I'd just as
soon buy it here as buy it over Germany."

"OK," said Peter.

"I have to respect your decision and I know you never do anything
without thinking about it first."  He reached across the table and
shook Paul's hand.

"You're a good bloke, Paul.  I owe you a drink after the war."

They passed another hour in desultory conversation, the atmosphere
strained after the shared emotion.  There was a knock on the door and
the priest came in, a group of men behind him looking over his shoulder
to see the two British fliers.

"I am pleased to inform you that you are both dead," said the priest
with a chuckle.

"It was quite sudden, don't you think?"  He walked into the room to
allow the men to carry in a large coffin which they lowered reverently
to the floor.

"Unfortunately you have to share a coffin," said the priest.

"These are hard times."

"What the hell."  sorry, father," exclaimed Peter.

"What's this all about?"

"The Germans are lifting the curfew for an hour at noon their usual
generosity but they will still be watching out for suspicious movements
of cars or trucks.  So the problem was to get you to your destination.
You will travel by first class coffin.  Or second class, since you must
both squeeze into it.  The cortege will leave the church door at noon
and leave for the funeral in your home village, a route which passes
the farm.  It is a pity you will not be able to see the cortege.  A
French funeral has more style than your English funerals.  I wish you a
safe journey."

Left alone with the coffin, Paul and Peter stared at it for a moment
then burst into laughter.  They practised lying in it, heads at
opposite ends, and were relieved to see air holes had been drilled
discreetly into the sides.  By the time the undertaker's men returned
they had worked out the least uncomfortable position.  The men smiled
as they dropped the lid into position, without screwing it down, and
grunted as they lifted.

Inside the coffin, Paul and Peter did not see the priest lead the small
procession through the church and out of the main door, where a
horse-drawn hearse waited.  It was draped in black crepe and the two
black horses nodded impatiently, the black plumes on their heads waving
in unison.  The coffin slid into the hearse and inside the two fliers
heard the door click shut and the clop of hooves as the hearse moved
off.

"Wish you'd taken your boots off," muttered Paul after a few minutes.

"I wish you'd taken a bath," said Peter.

"This is like being buried with a skunk for company."

They lapsed into silence and soon were stretching their necks to
breathe through the nearest air hole.  Each could feel the other
stiffen with tension when the hearse stopped and several trucks,
obviously German, passed them.  The hearse moved on and the sound of
clopping hooves seemed to last for an age as the coffin grew warmer and
the air more stale.  Then the hearse stopped, there was a click of the
door opening and the lid moved an inch as fingers groped under it.  It
was lifted clear and the undertaker looked into the coffin anxiously
then smiled with relief.

Paul and Peter levered themselves upright and looked through the
engraved glass sides of the hearse.  They were at the entrance to the
farm.  Scrambling out, they shook hands with the undertaker and his men
who had been walking solemnly behind the hearse and stood to one side
as the coffin lid was replaced and the doleful little procession
continued along the road.

Easing cramped muscles as they walked to the farm, the two exchanged
grins.  This was a story they could tell for years to come.  In the
farm yard Alan Bates looked up from the piece of metal he was working
on and called out.

"Where have you two been?  We've been wondering what happened to
you."

"Oh, nothing special," said Peter airily.

"We've just been to our own funeral."

Chapter 13

General von Weissman's face was set in a mask of controlled fury as he
strode into the morning staff meeting at military headquarters in
Lyon.

"Gentlemen," he said.

"You know what happened at St.  Amour last night.  Let it be a lesson
to you.  A plan is no better than the officer who executes it.

"We have a mess to clean up.  This command is being held responsible
for the deaths of two Gestapo officers, not to mention a prime suspect
who had not yet been questioned.  Himmler has already been on to the
High Command and they have been on to me.  We still do not know for
certain if there are enemy fliers in St.  Amour but we must assume
there is.  The attack on the road block may have been local people but
it may have been enemy airmen.  A sergeant at St.  Amour has told us
the suspect said something about a bomber.  The Gestapo have gone over
my head in reporting these facts directly to the High Command.  So now
I have my orders."  The general's tone made plain how much he resented
being used as a football by rival factions.

"We will make a detailed search of the St.  Amour area.  Two infantry
regiments and a motorised reconnaissance company will unpack their
equipment and conduct the search.  They must be ready by dawn tomorrow.
The movement of the division to the east is postponed.  That is all."

The general walked out of the conference room into his office, closed
the door and sagged into his chair.

"This war is being run by fools," he thought.  Fools like Schuman who
never did a sensible thing.  Fools like the High Command who could
leave the eastern front short of a division because two Gestapo
officers had been killed.  Two officers!  He lost scores of better
officers when his division was mangled on the eastern front.  If the
High Command did not stop playing politics they could lose this war.

"Well," he thought, my men will go over the St.  Amour area inch by
inch and find the airmen, if they are there."  Then he would demand
priority in moving the division.  He glared at the wall map.  It would
be a long time before he forgot St.  Amour.

In the railway sidings at Lyon, soldiers who had worked through the
night loading a long troop train, boiled with silent fury when their
officers ordered them to start unloading most of the vehicles.  Looking
at the long line of flatbed wagons with vehicles chained in place, a
sergeant wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve and muttered to
himself that the general must have gone mad.

At Andre Blanche's farm, Peter was telling his crew of the plan to use
the road as a runway.  He said nothing about Paul's decision to stay
behind.

"We need to cut down four trees to get the plane out of the farmyard,"
he explained.

"Can you spare a couple of blokes, Alan?"

"No problem, skipper.  We are finished here except for unloading the
bombs and closing the bomb doors.  That shouldn't take more than a
couple of hours.  It doesn't matter if we force the bomb doors, so long
as they stay closed."

"You've done a good job," said Peter, hiding his dismay as he walked
round UM7.  Even in the poor light of the makeshift barn the Lancaster
looked a sorry sight.  There were patches of rusty metal on the
fuselage and under one wing, bolt heads sticking out in contrast with
the smooth black metal around them.  A big piece of sheet metal had
been cobbled into roughly the right shape and fitted to the damaged air
intake under the outer starboard engine.  In the rear gunner's turret,
thumped by the farmer's tractor when UM7 was being towed in from the
clearing, bent metal had been hammered straight and the Browning
machine guns pointed straight to the rear but it was obvious the turret
could not revolve.  Looking at it, Peter remembered Dick Holden and
decided to see if he had recovered consciousness.

"Yes, great work," he said, patting Alan's shoulder, and made for the
door.

"One thing's for certain," Jimmy Campbell called after him.

"I know how ground crews earn their money.  I used to think it was a
soft job."  He was looking at his sore hands.

In the farmhouse kitchen Peter found Dick Holden propped up against the
sink, head down, leaning on his elbows and waiting for his stomach to
stop churning.

"He was desperate for a drink but his stomach wasn't ready for it,"
laughed Paul.

"They must have given him a hell of a dose of chloroform at the
hospital."

"God, I feel as if I had been hit by a bus," groaned Dick, pushing
himself upright.

"How the hell do you get bruises on your backside from chloroform?"

"Must have been when we chucked you in the truck," said Paul
unsympathetically.

"Wasn't much time for ceremony.  How's the leg?"

"That's funny.  I'd forgotten about it."  Dick hobbled about the
kitchen.

"Hey, it's not bad, not bad at all."

"Good," said Peter.

"Will you be fit for flying duty tomorrow night?"  Dick and Paul looked
at him.

"I've decided our best chance is to take off at last light, when I can
see just enough to get the plane out of the farmyard and on to the
road," he explained.

"We will have the cover of darkness to get across France -UM7 is in no
condition to take on fighters in daylight.  We can't go tonight.  The
bomb doors need fixing and there are trees to fell.  So tomorrow night
it is."

The old authority was back in his voice and already he felt that the
last few days had been a nightmare from which he would soon waken.  The
need to feel himself at the controls of a powerful machine was building
up in him like a lust.  Paul saw the change coming over his skipper and
contrasted it with the uncertainty welling up inside himself.  It faded
when the door opened and Helene came in.  She walked straight to Paul
and slipped her hand into his before turning to the others.

"There will be no more help for you from the town," she said.

"There is a curfew, and after last night the Germans are certain to
make a search.  The Resistance group will not meet again until it is
less dangerous.  We are on our own now."

She turned to Paul and murmered: "I got a message that Henri is dead.
We don't think he talked but we cannot be certain.  It is going to be
very difficult and I don't see how we can attack the train now."

"You mean you and I may have to live on the run?"

"That would be safer than staying here but you know why I cannot
leave."

Paul released her hand and rubbed his face, forcing himself to think.
Then the solution seemed obvious.

"Skipper," he said.

"Can you take two passengers tomorrow?"

"I dunno.  Yes, I suppose so.  Who?"

"Helene's parents.  When UM7 takes off the Germans will swarm over this
place.  Helene and I will run for it but her parents are too old for
that game.  Either they will stay and be caught or we will have to.."
He did not need to finish the sentence.  Peter remembered he still had
the loaded pistol, now hidden in the straw in the barn, the feel of it
in his sweating hand and the promise he had to make to be ready to kill
two old people.

"Yes," he said hurriedly.

"They can come with us.  We'll fit them in somewhere."

"Anyway two of the crew are not going back with us," he told himself.
He would miss Paul but with a pang of guilt he realised it was the
first time he had thought of Philip Lester since they buried him.

"Thank you," said Helene.  She had her doubts that the bomber would get
back to England but if it did, somebody would look after her parents
until she went for them after the war.  If she was still alive herself
then.  Until last night she had forgotten how to think about a future
after the war.

"

"We owe them that much, at least," said Peter, and looked at the
envelope Paul was holding out to him.

"See that my mother gets that, will you skipper?"  Peter nodded and
slipped it into his pocket.

"That will let her know I'm still alive," said Paul.

"I suppose I will be listed as missing in action.  They're not likely
to announce that I am with the Resistance."

Dick Holden had been listening to the conversation, trying to puzzle
out what had been going on while he was unconscious.  Now it began to
make some sort of sense.  He reached into a pocket and stretched out
his closed fist to Paul.

"Keep this," he said.

"It has always worked for me."  He opened his fist to disclose a
rabbit's foot with a thin brass band round it engraved "A Lucky Charm
From Southend."  Paul took it and showed it to Helene.

"Why do you keep a piece of animal?"  she asked.

"So long as I keep this nothing bad can happen to me," said Paul
solemnly, and laughed as she screwed up her face.

"Righto," said Peter, finding the atmosphere too sentimental for his
liking.

"Let's get everybody together except you Dick and start on those trees.
It will be dark in an hour or so."

Day had faded to a steely dim light by the time the last poplar tree
had crashed to the ground and Peter walked slowly from the farmyard
entrance to the point where the track met the road, gauging the
distance to each side and examining the ruts in the track.  It would
do, he thought.  Only just, but it would do.  He could taxi UM7 out of
the farmyard and he could manage the shallow turn on to the track, even
with only three engines.  The tricky bit was the sharper turn on to the
road, but tonight he could only see a few yards.  Tomorrow he would
have to give himself a bit more daylight than this, even if it added to
the risks.  Alan Bates appeared at his side, standing silently while
his skipper made his mental calculations before claiming his
attention.

"We need to get those bombs out of UM7 and do something about the bomb
doors.  Tonight, in case we run into problems and don't have enough
time tomorrow.  Right?"

"OK," said Peter, and took a last glance along the road.  Was it only a
few hours since he had come along that road in a coffin?  More strange
things had happened to him in the last few days than had happened in
the rest of his life.  In a few months or years it was going to be hard
to believe it had ever happened.  He turned and followed Alan.

"One down and three to go," chirped Jimmy Campbell as they stood
shining flashlights up into the bomb bay.

"Pity the other three didn't drop out at the same time."

"Well they didn't, so let's get on with it," said Alan.

"Pile those crates under here.  I am going to cut the bombs free one at
a time and let them drop onto the crates.  You lot get ready to steady
them before they roll all over the place.  Then we will ease them to
the ground and roll them to one side."

"You make it sound so damned easy," said Harry Patterson, starting to
stack crates under the bomber.

"Well if anything goes wrong we won't be around to know about it,"
laughed Jimmy.

Alan climbed into the Lancaster, made his way to the bomb bay and
started working with a hacksaw.  A few minutes later he shouted a
warning as one 500-pound bomb sagged for an instant then dropped on to
the crates with a crash and a splintering of wood.  Hands reached out
to steady it.  Using more crates as steps and gasping at the strain of
preventing the bomb rolling out of control they got it to the ground
and rolled it clear of the bomber.  Half an hour later the other bombs
were alongside it.  The shattered crates were piled on top of them.
Alan examined the bomb doors.

"What do you think?"  asked Peter, his eyes following the flashlight
beam as it moved along hinges and cables.

"Damned thing is, skipper, that I might be able to get them to close
properly if we dared to run an engine to give us power to the controls.
But I don't suppose we dare?"

"Not a chance," said Peter.

"Half the German army would be here in ten minutes."

"Right then.  I'll just have to disconnect all the control mechanism
until it is hanging loose.  Then we push the doors closed and keep them
closed somehow or other."  He set to work, while the others sat under a
wing waiting until they could be useful.

Paul was looking at the heap of crates covering the bombs.  This whole
business started because they had to get explosives to the Resistance,
he thought, and here they had nearly a damned ton of the stuff just
pushed aside and already half forgotten.  There must be some use for it
but there was no way they could get the explosives out of the bombs and
the bombs were too heavy to be moved easily.  Still he told himself,
there must be some use for them.  He tried to think but each idea that
came to him was more absurd than the previous one and he realised he
was too tired to think clearly.  A shout from Alan Bates broke into his
jumbled thoughts.

"Come on you lazy sods.  Start earning your keep.  All of us on this
bomb door first.  Push steadily, not too hard."  Standing on fresh
crates, they reached up and pushed, surprised to find it moved easily.
Alan left them holding it while he scrambled back into the Lancaster
and soon they heard his laboured breathing and muttered curses as he
secured the bomb door in position with a web of baling wire between the
door and anything inside the bomber that gave him a serviceable
fastening point.

"Now the other," he called down.  There were more scraping noises over
their heads and aching arms until Alan dropped out of the bomber and
said cheerfully: "You can let go now."  The bomb door stayed in
position.

"Think that will hold, skipper," said Alan.

"It looks like a rats nest inside but it should do the job."

"First rate," said Peter.

"Christ," he thought, "I am now the pilot of a flying scrap yard

Paul walked back to the farmhouse and found Helene embroiled in fierce
argument with her father.  It was the first time he had seen the old
man show any emotion and stood transfixed as the words poured out
almost too quickly for him to follow.  There were tears in the corners
of the farmer's eyes and he held Helene's hands in a grip that made her
wince between her pleadings.  He was begging her not to insist that he
and his wife leave in the bomber.

"Everybody is afraid of flying the first time," Paul said gently.

"I know I was."  Helene pulled her hands free and turned to Paul,
leaving her father to drop into his chair and hold his head, a picture
of dejection.

"Stay out of this, Paul," she said.

"You could not understand.  It has nothing to do with flying.  My
father does not want to leave the farm.  It is his whole life.  He was
born here, so was his father and his grandfather.  You know the sea,
but the sea belongs to nobody.  You do not know what it is to belong to
the land."  She turned and draped an arm over her father's shoulders.

"But he must know what will happen when the Germans come," insisted
Paul.

"You still do not understand.  Sometimes it is better to die where you
belong than live somewhere else."

Paul was baffled.  Dying to defend something he could understand, but
dying just because you did not want to leave a place made no sense to
him.

"But surely he must think of your mother?"  Madame Blanche was standing
looking at her husband, biting her lower lip and twisting the end of
her pinafore in trembling hands.  Helene knelt beside her father, put
her hands on his and whispered as if she was comforting a hurt child.
At last the old man straightened up, took her head in his hands, kissed
her forehead and murmered something.  He stood up, patted his wife's
shoulder and walking to the cupboard took out a bottle and a glass and
left the room without glancing at Paul.

"They will come," said Helene.  Paul helped her to her feet and her
mother silently put her arms round them both before following her
husband.

"You must be sorry you ever set eyes on us," said Paul.  She brushed
the tears from her face and shook her head.

"Not you Paul, not you," she whispered and slipped into his arms.

Chapter 14

Cold rain was falling, heavy clouds delaying the dawn, as the German
convoy thundered towards St.  Amour.  Two motorcycle outriders, a staff
command vehicle and three armoured scout cars led the long line of
trucks packed with troops, passing the two burnt-out hulks of army
trucks at the edge of town and heading towards the centre.  At the old
police station Colonel Udo Klein climbed out of the command vehicle and
stalked into his temporary headquarters for the search operation.

"Commanders' conference in fifteen minutes," he snapped to his aide as
he went from room to room until he found the largest.  Sweeping the
papers off the desk with a stroke of his arm he sat down and unfolded a
map.  The general's instructions had been quite simple.  Get it over
with as soon as possible but leave no room for complaints later that it
had not been a thorough search.

"Very well," he told himself, this morning he would concentrate on the
town itself and if he was lucky they might be on be on their way back
to their quarters by nightfall.  If the morning search did not turn up
any enemy fliers he would start the tedious business of searching the
surrounding countryside, sector by sector.  That would take until
nightfall tomorrow, at best, and most of his men were already tired out
from loading and unloading the troop train.  If the general got his way
in demand for priority on the rail network they would be loading up
again as soon as this operation was over.  Too bad," he told himself,
'if they feel badly treated now they will really have something to
complain about when they get to the eastern front."

The colonel disregarded the general air of irritation as his commanders
gathered in the office.  Taking a street map of St.  Amour and a
coloured pencil he divided the town into sections along street lines
and allocated search areas.

"We will meet again at noon if nothing useful has been found," he
said.

"Then we will start the search outside the town."  He took his pencil
and on a larger map drew a rough circle around St.  Amour, the point of
his pencil slicing through the farm of Andre Blanche.  He bisected the
circle with two lines that crossed in the middle of the town.

"One sector at a time," he said.

"Starting with this one."  He tapped his pencil on the sector that
included the farm.

"But first, make certain this morning's search of the town is thorough.
If we find the fliers this morning we will save ourselves a lot of
trouble.  That is all."

As the officers filed out, the colonel turned to his aide and said:
"For pity's sake find me some coffee.  I'm so tired I can hardly keep
my damned eyes open."  The aide shot through the door and returned a
minute later looking crest-fallen.

"There's no coffee in this Godforsaken building, sir," he reported.

"But there is a cafe in the town.  Perhaps the colonel would like to
take coffee there and watch the search?"  Five minutes later the aide
was hammering on the door of Alphonse Leblanc's cafe, the colonel
standing impatiently behind him.  Pulling on trousers and a shirt and
wondering who wanted him when it was barely daylight, Alphonse went
downstairs.  His heart sank when, through the glass door, he saw two
German officers and his fingers trembled as he fumbled with the door
lock.

"Coffee," barked the younger officer and the two sat at the table
nearest the window.  Relief and anxiety bubbled up inside Alphonse as
he made coffee, clattering utensils to show he was making haste.  At
first he had feared they had come to arrest him, then he was relieved
that they only wanted coffee, now he could see through the window the
truckloads of troops trundling through the town.  They were going to
make a search, he knew, and hidden behind the wooden partition at the
bottom of the window, just where the officers were sitting, was the
Resistance group's radio transmitter.  He could not prevent himself
stealing a glance in that direction.

"Stop staring and get on with it," said the younger officer.  Alphonse
took the tray to the table and set it down with hands that wanted to
shake.  Then, unasked, he took a bottle of brandy and two glasses.  The
longer he could keep them sitting there, he realised, the safer he
would be.  The aide poured the colonel a stiff drink and asked his
permission to join him.  After his second brandy the colonel's eyes
were beginning to close when the door burst open.  A sergeant followed
by three men stamped into the room and was about to bellow something at
Alphonse when he saw the colonel, snapped to attention and saluted.

"Carry on, sergeant," said the colonel.

"Be certain you miss nothing."  Making sure they were leaving him no
cause for complaint the sergeant and his men went through every room
furiously, scattering the contents of drawers, flinging bedding aside,
examining clothes, climbing into the attic and hunting through the
cellar.  An hour later the sergeant saluted and reported: "Nothing
here, sir."  Colonel Klein returning the salute, said: "Well done." and
wondered whether he could risk another brandy.  He decided against it,
rose and walked out, followed by his aide, to see how the search was
progressing.  Alphonse walked over to their table, sat down heavily and
poured himself a large drink.  The colonel and his aide walked the
streets for more than an hour, watching their men kicking doors open
and ransacking houses, finding nothing to suggest there were enemy
fliers there.  Klein walked briskly back to his headquarters in the
police station and again studied the map of the surrounding
countryside.  If there had been fliers in the town, he knew, he would
know by now.  Either they would have been found by his men or there
would have been more fear in the eyes of the townspeople.  He had been
through it before and he could read the signs.  These people were
resentful but not frightened.  Some of them would have laughed at him
if they dared.

"Very well then," he thought, 'it will have to be a search of the
countryside."  Starting with the first sector immediately after his men
had eaten at noon.  But he was damned if he was going to spend long
hours in this building, stinking of decay and disinfectant.  He would
take the command vehicle and a couple of scout cars and set up a
headquarters somewhere in the sector -there, that would be a good
place.  He tapped his forefinger on the map, on the farm of Andre
Blanche.

At the farm, Flying Officer Peter Watson was sitting in his seat in the
Lancaster, getting the feel of UM7 again after what seemed an age since
he took off for the flight to Stuttgart.  There was a strangeness about
it that had nothing to do with the fact that he had not flown for a few
days and at first he could not identify it.  Then he put his hands on
the control column and stared ahead, and it came to him.  The Lancaster
had always been a thing of power to him, willing to share its power and
demanding that he become part of it.  Now it was like an injured and
exhausted bird, caged under tarpaulin and behind a ramshackle facade of
old timber and corrugated metal.  He had never felt more alive than in
those last few seconds before each take-off at Wickenby, with the
Lancaster's engines thundering and the runway stretching before him.
Now the aircraft seemed to be waiting for him to pump life into it, or
it would never fly again.  Peter sat quietly for a long minute then
said quietly: "We'll make it, old girl.  We'll make it."

He climbed out of UM7 and dropped to the ground just as Paul led the
rest of the crew in a mad scramble to get inside from the farmyard,
Jimmy Campbell slamming the door shut behind him.

"The Germans are coming," said Paul "Thousands of them," gasped
Jimmy.

"Not that many, but enough," Paul corrected him.

"We don't know how many are coming to the farm but there is a string of
trucks heading this way along the road from the town."

"God Almighty," exclaimed Peter.

"We'd better make a run for it."

"Too late for that now.  They're obviously going to make a search and
they could hardly miss a bunch of blokes galloping across the
countryside in R.A.F flying gear.  We will have to think of..  Oh,
Christ, I forgot Dick Holden.  He's in the farmhouse."

The roar of engines and the swish of heavy tyres over cobblestones
struck silence into them.  Peter walked quietly up to the facade and
peered through an empty knothole in the timber.  A large van-like
truck, two small scout cars and a couple of motor-cyclists had stopped
in the farmyard.  Engines were cut, a door opened in the side of the
van and an officer stepped out.  Soldiers lined up, awaiting orders.
Peter stepped back, turned to the others and shook his head in
despair.

Colonel Klein looked round.

"The usual slipshod French farm," he thought, 'so different from the
neat, clean farms of Bavaria.  An ugly farmhouse, three dilapidated
barns one of them without a roof an ancient truck and a Peugeot tractor
left out of doors to rust.  France is a mess of a country and it shows,
even in a little French farm like this."  He nodded to a junior officer
to make a search and climbed back into the command vehicle to make his
radio report to the general on the morning's fruitless scouring of the
town.

The junior officer divided his dozen men into two sections, one to
search the farmhouse the other to search the outbuildings.  Other
troops, he knew, would already be fanning out through the neighbouring
fields and woods.  One section was making for the farmhouse when the
door opened and a bent figure in a shabby overcoat limped out towards
the old truck.  The officer drew his pistol and bellowed.  The figure
looked up and, pointing to the truck and then at the barns, indicated
he was moving it out of their way.  Without waiting for approval he
heaved himself into the cab and at the third attempt got the engine
started and drove slowly past the officer to park inches in front of
the middle barn.  The officer holstered his pistol and followed his men
into the farmhouse.  The other section made for the first barn.

Inside the fake barn Harry Patterson heard a scuffling at the edge of
the tarpaulins draped down the back, picked up a piece of heavy timber
and waited.  The tarpaulin moved aside and Dick Holden, still wearing
the farmer's old overcoat, stepped inside without a word.  He put a
finger to his lips then jerked his thumb to indicate the Germans were
searching the barn next door.  They listened to the thump and rattle of
things being thrown about, followed by silence.  Outside, the soldiers
emerged from the barn, brushing straw from their uniforms and scraping
dirty boots on the cobbles.  The sergeant in charge looked at the
middle barn, failed to see the entrance hidden by the cab of the old
truck and assumed it was an extension of the further barn.  He was not
surprised to find this barn, too, was a disorderly mess of straw and
scattered farm tools.  Picking up a hay fork, he walked round the barn
prodding at heaps of straw while the others turned over heaps of old
sacking and kicked down a pile of crates.  Satisfied, he called to the
others and they walked back into the farmyard.  There was no sign of an
officer, so he pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and
handed them round.  He knew there was something about the barns
niggling at the back of his mind but before he could focus on it there
was an exasperated shout from a command vehicle.  Colonel Klein was
having trouble with the radio and needed his help.

Inside the farmhouse the captain watched his men making their search.
An old couple and a young girl stood silently in the kitchen while the
men went from room to room, surprised to find no more than two or three
pieces of heavy furniture in each.  There were no large carpets to hide
trapdoors, the captain noted.  The whole place was too sparsely
furnished to hide very much.  His men nearly missed the hatch into the
attic until he pointed it out.  One climbed on to another's shoulders,
pushed up the heavy wooden covering and shone his flashlight around the
bare boards and long curtains of cobwebs, black with dirt, before
jumping down again and spitting dust from his mouth.  That only leaves
the kitchen," thought the captain.  Three people were still there,
looking at him and his men with expressionless faces.  There was
nowhere to hide a man, he knew, but rather than seem at a loss he
walked over to the cupboard and pulled open the door.  The girl's arm
reached over his and picked up a bottle, then she gently elbowed him
aside to reach for a fistful of glasses.  Knocking the door closed with
an elbow she turned, put the glasses on the table and filled them.  The
captain pondered for a second whether he ought to take a drink then
reached for a glass and signalled his men to do the same.  They were
likely to be here all night, he reasoned, and if these people were
willing to be cooperative then so much the better.

Inside the command truck, Colonel Klein was in touch by radio with the
units searching the fields and woods.  They had nothing useful to report
yet and when he heard the rain starting to hiss on the roof of his
vehicle he knew they would be covering the ground slowly now.  He
opened the door and looked out.  Rain was bouncing off the cobblestones
and heavy black clouds were bringing darkness early.  Some of his men
were standing in the doorway of the far barn, the rest of them and the
captain were just leaving the farmhouse.  The captain reported the
search completed without result.

"You found something," the colonel thought, catching a whiff of brandy.
He told the captain to send a scout car for hot food for the men and to
mount an overnight guard of three men at a time.  The rest could sleep
in the barn.  He turned back into the vehicle, stretched out on the
bunk, read his wife's latest letter again and stuffed it back in his
pocket.  He had never know her sister very well but she seemed a
pleasant woman.  He was sorry to hear that she had died in an air raid
on Stuttgart.

Chapter 15

The crew of UM7 squatted in a dispirited group under a wing of the
Lancaster.  Rain dripped into the makeshift barn from the edges of the
tarpaulin sheets, the monotonous plopping interrupted at intervals by a
cascade of rainwater as pools formed on the tarpaulin sheets and
emptied themselves as the fabric sagged.  It was pitch black but they
dare not risk using a flashlight, they were hungry but they could see
no possibility of getting a meal and they were weighed down by the fear
that capture was only a matter of time.  Every few minutes one of them
would get up, walk silently to the facade and put an eye to the knot
hole but there was nothing to see except a chink of light at the edge
of the window of the command vehicle and nothing to hear except the
hiss of rain and the mutter of German conversation from the barn next
door.  Peter Watson rested his head on his knees and suppressed a groan
as he remembered again that by this time they should have been flying
across France, only a few hours away from home.  Perhaps they were all
mad to have believed they could get away with it.  A picture floated
into his mind of the station commander at Wickenby instructing him to
land a Lancaster at a farm in France, hide it, repair it and then fly
it home again.  Then the commander yelled: "April fool!"  roared with
laughter and vanished.  Peter woke with a start and realised that he
had dozed off and the laughter was coming from the barn nextdoor.
Something about the Germans' laughter made resentment drive out
dejection.

"No, by God," he told himself, 'we are not going to be beaten, not now,
not after all we have done."

He knew first thing to do was to lift his crew out of their depression.
But how?  He could not give them a pep talk, even if he felt he had one
in him, because the Germans might hear.  Food, that was the answer.
Somebody had to get to the farmhouse and get hold of something to eat,
or at least give it a try.  Peter scrambled around on his hands and
knees, feeling for the others in the darkness and drawing them into a
circle.

"We are going to be here all night, at least," he whispered.

"One of us has to get to the farmhouse and try to get something to
eat."

"Right, skipper," said Paul immediately.

"I'll go."  He was glad of the excuse to see if Helene was safe.

"Make mine a scrambled egg, sausage, bacon and a big pot of tea,"
muttered Jimmy Campbell, feeling his spirits lift.

"And don't get it wet or I'll complain to the management."

Paul chuckled and groped around the floor until he found the old
overcoat he had seen Dick Holden throw down earlier.  He pulled it on,
remembering the first time he wore it, and shuffled towards the
tarpaulins near UM7's tail.  Slowly drawing one aside he could hear the
rain on the trees behind the barn and smell the damp earth but after
two minutes there was no sign of a German sentry.  Thank God for the
rain," he thought, 'the Germans must be keeping look-out from the
entrance at the front of the next barn."  He stepped out and felt his
boots sliding on wet leaves and mud.  Two more cautious paces and he
slipped again.

"Can't risk crashing against the back of the barns," he thought, and
dropped on to hands and knees, feeling the mud oozing between his
fingers and dragging at his trousers as he crawled towards the
farmhouse.

At the edge of the last barn he could sense, rather than see, the gap
between it and the farmhouse and wondered if he could risk walking.

"Better not," he told himself.  If he collided with some of the junk
that littered the farmyard there would be a hell of a racket.  Crawling
on, he made out a slither of light at one side of a window, headed
towards it and slowly got to his feet.  Wiping the rain-spattered
window with the edge of a sleeve he put his eye to the gap at the edge
of the curtain.  It was the kitchen and he could just make out part of
the fire and a pair of German officer's boots stretched out in front of
it.  The captain was making himself at home.  Paul craned his neck in
an effort to see more and in the mirror over the sink he saw a
reflection that told him Helene and her parents were sitting at the
table.  He slid down and sat with his back to the rough stone wall,
ignoring the rain that plastered his hair over his face and tried to
organise his thoughts.  One way to get the German officer out of there,
he reasoned, was to create a diversion in the farmyard but that was too
risky.  If he scratched at the window to draw Helene's attention the
officer might hear and come to investigate.  Would the officer stay
there all night?  No, he decided, he was a German officer, he would be
punctilious and at some point he would check that the sentries were
doing their job.  He hunched under the window, pulled the collar of the
overcoat up round his neck and waited.

Paul could feel the cold rain trickling against his body inside the
soaked clothes, his legs were almost numb and his teeth were chattering
when after more than an hour he heard the movement of boots on the
stone floor in the kitchen.  He hunched tighter and put his head down
as the door opened.  The officer stepped into the rain, pulled up his
collar and made his way uncertainly across the cobbled farmyard towards
the far barn.

Paul's first impulse was to slip in through the kitchen door but the
water dripping from him as he stood up told him he would leave a wet
trail nobody would miss.  He tapped at the window.  The curtain was
drawn aside cautiously then Helene was pushing open the window and
reaching out to throw her arms around his neck.

"We must be quick," he gasped.

"Get me some food, anything.  Then leave this window open a little bit.
I'll try to get back later."

Helene vanished and reappeared with a loaf of bread a big piece of
cheese and a bottle.  Paul stuffed them into the overcoat pockets, took
her hands and kissed her.

"Remember the window," he hissed then sank down into a huddle as the
curtain was drawn closed.  Five minutes later the captain returned,
stood at the door to shake rain from his cap and wipe a hand over his
face then stamped into the kitchen and slammed the door behind him.
Paul crawled away but this time, with no chink of light to guide him,
misjudged his direction and found himself up against the side of the
nearest barn.  Swallowing a curse, he felt his way to the corner and
along the back of the barns until his hand touched wet tarpaulin.  He
crawled under it.

"Jesus," whispered Peter.

"I thought something had gone wrong."  Paul pulled the bottle from his
pocket, jerked out the cork and poured brandy through his rattling
teeth before he replied.

"Sorry about the late room service," he said.

"There was a hold-up in the kitchen."  He pulled a wet loaf and a chunk
of damp cheese from the other pocket.

"Scrambled egg and bacon are not on the menu today," he added, then lay
on his back waiting for his heart to stop pounding.

In the command vehicle Colonel Klein made a perfunctory routine radio
report to headquarters in Lyon, sat listening to the rain hissing on
the roof and pulled out his map of the St.  Amour area.  By
mid-morning, he calculated, the search of this sector would be complete
and he would move his troops to the next sector.  The rain was slowing
the search, the operation might take twelve hours longer than he had
estimated, he feared, and the whole business was probably a damned
waste of time.  It made no sense to believe there were enemy fliers in
the area unless their plane was there too and a crashed plane would
have been found long before now.  But a couple of days trudging through
the rain and mud would give his men some taste of life on the eastern
front after the comforts of barrack life."  He lay down on the bunk and
browsed through a book on the campaigns in Italy during the first world
war.

In the barn the sergeant changed sentries and told the new men to keep
a sharp look-out but did not insist that they patrolled the area in the
rain.

"There will be no Resistance attacks while there are so many troops in
the sector," he assured them, "and the enemy fliers will be hiding
somewhere, not wandering about."  He stretched out on a pile of straw.
A few feet away one of his men grunted in his sleep as something jarred
against his ribs.  His hand probed amongst the straw and sleepily he
recognised the feel of a metallic lump.  He pushed it deeper into the
straw to one side, wriggling to make himself comfortable again.

"A piece of junk," he thought, not recognising the shape of the
pistol.

Next door, under a wing of UM7, Peter sat gnawing at a lump of cheese,
wondering when he would sit down to a decent meal again, when Paul
whispered in his ear.

"I'm going back to the farmhouse, skipper," he said.

"Don't flap if I'm not back soon.  I've got an idea and if it works I
may be away for some time."  Peter choked back a laugh.

"Don't tell me what the idea is.  I'll only be jealous," he
whispered.

"Not that, you sex-maniac.  I think I know how we can sabotage the
troop train.  I may need some help.  I'll explain later."  Paul felt
Peter pat his shoulder as he crawled towards the tarpaulins.  Half an
hour later he was crouched under the farmhouse window, listening
intently but hearing nothing.  He straightened up and found the window
open a couple of inches.  His fingers poked through the opening and
moved the curtain slightly.  The captain was sitting in front of the
big fire and Helene, sitting where she could watch the window, shook
her head.  Paul sank down.  A minute later the door opened and closed
quietly and Helene was beside him, holding a big basket.

"I said I had to get more wood for the fire," she said.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, darling.  We haven't much time.  I have a plan.  Where are the
plastic explosives and the timers we brought when we landed?"

"Divided up and buried in the woods.  Why?  You're not going to do
something stupid, are you?"

"Never mind.  Where's the nearest lot?"

"In the wood behind the barn.  I could show you."

"Come on then.  Make it quick."

Together they crawled across the farmyard to the rear of the barns.
Then Helene stood, walking cautiously, and Paul found the earth under
the trees had not turned to mud.  Helene felt her way through the
trees, getting her bearings from memory, then she stooped and felt
around until her hand touched a large stone.

"Here," she whispered.

"Under here."  Paul lifted the stone aside and dug with his fingers
into the loose earth until he felt the bulky packet in oilskin wrapping
and another underneath it.  He lifted them out, surprised at the
weight.

"Is it difficult to set the timer?"  he asked.

"No.  You can squeeze the explosive into any shape.  Then push in the
timer.  The detonator is part of it.  The timers work up to seventy two
hours.  Now, for God's sake, tell me what you are going to do."

"No, Helene.  The less you know the better.  You must get back now."

"It's alright.  I will say I fell in the mud while I was getting the
wood from the pile.  Be careful, my love."  She threw her arms round
him then was gone.  Paul, a heavy package under each arm, made his way
to the edge of the trees and stood in the rain debating whether to risk
walking through the mud behind the barns.  He decided to crawl, pushing
the packages ahead of him a few inches at a time.  When the tarpaulin
sheet closed behind him he hissed to draw the others to him.

"I've got a present for the Jerries," he whispered.

"We are going to plant explosives on their vehicles, with timers set to
go off after seventy-two hours.  My guess is that these troops are the
blokes due to leave on the big troop train.  We plant the explosives
and timers now, they load them on the troop train and after three
days."  boom!"

Peter sucked in his breath.

"So that was your bright idea," he murmered.

"Do you know how to work this stuff?"

"I do," said Jimmy Campbell, before Paul could answer.

"We had an instructor who played around with all kinds of explosives.
He showed me a thing or two.  This plastic's dead easy.  It doesn't
matter if you drop it before you put in the timer with its detonator."
Paul thought for a moment.

"Now that's a point," he whispered.

"We can't set the timers out there in the dark so we have to do it in
here and be bloody careful getting the explosives into place.  First,
we have to risk a light in here to sort things out."

A tent of jackets concealed the glow of a flashlight as Paul and Jimmy
slit open the packages and sorted out the explosives into three, one
each for the command vehicle and the two scout cars, but Paul decided
each was too bulky to be hidden under a truck.  He wrapped the unwanted
explosive in one piece of oilskin and the extra timers in another and
handed them to Harry Patterson to hide alongside the 500-pound bombs
that still brooded under a pile of broken crates.  He sat back on his
heels and examined their handiwork, three fat sausages of plastic
explosive each weighing three or four pounds and with a timer set in
each.

"Doesn't seem enough to wreck a train," said Jimmy.

"True," said Paul.

"But if we plant them near the fuel tanks it will start three big fires
that will soon spread to other vehicles, especially if the train is
moving.  Should be a pretty sight."

He flicked off the flashlight and crawled out from under the mound of
jackets.

"We haven't a lot of time left until dawn," he said quietly.

"So we had better get this done quickly.  A three man job, one to each
vehicle.  Jimmy and Harry with me, I think."  He spoke hurriedly,
before Peter could volunteer.  The skipper would be needed if UM7 was
ever to get away.  He handed the other two their explosive and
cautiously made towards the door, opening it an inch at a time and
praying that the ancient hinges did not squeal.  Rain rattling on Henri
Rosset's old truck, parked inches from the door, drowned the faint
squeak.  Paul got down flat, explosive held in the crook of his left
arm, and crawled under the truck.  There was no light now in the
command vehicle but he remembered roughly where it was and slithered
across the wet cobblestones towards it.  Glancing to his left he saw a
small red blob of light dancing up and down and realised one of the
sentries was smoking a cigarette.  He moved on and was certain he had
missed his direction and was crawling aimlessly round the farmyard when
his hand struck wet rubber and his fingers confirmed it was a wheel.

Rolling slowly on to his back and digging heels into the cobblestones
he was pushing himself under the vehicle when he felt a hand grab his
foot.  Before he could pull back his leg to lash out a hoarse whisper
said: "Sorry, Paul.  OK, got my bearings now," and Harry moved away.
Calming himself, Paul remembered which way the vehicle had parked.  The
fuel tank would be somewhere to his left.  He wriggled towards it,
feeling above him until his hand ran along smooth metal of the tank.
Reaching up, he felt along the side and with a wave of relief felt
there was a gap between the top of the tank and the floor of the
vehicle.  He wriggled his fingers to make certain there was enough
space then slowly lifted his explosive sausage and pushed it into
place, gently shoving until he felt resistance and he knew it was
lodged firmly.  He lay back on the cobblestones, arms by his sides and
eyes closed, breathing deeply until his mind and body felt ready to
move again.  Slowly he wriggled out from under the tail of the vehicle,
rolled over and started to crawl towards where he judged Henri's truck
would be, lifting his head at intervals to peer through the blackness.
A small sound to his left made him freeze, the sound grew closer and
became a blend of heavy breathing and the slurp of wet clothing over
cobblestones.  It was Jimmy, passing a couple of feet in front of him
and heading towards the sentry.

Paul lunged and dropped on top of Jimmy's head, smothering any shout of
alarm.  They both lay there while Paul looked to his right and watched
the steady movement of the sentry's cigarette end.  He eased himself
away and pushed Jimmy's head to indicate the right direction.  Side by
side they slid across the farmyard until they were under Henri's truck,
then crawling through the door.

"Thank God for that," muttered Jimmy as hands helped them to their
feet.

"You two made more bloody noise than a parade," hissed Harry Patterson,
following them in.

"I got my sausage near the container for spare fuel cans.  How did you
do?"

"Same here," said Jimmy.

"Found a spot that seemed to be made for it."

"Great show," whispered Peter.

"Here, have a drink."  He held out the bottle in the darkness.

"Here, Paul, you first..  Paul?"  But Paul was sprawled on the floor,
sound asleep.

Chapter 16

Colonel Udo Klein had just finished shaving when the captain knocked on
the door of the command vehicle and came in.  The colonel grunted a
greeting.

"Just like the captain," he thought, 'to score a small point by getting
up before dawn to catch his colonel before he was fully dressed."  He
slipped on his jacket and reached for his cap.

"Commanders' meeting at 1100 hours.  Here," he said.

"I'm going to get some air."  He stood in the doorway of the vehicle
for a moment, listening to the captain talking on the radio, then
stepped into the farmyard.  The rain had eased to a drizzle but the
farmhouse and the barns were still black with damp in the first light
of day.  A group of his men had stood their small portable petrol stove
on the back of the battered old truck and were making coffee.  They
jumped to attention but he signalled them to carry on and decided that
twenty times the length of the farmyard would be enough exercise this
morning.  He started pacing backwards and forwards, head upright,
shoulders straight and hands clasped behind his back.

An eye followed his movements through the knot hole.  Harry Patterson
hardly dared to breathe.  He could smell the coffee and hear the
conversation of the German soldiers standing at the back of Henri's
truck a few feet to his right and the colonel passed in and out of his
view with clockwork precision.  He turned away from the knot hole and
sat beside Peter under the Lancaster's wing.

"The buggers are making themselves at home," he whispered.

"We have to keep an eye on them," murmured Peter.  He reached forward
and tapped Alan's shoulder.

"Your turn."  Alan took up position at the knot hole.  The colonel
paced for a few more minutes then went into the command vehicle.  The
soldiers at the truck collected mugs of coffee and drifted away to his
left, back to the shelter of the barn where they had spent the night.
But the sergeant, mug in hand, walked half way towards the command
vehicle then turned and looked at the barns.  Alan could see his head
moving slowly from right to left and back again, between sips of
coffee.  Suddenly he threw the remains of his coffee on to the
cobblestones, walked to Alan's right until he was level with one end of
the makeshift barn.  He turned and started pacing in measured strides.
Alan signalled Peter to join him as the sergeant paced out of sight to
his left.

"I think he's on to us," he whispered.

"He's measuring and he's going to find out that this is not an
extension of the other barns and they didn't search here.  Christ he's
back."  The sergeant was standing within reach of the facade then moved
slowly to Alan's right, as if looking behind Henri's truck.

"I've got to nobble him," muttered Alan and dashed to the door.  He
opened it quickly, not caring about the noise, dived under Henri's
truck and came to his feet the other side.  The sergeant, mouth opening
for a shout, took two quick steps round the truck towards him.  Alan
rammed his fist into the open mouth and grappled.  They stumbled
towards the back of the truck, the sergeant slamming his mug into the
back of Alan's head.  Out of the corner of his eye Alan saw the
sizzling petrol stove and reached out a hand to grab it, feeling teeth
biting into his other hand.  He jerked his knee into the other man's
groin, staggered clear and flung the stove at the sergeants chest.
Petrol exploded with a thud and a roar of a flame.  The sergeant,
screaming, rolled on the cobblestones.  Alan threw himself under the
truck, feeling the blast of heat, and hurled himself through the door.
Harry kicked it shut behind him and they stood listening to the
screams, the pounding of boots and the shouts.  Through the knot hole
Peter saw soldiers pulling off jackets to beat the flames.  Others ran
to grab fire extinguishers from the scout cars.  The door of the
command vehicle flew open and the colonel and the captain spilled out
then stood with set faces watching their men put out the fire and kneel
over the sergeant, whose screams were fading to rasping groans.  The
colonel barked an order.  A soldier ran to a scout car and backed it
up.  Peter had a glimpse of a limp figure, a blackened face above the
charred remnants of a jacket, as the sergeant was lifted into the back
of the scout car.  Two men climbed in alongside him and the vehicle
sped out of the farmyard.

Peter turned and saw Alan leaning against the Lancaster's wheel,
sucking his bitten hand and staring vacantly at the floor.

"Better leave him alone until he gets over it," he thought.

"Bloody funny things, wars.  They had all seen cities burning but
burning one man is different.  Cities do not scream."  He turned back
and looked into the farmyard.  The officers had gone back into their
vehicle.  Three soldiers were standing, talking in quiet voices.  He
could tell they had assumed it was an accident while the sergeant was
helping himself to coffee.

The morning dragged endlessly, tension and hunger working on their
nerves, until they heard a vehicle drive into the farmyard.

"The scout car returning," thought Peter, but then more vehicles
followed and there was a hubbub of voices.  Jimmy, who had been keeping
watch, hissed: "Half the German army's here."

The unit commanders milled about the courtyard waiting for Colonel Udo
Klein to start his conference but the colonel was sitting at the radio,
arguing deferentially with General von Weissman.

"The rain has slowed the search, general.  We still have three sectors
to cover."  He knew the general did not like excuses, but these were
plain facts.

"Listen to me, colonel.  I said make a thorough search but make it
quick.  This is not a damned offensive you are conducting.  You are
looking for a few enemy fliers -if they exist."

"Yes, sir.  But, with respect, being thorough takes time.  It is
pointless to search through the night and we have used every minute of
daylight."

In the radio room at military headquarters in Lyon von Weissman slowly
shook his head.  Klein was a first-rate soldier but he would never make
a good general, he did not understand where military thinking ended and
politics began.  The real aim of this operation was to calm the High
Command and get the Gestapo off his back but he could not say so in as
many words.  He tried again.

"Colonel, you remember when our old division was being cut to pieces on
the eastern front, how you and I would have given our right arms to
have a fresh division to support us?"

"Yes, general.  Perfectly."

"Well, right now some division out there, in the real fighting, will be
thinking the same thing.  How do you think they would feel if they knew
fresh troops were looking under bushes in France?"

"I understand, general.  But do you mean you are cancelling the order
for a search?"

"No, you blockhead.  I mean speed it up.  Get your men to go through
the other three sectors without turning over every blade of grass.  I
want this operation over within twenty-four hours and I want that troop
train reloaded and ready to move in another twenty-four hours.  That is
all."  The general put down the microphone, annoyed with himself for
losing his temper with one of his best officers.  Klein was a fighting
man, not one of those desk warriors.

"Very well," the general told himself, 'if I can lose my temper with
Klein I can certainly lose it with those nincompoops who are spending
their war playing with trains."  He walked back to his office, picked
up the telephone and abused transport officers in steadily ascending
order of seniority until at last he got priority for his troop train.
It would leave Lyon the day after tomorrow.

Colonel Klein swallowed his indignation before walking to the door of
his vehicle to address his commanders.

"You are moving too slowly," he barked.

"Sectors two and three must be searched this afternoon.  Sector four
tomorrow morning.  Any troops still in St.  Amour must be used in the
search, except for those manning the road blocks around the perimeter
of the town.  By noon tomorrow all troops must be back in convoy ready
to return to Lyon.  The men on the roadblocks will be the last to
leave.  That is all."

He turned back into the vehicle before any of the officers could ask
him how they could make a thorough search at such speed.  But none of
them was inclined to do so.  Their few minutes' conversation while
waiting for the colonel had confirmed for most of them their suspicion
that they had been sent on a wild-goose-chase.  Their men were tired,
wet, bored and would be glad to get it over with.  A major turned to
the captain of a reconnaissance unit and asked mockingly: "Are you sure
your men didn't walk past an enemy bomber without recognising it?"

"Not much chance," laughed the captain.

"My lads can spot a camouflaged tank a kilometre away."  He got into
his scout car, the driver backed to within a few feet of the fake barn,
turned and drove out of the farmyard.  The other commanders' vehicles
followed at intervals of a few seconds.

Jimmy Campbell stood back from his look-out point and breathed a sigh
of relief.

"That had me worried," he whispered to Peter.

"We are back to the old faithfuls now.  Wish I knew what that officer
was jabbering about.  Giving them orders of some sort but I haven't a
clue what he was saying."

Peter put his eye to the hole but all he could see was the command
vehicle.  Then the colonel stepped out, summoned his driver and jabbed
a finger at a point on the map.  The driver saluted, climbed into the
cab, glanced at his own map then started up.  The vehicle made a
lumbering turn, the remaining scout car reversed to take up position
behind it, the two motorcyclists started up and moved to the front and
the small procession moved out of the farmyard.  It was minutes before
Peter felt confident enough to move towards the door.

"Hang on, skipper," said Paul.

"I'd better check to make sure."  He slipped through the tarpaulins at
the rear and edged his way slowly round the barn until he had a clear
view of the farmyard before creeping forward to look into the barn.  It
was empty.

"All clear, chaps," he shouted.  The others crawled out under Henri's
truck.  Alan took a long look at the blackened patch behind it, picked
up the sergeant's discarded cap, examined the scorch marks on the peak
then flung it into the back of the truck.

Paul moved towards the farmhouse but was yards away when the door
opened and Helene ran to throw herself into his arms.

"I've never been so afraid," she gasped.

"Afraid for you."

"I'm alright, darling," he murmered.

"I have my lucky piece of animal, remember?"  He dangled the rabbit's
foot in front of her nose.

"I'll be damned," laughed Dick Holden.

"That thing helped me to win bets, not women."  Helene brushed the
rabbit's foot away from her face, stood back and looked at Paul.  His
hair was matted, his face grimed above the thick stubble and his
clothes caked in dried mud.

"I don't care how I look," he said.

"I want to eat."  She led him into the kitchen, the others at their
heels.  They ate silently, as tension drained away to leave weariness
in its wake, until Peter sat back, nursing a glass of brandy.

"You OK, Alan?"  he asked.

"Fine now, skipper," said Alan Bates.

"Didn't like that business this morning but something had to be
done."

"You saved our necks," said Peter.

"You did well."

"I was thinking, skipper," Alan went on.

"Should we test the engines before we try the take-off?  We don't know
if my handiwork will hold out."

"Would make sense anywhere else," Peter replied.

"But not here.  There must be German troops still around somewhere and
even one engine could be heard miles away.  We've been lucky but we
musn't push our luck."  Looking round the table he told himself they
would be pushing their luck anyway to take off at nightfall with the
crew in their present condition.

They looked years older than they did yesterday, their dull eyes
telling more than their haggard faces and dirty clothing that the last
few days had used up most of their resources of energy and mental
agility.  He debated with himself which was the greater risk, to take
off at nightfall with an exhausted crew to cope with a ramshackle
Lancaster or to wait until tomorrow and hope the Germans did not come
back.  Paul's intervention saved him from an immediate decision.

"You can't take off until we know the road is clear.  For all we know
there may be German troops there.  The plane would be a sitting duck,
even in fading light.  I'll take a look, skipper."

"Thanks, Paul, but take care.  You've taken enough risks for us
lately."

"Don't forget your piece of animal," said Dick, trying to sound
light-hearted and surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice.  Paul
stood up.

"I think you lot should get a couple of hours kip," he said.

"In or near the Lancaster, in case the Germans come back."  He kissed
Helene quickly and slipped through the door.  The farmyard was empty
and silent except for the patter of steady rain.  He walked slowly
along the edge of the track leading to the road, ears and eyes
straining.

"Damn," he told himself, "I should have brought a pistol."  Nearing the
road he stood behind a tree, forcing himself to wait before going
further.  The staccato sound of a motorcycle exhaust approached from
the direction of St.  Amour, passed the end of the track and receded
into the distance.  Paul dropped on to hands and knees and crawled
towards the road.  It was empty for as far as he could see.  Slowly he
stood erect and looked towards the town.

There were shapes in the road.  He cupped his hands round his eyes to
help them to focus but could make out nothing clearly through the rain.
Running through long grass to the line of trees set back from the road
he sprinted from tree to tree until he was near enough to see clearly.
Two German army trucks were drawn across the road and in front of them
an armoured car, its twin heavy machine guns pointing along the road to
the farm.  Paul stared for a while, his tiredness killing all sense of
frustration, then made his way cautiously back along the trees to the
farm.

At R.A.F Group Headquarters at Bawtry Hall a dogged Wing Commander Neil
Walker was losing an argument with Air Commodore Giles Maitland.

"I understand how you feel, sir," he said, "but this is something that
has come from the top in London, the very top.  For some political
reason that I can't even pretend to understand they want the Resistance
to score a big success, and soon.  They have fixed their minds on the
troop train from Lyon and they are insisting, demanding, that we get
supplies to the Resistance group at St.  Amour."

Giles Maitland snorted.

"You've repeated yourself twice, Neil, and it doesn't get any better
for the repetition.  We have lost three light aircraft and a Lancaster
trying to do just that and I'm damned if I'm going to throw more good
men away unless I know the game is worth it."

Neil Walker tried another track.

"The light aircraft, yes, but as far as we know the Lancaster was lost
over Stuttgart.  It was seen going down then.  It probably never got
anywhere near St.  Amour.  Surely it's worth one more try."  The set of
Maitland's jaw told him he was not getting anywhere.

"Neil," he said, "Your job is to co-operate with the Resistance but
that does not mean you have to get so damned close to the politics of
it that you lose sight of basics.  My job is to see that we use men and
aircraft intelligently and effectively, not just to keep politicians
happy.  Now look at the facts.  By your own account it is about a week
since anyone heard from the Resistance group in St.  Amour.  For all we
know they have been wiped out or fallen out amongst themselves or just
disbanded.  We don't even know if the troop train is still there or is
now half way across Germany on its way to the eastern front.  What does
that tell you?"

Neil Walker shrugged.

"Well, what it tells me," Maitland went on, "is that another run might
well be abortive because there is no Resistance group to give the
signal to make the drop or, worse still, there are Germans waiting to
give the signal and happily collect the supplies.  Mean while their
night fighters are waiting to make a meal of the Lancaster."

Neil Walker wondered how he could salvage something from the argument
that would satisfy them in London and Maitland read his thoughts.

"I'll do this much," he said.

"I'll send a Mosquito on a recce to reach Lyon at first light.  If the
photos show there is still a big troop train at Lyon then I'll consider
laying on another drop tomorrow night.  OK?"

Neil Walker knew he was not being asked to approve but was being asked
if that would keep London quiet for a few hours.

"I think that will be fine, Sir, he replied, as Maitland picked up the
telephone and started giving instructions for the reconnaissance
flight.

Chapter 17

Peter Watson sat up and his head cracked against metal.  He could see
nothing in the darkness around him and hear nothing except a snoring
somewhere behind him.  He rubbed his head and tried to pull the pieces
of memory together.  They had climbed into the Lancaster to sleep, just
an hour or two to sharpen their wits before take-off, but now it was
dark, too dark to take off.  Anger welled up inside him as he stumbled
along the Lancaster, tripping over a sleeping figure that mumbled and
resumed snoring, and dropped to the ground.  Groping his way to the
door he started to jerk it open then paused.  Perhaps the Germans were
back, perhaps that was why nobody had woken him.  He drew the door open
an inch and listened but there was no sound not even the familiar
splash of rain.  Crawling under Henri's truck he headed towards the
farmhouse, too angry to be relieved that the rain had stopped, and
charged through the door.  Paul was sitting in front of the fire,
Helene lying with her head in his lap.

"What the hell's going on?"  stormed Peter.

"Why didn't you wake me.  What's the bloody time anyway?"

He looked at his watch.  It was nearly midnight.  Paul smiled and
Helene giggled.

"You are beautiful when you are angry," mocked Paul.

"But keep your hair on.  There was no way you could take off tonight so
we let you all sleep.  You needed it.  Here, sit down and listen."
Peter grudgingly sat on the floor beside them and looked into the fire
as Paul told him about the road block, the armoured car and heavy
machine guns that could cut UM7 to ribbons before it could get up speed
to take off.  Peter's anger faded and a wave of dejection took over. He
stretched out on his back and watched the light from the fire dancing
on the ceiling.  It reminded him of when he was a child and his mother
would ask him what he could see in the shapes.  It was always a horse
or a dog until his mother urged him to try harder to stretch his
imagination.  Well, he could imagine nothing now except capture and a
prison camp or perhaps a firing squad after that business with the army
sergeant.  They had tried, they had done more than anyone could expect
them to do but there was always another impossible task.  It was as if
fate was playing a sadistic game with them.

"Oh Christ," he breathed.

"I'm getting sick of it all."

"You can be as sick as you like when you get back to Wickenby," snarled
Paul, "If there's a problem there must be a solution.  Think, man,
think."  Peter sat up and stared at Paul.  There was a hardness in his
face that he had never seen there before and for an instant it reminded
him of the look on the face of the German officer while he watched the
sergeant burning, the look of a man who expected to see a lot of agony
in his life.  Paul lifted Helene into a sitting position, stood up and
paced the kitchen.  After a few minutes he paused and swore quietly, as
if an idea had occurred to him and had been discarded immediately.
Peter started to say something but Helene shook her head to silence
him.  Eventually Paul sat at the table, put his head in his hands for a
moment then looked up.

"I have a plan," he said.

"It depends on timing, perfect timing, but I think it will work."  He
outlined his scheme in terse sentences.  Helene, worry etched on her
face, nodded.  Peter said quietly: "Thanks, Paul.  That's another drink
I owe you after the war."

"Right," said Paul.

"Better get the others in here and brief them."  When Peter left,
Helene moved to the table and took Paul's face in her hands.

"Be careful, my love," she said.

"Be very careful.  I don't know how I could go on living without you."
Paul kissed her hands.

"We will live, darling," he murmered.

"We will have a good life together.  One day all this will be like a
forgotten illness."

The door opened and Peter was followed in by Alan Bates, Jimmy
Campbell, Harry Patterson and Dick Holden, their faces creased with
sleep but their eyes bright with expectancy.  Peter sat on the edge of
the table, waiting for them to settle down.

"Paul was right', he thought, 'they all needed that few hours of sleep.
They are still a scruffy looking lot but they are in better shape to
handle UM7.

"OK, pay attention," he said.

"We have a new plan for getting away.  We will only get one chance.
Once I start the engines on UM7 the noise will bring the Germans here
like hounds after a fox.  There will be no time for delays, mistakes or
general buggering about.  When I give the order to go, we go.  Clear?"
Heads nodded.

"When do we go skipper?"  asked Dick.

"Wait for it.  Let me take one thing at a time.  There is a problem you
don't know about.  Like to tell them, Paul?"

"Right," said Paul.

"You are using the road to St.  Amour as a runway.  But there is a
German road-block there."  He held up a hand to silence the chorus of
oaths.

"It will be dealt with.  That is all you need to know.  Except that, as
the skipper said, exact timing is essential.  Action will be taken
against the road-block at exactly the time the skipper is starting up
UM7.  The two things must happen together or we are all in a lot of
trouble."

"I think you've all got the point now," said Peter.

"We will take off at first light and..."  He was interrupted by Harry
Patterson.

"At first light?  Fly across France in daylight?  Jesus!"

"I know, I know," said Peter.

"It was my idea at first to take off just before nightfall, but look at
it this way: the longer we stay here the bigger the risk of being
caught.  We will have no navigator with us, and with UM7 flying like a
drunken pig we could easily go off course at night and finish up
bobbing about in the Bay of Biscay.  In daylight I can spot enough
landmarks to keep me roughly on course, and once we have crossed the
water I can find my way to Wickenby or another airfield.  And another
thing, we don't know if the radio in UM7 is still working since that
cannon shell got Philip Lester.  We can't test it until we are near
England or we will give our position away.  In daylight our own men
will recognise a Lancaster but a bomber at night that does not answer
radio signals will get a rough reception from our own ack-ack.  I'd
rather take my chances with German fighters in daylight than be shot
down by our own blokes when we are nearly home.  OK?"

The expressions on their faces told him they were not so much convinced
as glad they did not have to make the decision themselves.

"First thing we do," continued Peter, "is to get back to UM7 and
familia rise ourselves with her again.  You'll be surprised how much
your reactions have slowed down.  Just get used to the feel of things
again, think yourselves back into the frame of mind for a bombing
mission.  But," he added with a laugh, "don't test your guns.  We'll
meet here again in an hour and I'll tell you the rest of it."  He slid
off the table and waved them towards the door.  Paul watched,
fascinated by the way Peter came to life whenever he was talking about
the Lancaster.

"Hey, skipper," he called after him.

"When you get back to England you should marry UM7.  Make an honest
woman of her."

The joke was still in Peter's mind as he sat in his place in the
bomber, wrapping his fingers round the control column and running his
hands over the dials he could not see in the darkness.

"Yes," he thought, 'it is an affair of sorts, this feeling between
myself and UM7."  If UM7 stayed faithful to him tomorrow he would be
with Rosemary tomorrow night."

"Hey, skipper.  My bloody rear turret looks as if it has been hit by a
bus."  It was Dick Holden, squatting beside him.

"A tractor actually," said Peter, stirring himself.

"You can see if the turret moves when we have some power, but I doubt
it.  How about the guns?"

"They move up and down.  Useful if you can persuade any fighters to
come at us from dead astern.  Otherwise the turret is as much use as a
chocolate teapot."

"Well, you can always pull faces at them.  But seriously, I need you
back there tomorrow to keep a sharp look-out.  I'll be flying as low as
I can and that will take all my attention.  The rest of you will have
to watch for fighters."

Harry Patterson sat in his upper turret, his memory filled with the
sights and sounds of the raid on Stuttgart which now seemed half a
lifetime ago, and wondered how it would feel to be flying across France
in daylight, when fighters could spot them at long range and choose
their tactics carefully instead of the brief clashes by night.

Jimmy Campbell was crouched beside Alan Bates, following his flashlight
beam as it moved along the network of baling wire holding the bomb
doors in place.

"To tell you the truth," said Alan, "I'm, less worried about this than
about the engine.  God knows if there is an airlock in the fuel system
or I flooded the engine.  If it doesn't work we will only have two
engines fine if we want to taxi across France but I doubt that they
will give us enough power to take off, not with the plane, in this
state."

"You did your best," said Jimmy.

"We've all done our best.  If things don't work out we've nothing to
blame ourselves for.  Anyway, look on the bright side.  By tomorrow
night we'll be home and I don't know about you but I'm going on a
bender that will get into the record books.  Come on, let's see if we
can make sense of the radio."  They moved forward to Philip Lester's
old position.  Alan's flashlight moved quickly over the brown stain
round the base of the seat and picked out a rusty patch covering the
spot where the cannon shell had burst through the fuselage.  There was
a little circle of torn metal round a puncture in the small desk, pock
marks on the face of the equipment and a cable had been sliced through
as if by a knife.

"Not as knocked about as I expected," said Alan.

"That severed cable looks like the power supply.  Could be spliced
together.  The thing might still work but we won't know until we have
some power from the engine.  Only thing is, does anybody know how to
work it?"

"Probably Paul does," said Jimmy.

"But that won't be much help tomorrow."

"Well, I'll have a go at it when we are airborne," said Alan.

"Provided I am not too busy trying to stop this crumbling heap of a
bomber from falling apart.  Here, hold the flashlight."  He pulled
pliers from his pocket and started splicing the cable.  Jimmy saw the
teeth marks embedded in his swollen hand but said nothing.  Alan was
just finishing when Peter called the crew to go to the farmhouse.  As
they left the bomber Paul was moving broken crates where the bombs had
been left and searching by flashlight.  He bent down, picked up two
oilskin-wrapped packages and followed them.

The crew followed each other into the kitchen, coughing, scratching
chins or running fingers through their hair to hide their grins.
Monsieur and Madame Blanche were ready for their flight to England,
Madame Blanche wearing the outfit that had been admired at her niece's
wedding, court shoes, silk stockings, a green cloth coat and a green
cloche hat with a small feather in the side.  Her husband was in a blue
serge suit, a white shirt and a dark blue tie that threatened to choke
him.  A heavy suitcase stood at his feet.  Helene caught Peter's eye
and shrugged.

"So far, so good," said Peter to his crew.

"Now we have to get ready for take-off.  There is not a lot we can do
by way of checking UM7 but you, Alan, should take a look at the
undercarriage and just generally look round the outside as far as you
can.  See if there is anything we have overlooked, any obstructions,
things like that.  The rest of us have an awkward job to do in the
dark.  That weird contraption we built in front of UM7 has to come
down, just five minutes before the plane, starts up.  We'll take the
winch rope from the tractor round the facade and leave everything ready
tonight and hope one almighty pull at daybreak will drag nearly all the
debris clear.  That will leave us just five minutes to get any
remaining bits of debris out of the way.  No room for mistakes on this
timing either, chaps.  With me so far?"

"What about the tarpaulins?"  asked Harry Patterson.  He remembered the
back-breaking effort of getting them into place over the Lancaster
before they were secured to the barns at each side.

"There are not enough of us to take them down, at least not in the time
we have," said Peter.

"We just have to take a chance on them staying put or being blown clear
when the blast from the propellers hits them.  Bit risky, but there's
no alternative."

Helene spoke up.

"I'll get the tractor in place for you tonight.  If my father got his
suit dirty my mother would kill him," she said with a smile.

"Anyway, I will have to drive the tractor in the morning."  Her voice
trailed away as she wondered if she would ever see her parents again.

"OK, then.  One final point.  Take-off is at six o'clock precisely, six
o'clock.  Now we have work to do, let's get on with it," said Peter.

"Ready to move the truck, Paul?"  Picking up his two packages, Paul
nodded and was the first out of the door.  He climbed into Henri's
truck, placed his packages carefully on the seat beside him and drove
slowly across the farmyard and along the track, stopping a hundred feet
short of the road.  Taking a small kitchen knife from his pocket he
sliced open the parcels, put one fat sausage of plastic explosive and
one timer on the floor, wrapped the other sausage and timer loosely in
the covering and carried it to the bomber's hiding place.  The others,
waiting for Helene to fetch the tractor, watched him go to work.  Funny
thing," thought Alan.  A week ago he would have said Paul was just
another likeable conscientious chap, a bit more serious than most but
not all that different from the rest of the blokes at Wickenby.  He had
turned into a tiger of a man.  The old Paul would not be moulding
plastic explosive round the nose of a 500-pound bomb, setting a timer
and pushing it into the explosive as if it were something he had done
every day of his life.

"But," reflected Alan, 'we have all done things in the last few days we
never thought we were capable of doing."  The sound of the tractor
drawing up outside took away Paul's audience.

Helene stopped the tractor twenty feet in front of the facade, its nose
pointing in the opposite direction to the track leading to the road.
She cut the engine and released the brake on the cable drum.  Willing
hands pulled the cable back through the door and across the back of the
facade until its stiffness told them it had been stretched to its
limit.

"Damn," exclaimed Peter, "I'd hoped it would go right round and back to
the tractor.  Never mind.  Take it back to the door and bring it back
again, but this time take it round each of the main supports.  That
should do the trick."  It was harder work than he had guessed, the wire
rope fighting against every effort to thread it round the wooden posts
supporting the facade, but at last it was done and the hook on the end
of the rope was secured to the last support.  Peter went out to thank
Helene but she was not with the tractor.

She was with Paul, watching him squeezing the plastic explosive behind
the front bumper of the truck, carefully resting the timer on the
passenger seat and then trying three different lengths of tree branch
until he found one that would jam through the steering wheel and
against the back of the driver's seat.  Satisfied, he jerked the branch
clear and propped it against the dashboard.

"Remember," she said.

"Just carry out your plan, do not change it at the last second.  Do not
do anything stupid."

"I'm not going to do anything stupid, my love," said Paul.

"I am going to do one of the most sensible things I have ever done in
my life."

Chapter 18

Time seemed to be going backwards, Peter complained to himself as he
checked his watch yet again.  Still an hour to take-off.  He had
examined the tractor and the winch rope half a dozen times, he had
looked under UM7 at the bomb doors, he had sat at his seat in the
Lancaster fidgeting with controls and he could think of nothing else to
do to make the time pass more quickly.  Standing in the darkness of the
farmyard he pushed his thoughts back to the first night they had felt
these cobblestones under their feet, their first meal in the kitchen,
their first night in the barn and his feeble attempt to cheer up the
crew by remarking: "Home from home, isn't it?"  Well, it was not home
but somehow every day had made it more real and life at Wickenby more
remote.  France would never again be just a piece of territory he had
to fly over to get to Germany.  The whole war would not be the same.

A figure moved across the farmyard and stood beside him.

"Skipper," said Jimmy Campbell, "I just want you to know that, whatever
happens, thanks a lot for what you have done."  He was fumbling for
words.

"You've given us a chance to get home, you and Paul.  I honestly think
I would have gone off my head if I'd been stuck in a prison camp."

"We might have been lucky to have been chucked into a camp," said
Peter.

"I doubt that the Germans think that helping the Resistance is playing
cricket.  But don't thank me.  We all did our bit, or our lot.  And
these people at the farm.  I wonder if I would have the guts to do what
they've done, risk my neck for somebody who had no business being here
in the first place."

Jimmy was silent for a while.

"Do you believe in, I dunno what to call it, fate I suppose?"  he
asked.

"I was thinking about Paul.  He was just one of the gang until we
finished up here but somehow he seems, well, he seems to have found his
home.  Sounds daft, but do you know what I mean?"

"I think so," said Peter.

"He seems to have found something he was looking for, even though he
had no more idea than the rest of us that he would find himself here. I
don't know if you could call that good luck or not."

"No, more than that, skipper," Jimmy persisted.

"Just look at all the bloody coincidences it took to get him here.  He
could have been in another crew, he could have bought it like Philip
Lester, all sorts of things could have happened.  But he finished up
here.  Does that mean that somehow it was all planned for him?"

"You are getting too deep for me Jimmy.  I'm a flier, not a
philosopher."

"Well," sighed Jimmy.

"I used to take things as they came, but not now.  It all makes you
think."

"Well, don't strain yourself," laughed Peter, relieved that someone
else was walking towards them, putting an end to the conversation.

"Oh, there you are, skipper."  It was Alan Bates.

"Helene thinks we should get her folks into the plane, give them time to
settle down before take-off.  I think she's a bit afraid they might
funk it at the last minute."

"More likely she does not want to drag out the farewell," thought
Peter.  He walked into the kitchen and could feel the sadness in the
room.  On an impulse he threw his arms around Madame Blanche and
planted a kiss on her cheek.  She gave a little smile and readjusted
her hat.  Peter shook hands with her husband and pretended not to
notice the desolate look on his face.  Picking up the heavy suitcase he
headed for the Lancaster, leaving Helene with her arms stretched round
her parents' shoulders.

"We'll put them on the deck, somewhere behind the navigator's seat,"
Peter told Alan.

"I don't want them to see too much.  They're going to be scared out of
their wits anyway."  The old couple were some time coming.  Madame
Blanche had stopped to take the religious picture off the kitchen wall
and tuck it under her arm.  Her husband had walked slowly across the
farmyard, a man leaving the only world he knew or cared about.  By the
time they were settled down on a few old sacks, the suitcase between
them, Madame Blanche had recovered some of her dignity after being
pushed awkwardly into the bomber.  Peter looked at his watch again.
Fifteen minutes to go.  He handed a clipboard to Alan.

"Hang on to that, it's the pre-flight checks.  When we are ready to go
you take Paul's seat in UM7 and when I give you the word start reading
those off to me.  Right now I want everybody out here in the farmyard."
They gathered in a tense group, watching the shape of the barns emerge
as the sky turned from black to a dull grey and a narrow strip of light
appeared along the skyline.

"Don't forget you owe me a couple of drinks after the war, skipper."
Paul was holding out his hand.

"I won't forget," Peter said quietly.

"I won't ever forget."  Paul shook hands in silence with Alan, Jimmy,
Harry and finally Dick, who said: "Let me have that rabbit's foot back
sometime, eh?"  Paul chuckled and strode away towards the truck.
Reaching into the passenger seat he carefully lifted out the timer, set
it and pushed it into the plastic explosive behind the bumper.  From
the side of the track he picked up a heavy stone and placed it on the
floor of the cab.  He climbed into the driver's seat, rested the tree
branch on the seat beside him, switched on the engine and sat looking
into the mirror.  He watched Helene take her seat in the tractor and
turn her head towards Peter.  The skipper had his right arm raised and
was looking at his watch.  Peter's arm fell, the tractor engine growled
and Paul moved the truck slowly along the track.  At the junction he
turned on to the road to St.  Amour and dawdled towards the town as if
he were some tired farmer making the routine run, glancing at his watch
every few seconds and bending his head towards the open window to catch
the sound he was waiting for.

"Get ready," said Peter, as Helene moved the tractor forward slowly.
The winch rope grew rigid then screeched as it tightened on the
supports of the facade.  With a crack like a rifle shot part of the
door frame snapped, the rope slackened for an instant then grew tight
again.  Dick Holden opened his mouth to say something but the words
were drowned in the groan of timbers being wrenched from their
fastenings and the clattering of metal sheets as the facade was dragged
forward then toppled on to the cobblestones.  Helene urged the tractor
on and dragged the broken structure across the farmyard, leaving a wake
of torn corrugated metal and broken timber.  The Lancaster seemed to
peer out of the opening, into the growing daylight.

"Move," yelled Peter and they raced to pick up timber and metal and
fling it out of the bomber's way.  Helene turned in her seat and
watched them scrambling under and into the Lancaster.  Peter cursed as
he tripped over the farmer's legs.  Dropping into his seat he called:
"Now, Alan, now."  A steady voice behind him started to recite the
litany of pre-flight checks.

"Ignition, contact number three."

"Number three."

"Ground flight switch, on flight."

"On flight."

"Altimeter set to air feed."

"Set."

"Instrument vacuum set to four and a half inches."

"Set."

' "Radiator shutters open."

"Open."

"Test engines."

Peter tried the two inner engines first.  The Merlins coughed then
burst into life.  Heart pounding, Peter tried the outer starboard
engine, looking to his right with his eyes fixed on the propeller.
Through the noise of the other two engines he could hear a growl and
the propeller jerked round slowly, paused and jerked round again, a
ball of black smoke belching from the exhaust.  Suddenly the blades
spun faster and became a disc as the engine roared into power.  There
was a jubilant yell from the seat behind him.

"Great work, Alan," Peter shouted, easing off the brakes, touching the
throttles and letting UM7 roll into the farmyard.  In the rear turret
Dick Holden watched the tarpaulins behind the Lancaster curve like
sails then sweep back to wrap themselves round the trees.  Above him,
the tarpaulins of the roof billowed, strained against the ropes holding
them in place then broke free, twisting in the blast from the
propellers as they sank down.  He watched one drifting towards the
tail, then it curled back and fell a few feet behind it.

"We are clear, skipper," he shouted over the intercom.  Peter did not
acknowledge.  He raised an arm in farewell to Helene and nursed UM7
round the farmyard towards the track.  Behind the bomber Helene
crouched in the tractor seat as the backwash sent pieces of metal from
the fake barn whirling above her head.

On the road to St.  Amour Paul heard the roar of the Lancaster's
engines and resisted the temptation to speed up even when he saw
figures jumping out of trucks at the road-block ahead, staring round
the sky in search of a low-flying aircraft.

"About one kilometre to go," he guessed, resting one hand on the tree
branch and looking in the mirror.

"Come on, skipper, for Christ's sake," he muttered to himself.

Peter felt the rumble of cobblestones under UM7's wheel give way to a
lurching movement as he manoeuvered the bomber round the gentle turn
onto the track, the wings swinging over the stumps of the felled trees.
In the nose of the Lancaster Jimmy Campbell watched the track rolling
beneath him then called out: "Runway a hundred yards ahead, skipper."

In the truck Paul saw the tree tops surging where the track met the
road and snapped into action.  He moved the truck into the centre of
the road, aiming it at the road-block, leaned to one side and wedged
the tree branch through the steering wheel, jamming the other end
against the back of his seat.  He opened the door, rolled the heavy
stone on the accelerator pedal and jumped clear.  Arms flung round his
head, he rolled twice before finding himself on hands and knees,
watching the truck pick up speed.  There was a flicker of light from
the armoured car and the whine of bullets ricocheting from the road
close to him, then pieces were flying from the cab as the machine guns
swung away from him towards the truck.

"Don't stop now," breathed Paul.  Steam was pouring from under the
shattered bonnet as the truck raced the last few yards, hit the
armoured car and reared up against it at a drunken angle.  Paul saw the
hatch of the armoured car fly open and a figure start to emerge when
there was a flash and the crump of plastic explosive detonating.

A ball of flame enveloped the armoured car and the truck and ballooned
across the road, swallowing the rest of the road block.  Paul rose
slowly to his feet, watching the flames turning to an angry red and the
column of black smoke boiling into the air and drifting towards him.
That will bring hoar de of German troops," he told himself, 'but it has
won a few minutes for the Lancaster."  He turned in time to see UM7's
nose starting to jut out from the track.

At the controls of UM7 Peter Watson clenched his teeth and coaxed the
bomber round on to the road.

"Just like that awkward final turn on to the runway at Wickenby," he
thought, 'but a damned sight more difficult with one port engine out of
action."  He felt one of the wheel bump on to the grass verge and
prayed it would not sink in.  The Lancaster turned slowly, the wheel
bumped back on to the road and Peter edged the bomber forward until its
nose was lined up with the centre of the road.  Ahead he could see the
flames and the column of smoke.  Good; the smoke showed that there was
not much wind but it was blowing straight towards him.  Then he
realised it was the road-block burning and recognised the solitary
figure walking along the road towards him.

"Paul did it, chaps," he called over the intercom.

"He got rid of the road-block.  Here we go.  Checks, Alan."

Alan Bates wrenched his gaze from the lonely figure on the road and
looked down at the clipboard.

"Compass magnetic."

"Magnetic."

"Propellers set to full fine."

"Set to full fine."

"Numbers one and two fuel boosters on."

"Boosters on."

"Flaps selected for take off."

"Done."

Peter felt elation surging through him as the vibration took charge of
his body, the roar of the Merlins filled his head and the smell of fuel
and exhaust rasped at his throat.

"Good old girl," he yelled.

"You beautiful old bitch, you are on heat again.  Come on then."  He
pushed the throttles forward.

The Lancaster rolled and steadily picked up speed.  At 50 miles an hour
it started to veer to the left until Peter edged it back to the middle
of the road.  Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a figure by the
roadside, one arm raised in farewell, then UM7 was at 60 miles an
hour..  70..  80.  The blazing road-block filled most of his vision
when Peter finally heaved UM7 into the air.  Smoke whirled past the
cockpit and they were skimming over the roofs of St.  Amour.  Reaching
for the control to retract the undercarriage Peter glanced out and
recognised the squat belfry of the church only twenty feet under his
port wing.  The wheels came up with a satisfying thud but the Lancaster
was labouring.  Wind screamed through the rough patches in the fuselage
and Peter could feel the column trying to kick in his hands.

"Must gain height," he thought, and put the Lancaster into a shallow
turn to his left.  St.  Amour disappeared, they were over farmland and
woods and then the town was ahead of them again as the bomber completed
its turn.  The road to the farm was on his right.  Peter saw a figure
running among the line trees to the side of the road and behind him,
more figures running, crouching to aim, then running again.

"Paul's in trouble," he shouted over the intercom.

"Give him some support Harry."  But Harry Patterson in, the upper
turret had already seen and his Brownings hammered as he sprayed a long
burst at the pursuing soldiers.  In the rear of the bomber Dick Holden
cursed his jammed turret and fired a burst aimlessly.

"Come round again, skipper," Harry called out.

"He's not into cover yet."  The Lancaster banked over the town, its
streets now flooding with people waving and jumping, and came back with
the road to the left.  Harry swung his turret and took careful aim
before he opened up.  He saw the earth spouting up around the
soldiers.

A few crumpled and the rest flung themselves flat.

Dick Holden saw the lone figure dart from behind a tree and run towards
the farm track.  Another figure ran from the track to meet him.

"Again, skipper," he shouted.

"Helene's with him now.  They've had it if they don't get into the
woods."

They were using up valuable time, Peter knew, but they owed Paul this
much.  He banked the Lancaster, catching sight of the clearing where
they had landed, and brought the bomber lower until they were flying at
little more than tree top height alongside the road again.

"Too bloody close," shouted Harry, "The Jerries are under us.  I can't
get at them."  But in the rear turret Dick Holden let out a whoop and
fired a long burst into the soldiers below him.  Peter started to gain
height for another turn and gasped as he saw a line of scout cars and
trucks skirting the blazing road-block and racing along the road to the
farm.  He could see more vehicles pouring through St.  Amour as the
rooftops flashed under him.

From the upper turret Harry could see the German trucks forced to a
halt by crowds of men, women and children jamming the main street as if
celebrating a victory.  Children were holding their hands over their
ears and jumping with excitement as the Lancaster roared overhead,
adults were waving and all were ignoring the gesticulating drivers.
From a bedroom window at the back of a house an old man was waving a
tricolour.

That takes real guts," Harry told himself.

"With any luck we'll be home in a few hours but the Gestapo will knock
hell out of this place."  He felt he ought to salute but UM7 was
already past the town and over open country.

Without enough height to bank sharply, Peter put UM7 into a long
sweeping, climbing turn and came back at five hundred feet, trying to
keep out of range of small arms fire but not too high for the powerful
Brownings.

There was no sign now of Paul and Helene and soldiers were spreading
out as if still searching.  Thank God for that," thought Peter.  They
must have made it into the woods and Helene will know them better than
any German."  He could see the pinpoints of light as soldiers opened up
with rifles at the Lancaster but then they were level with the farm and
he put UM7 into a final turn.  He grinned as he saw the farmyard was
crammed with German army vehicles and knots of men were scurrying round
the buildings.

"You are too late, your fox has gone," he thought, and pulled UM7 into
a climb.

In the rear turret Dick Holden stared back at the farm, imprinting it
on his memory in case he ever doubted it had all happened.  It was
slipping out of his sight when there was a blue-white flash of four
500-pound bombs exploding.  Debris and smoke mushroomed into the sky, a
scout car catapulted into the air and a cloud of dust swept through the
trees and across the open land.  Dick started to shout into the
intercom, then remembered the old couple and said quietly: "Hey,
skipper.  Our visitors have just collected Paul's present."

Chapter 19

"This is a hell of a way to fly," Peter thought.  They were crossing
hostile air space in broad daylight, the navigator was hiding in some
woods miles away, the charts were at the bottom of a farmyard pond, the
rear turret was pretty useless, one engine was out of action and the
draughts howled like a banshee through the patches in the Lancaster's
fuselage.

"There must be an easier way to make a living," he muttered.  Wrestling
to hold UM7 on course, he reviewed the tactics he had worked out
yesterday.  Flying at 500 feet, or lower if he could risk it, would
reduce the chances of being picked up by the German radar.  It would
make it harder to get out of the way of enemy fighters but UM7 was in
no condition for fancy manoeuvres anyway and with the rear turret
jammed he wanted to be sure no Messerschmitt could come up underneath
him.  He hoped Harry Patterson had not used too much ammunition
strafing the troops at St.  Amour, they were depending on him to deal
with the fighters.

If he stayed on this course he would find the Loire valley, follow it
until he was south of Paris then swing on to a more northerly course
where the river turned away towards the Bay of Biscay.  With luck he
would spot Chartres and Rouen and cross the French coast somewhere near
Diepppe.  He should reach England somewhere on the Sussex coast but
anywhere between Land's End and John o' Groats would be welcome.  It
would be easier to spot landmarks if he were flying at twenty thousand
feet, Peter knew, and he looked up into the cloudless sky.  Too damned
clear.  Why the hell have the skies picked this day to clear?"  He
brought the Lancaster down to three hundred feet, felt it bucking as it
caught every updraft from the rolling countryside and brought it back
to five hundred feet.  Too much buffeting could loosen the bomb doors.
If they fell open the extra drag would pull them down and they would
finish up a heap of wreckage in some field.  But the doors were holding
so far.

"Alan did a damned good job on UM7," Peter reflected.

"Alan," he called.

"Go see how the old folks are getting on.  Just make some soothing
noises anything to keep them from worrying too much."  Alan slipped out
of his seat and turned back to where the farmer and his wife were
sitting on the deck.  Madame Blanche had her eyes closed and clutched
the picture to her chest.  The farmer rested one arm on the suitcase.
Alan crouched and mumbled a few remarks he hoped sounded soothing.  The
farmer lifted the suitcase to show the neat bullet hole in the bottom,
then put it back and chuckled: "Souvenir."  Alan remembered the German
troops firing at them and shivered when he thought he might have found
the old man or his wife dead.  But the old boy seemed almost to be
enjoying himself.  Perhaps in his own way he liked living dangerously,
Alan thought.  He patted the farmer's shoulder and was moving back to
his seat when Dick Holden let out a yell.

"Bandit, skipper.  One.  Seven o'clock."  In the upper turret Harry
Patterson swung his Brownings, searched the sky then spotted the
aircraft almost directly behind them, just a little higher and gaining
on them fast.  He got it in his sights and waited, watching the outline
grow into a sleek body with two engines, then he relaxed.

"Bloody hell, skipper."  he said.

"It's one of ours.  A Mosquito."

The fighter-bomber, stripped of everything that could be spared to give
it speed for its reconnaissance mission to Lyon, closed the distance
between them like a cheetah catching up with an elephant.  As it drew
level its wings waggled briefly in salute and then it was streaking
ahead of them.

"Wish we had his speed," said Jimmy Campbell in the nose of the
Lancaster as he watched the Mosquito dwindle to a dot in the sky then
disappear.

"Me too," said Peter.

"But he's good news.  Once he gets home he'll report a plane, in trouble
and with any luck we will have a fighter escort for the last leg."  if
they can find us."

"Won't he whistle up an escort by radio?"  asked Jimmy.

"Not if he has any damned sense.  The Luftwaffe would be on us before
our own blokes got over the Channel.  Now cut out the chatter
everybody.  Keep your eyes open.  We have a long way to go yet."  He
concentrated on correcting UM7's constant drift to the left, noting
with relief that the outer starboard engine was running at near normal
temperature.  Farms and villages flashed under them, people standing
with upturned faces to see the Lancaster thundering low overhead.  I
should have found the Loire by now, Peter told himself.  He eased their
course a point to the west and risked squeezing his eyes shut for a
couple of seconds to prevent the landscape blurring his vision.  He
opened them to see a small town dead ahead and beyond it a gleaming
ribbon stretching to left and right.  He put the Lancaster into a
shallow right turn, saw the Loire river disappear under him and then
reappear to his right as the bomber turned.  He brought UM7 round to
fly along the river, realised that it would make them more conspicuous
from above and allowed the bomber to drift until they were a few
hundred yards to the left, flying a parallel course.

Behind him, Alan Bates was working at the radio, big hands moving
delicately over control knobs until his face screwed up when the
headphones gave a piercing whistle.  At least it's still alive, he
thought, and patiently continued.

Flying along the valley Peter began to relax.  He still had to fight
the Lancaster's drift and coax it to stay at five hundred feet when the
drag on the damaged fuselage slowly reduced the flying speed but there
was less turbulence and the strain on his arms and shoulders slackened.
The river was winding away to his right and the city of Nevers was
taking shape ahead of him when his attention was jerked into focus by a
puff of black smoke ahead of UM7 and another beyond the starboard wing.
He spotted the anti-aircraft post on the river bank, almost hidden by
the glare of sunlight on the water, and let the bomber sink until they
were barely at a hundred feet.  The puffs of smoke tracked three
hundred feet above them at first and were starting to come closer until
UM7 was over the city and lost the gunners' view as Peter watched
rooftops rolling beneath the bomber and prayed there were no church
spires ahead.  When they were over scattered houses and fields again he
let out a long breath and brought the Lancaster back up to five hundred
feet.

"Keep a sharp look-out for fighters," he called over the intercom.

"That ack-ack post recognised us.  They'll send the fighters after us
now.  Remember, Harry, short bursts.  Don't waste ammo on the first
attack.  I think you are going to need it."  Peter debated with himself
whether to try skimming along the river but decided to stick to his
course.  He had a bit of manoeuvrability and if the fighters got him it
would be better to try a crash landing in a field than to finish up in
the river.

They were flying north-west now and Peter was watching out for the
point near Orleans where the Loire makes a sharp turn towards the bay
of Biscay when Harry shouted; "Here they come, skipper.  Two of them.
Six o'clock high."  In the blue sky above them Harry picked out the two
Messerschmitts at about ten thousand feet.  First one then the other
tilted on to wing tips and dived towards the bomber.  In the rear
turret Dick Holden swivelled up his Brownings.  It was too much to hope
that the fighters would fly into his limited field of fire but he would
be ready.  Harry trained his guns on the first fighter as it eased out
of the dive half a mile behind and above them and bore down at a steep
angle.  He waited until he saw the flicker of the fighter's guns before
he opened fire.  He could see the tracer reaching out towards the
fighter at the same time as cannon shells thudded into the Lancaster.
The fighter pulled into a steep turning climb, as if the pilot realised
his dive would carry him into the ground, and Harry saw his tracer
ripping into the underbelly.  Then the other fighter was attacking,
coming in dead astern and level, determined not to make the same
mistake as his partner.  Dick Holden opened up at the same time as
Harry.  White vapour trailing from its engine, the fighter sank to the
earth, bounced, skidded across a field and slammed into a group of
trees.

"Where's the other one?"  shouted Harry.

"Gone home to mummy," Dick answered.

"Saw him heading off, pretty low and in a lot of trouble.  Nice
shooting.  Did y'hear that, skipper?  One down and one possible."

"Well done," said Peter.

"Now settle down and keep your eyes open.  The Luftwaffe still has some
fighters left."  And we will see them before very long, he guessed.

Peter spotted the bend in the Loire and left the river behind as he
coaxed UM7 on to a new course that he hoped would take them near
Chartres and Rouen and on to Dieppe.  Alan Bates looked at the holes
the cannon shells had punched in the fuselage a few feet from Dick
Holden's turret.

"Bit more fresh air, skipper," he reported.

"Missed the cables only by a few inches, but they did miss.  Nothing
serious."  He moved forward to the old couple.  Madame Blanche was
still sitting with her eyes tightly closed.  Her husband was looking
more grey-faced but smiled at Alan's thumbs-up sign.

Peter dropped the Lancaster down to three hundred feet, calculating
that the risk of buffeting to the bomb doors was worth it.  He guessed
they were off the German radar, otherwise the fighters would have found
them again by now.  That meant the fighters had to hunt for UM7.  They
would look first along the course he was following during the first
attack before widening the search.  Every minute saved was precious, he
reckoned, and he would just have to trust that Alan has used enough
baling wire on the bomb doors.  They were passing to the left of
Chartres when fighters found them and struck again.

"Bandits, skipper," Harry called out.

"Three, no five.  Behind us."  Harry could see three in line abreast at
no more than a thousand feet altitude, coming in a shallow dive from
the rear at a slight angle to the bomber's course.  Two more were above
them at two thousand feet.  These blokes know their job, he told
himself.  This was it.  So near to home and so bloody far.  Well, he
would make them pay a price before UM7 was knocked out of the sky.  He
fixed his sights on the middle of the three fighters and forced himself
to wait until he could not miss.  Then he fired a five second burst.
Pieces of metal sprayed from the fuselage two feet to his left as he
saw his own tracer rip into the canopy of the fighter then all three of
them flashed over the Lancaster and the other two were sweeping down on
them.  He picked the one to his right but he had no time to take
careful aim and his fire was as wild as Dick Holden's aimless burst
from the rear turret.  The Lancaster lurchec] into a turn then came out
of it a hundred feet above the ground.  Harry thought they were going
down, not knowing Peter had lost control for an instant when the
cockpit canopy shattered above his head.  He swung his turret in time
to see four fighters circling back towards the Lancaster.  There was no
sign of the fifth but he had no time to wonder if his first burst had
knocked it out.  The fighters were coming in again from behind, two low
and two above them, when Jimmy Campbell yelled from the nose: "Watch
it, skipper.  Power lines ahead."  Peter had seen them at the same time
and made a quick calculation.  Shit, he had no time to get over them.
He would have to go under and trust to luck.  He put UM7 down until the
bomber was barely twenty feet above the hedges and aimed for a gap
between two steel pylons, watched the power lines hurtling towards him
and fought the temptation to fling his arms across his face and duck.
There was a blur of grass racing beneath him end a flick of shadow
across his face then they were under and he lifted UM7 to a hundred
feet and blinked sweat out of his eyes.  In the upper turret Harry,
training his Brownings to the rear, saw the power lines flash past just
above his head and recede behind the bomber's tail and understood why
the fighters had climbed instead of starting their attack.  They were
to his left, circling to come in again.  He watched them turn and
braced himself.  The fighters had lost distance between themselves and
the bomber by their turn and Harry watched them taking up their attack
position again a mile behind, two low and two above them.  He set his
sights on the low one to his right and waited.  The fighter grew in his
sights then turned to its left and went into a steep climb.  The other
followed, slipping into a line formation.  Harry jerked his head back
and stared at them climbing into the sky, following them until his eyes
were caught by something high above them.

"God Almighty, skipper.  Look up, look up," he shouted.  Peter glanced
up through the shattered canopy.  The sky at twenty thousand feet was
streaked by scores of vapour trails.  At the heart of the pattern sun
glinted on three formations of silver specks flying steadily east.
Above and below them tinier specks left vapour trails that curved and
merged in a score of knots.

"They're Flying Fortresses," he yelled.

"And a fighter escort.  Having a hell of a fight by the look of it.
That's what took the fighters off our backs.  Bloody good show Yanks."
He felt his spirits surge.  Ten seconds ago he was certain he was a
dead man.

"Come on, old girl," he whispered and urged UM7 up to five hundred
feet, feeling the extra drag of the new damage.

"Check for damage, Alan," he called over the intercom.

"Why not check if anything is not damaged?"  laughed Alan and moved
back through the bomber, pausing to satisfy himself that the old couple
were unhurt though their faces were ashen.  Peter checked for
casualties.  Jimmy and Harry reported with a laconic "Fine, skipper."
There was no answer from Dick Holden.

"Dick, you OK?"  Peter repeated.

"No I bloody well am not OK," came the reply after a pause.

"The buggers got me again.  In the same bloody leg.  And I'm having the
same trouble getting the bloody tourniquet on.  It just isn't bloody
funny."

"You are getting into bad habits," said Jimmy.

"Hang on, I'll come back in a minute and give you a hand."

"Alan here, skipper.  Plenty of damage to the fabric but we are still
flying.  We have to settle for that.  I am going to have another go at
the radio."

Peter grunted an acknowledgement.  The Lancaster was demanding all his
attention.  The wind tearing at his hair told him part of the extra
drag was coming from the holes in the canopy and the other new damage
was making UM7 even more sluggish.  The relief at finding himself still
alive had vanished and he was aware again of the ache in his arms and
back from struggling to keep the bomber on course.  He stared ahead,
waiting and hoping for Rouen to appear.  Then it did, almost out of his
sight to his right.  He edged the Lancaster back on to course to Dieppe
and longed to see the Channel so much he could almost taste the salt
air on his lips.

"Hey, skipper.  I think I've got this radio worked out," said Alan over
the intercom.

"Fine, but don't try to transmit yet.  Wait until we are over the
water.  Don't advertise our position."  That was good.  They could get
word to somebody and that somebody could get word to Wickenby.  Dear
God, before morning was out they would all be at Wickenby.  He had not
dared to let himself think about it since UM7 took off.  And tonight he
would be with Rosemary.

"Skipper.  Bandits ahead.  Seven of them.  One o'clock high."  It was
Jimmy's voice on the intercom, a flat voice of despair.  Peter sagged
in his seat then braced himself again as the bomber lurched.  Hang on,
he told himself.  Just stop thinking.  Just fly.  Harry Patterson swung
the upper turret and yelled: "Come on, you bastards, let's get it over
with."  He searched the sky and pointed the Brownings up towards the
seven fighters coming towards them in V-formation.  The two on the
trailing edge of the formation peeled off into a dive.  There was a
flash of recognition in Harry's mind as he saw the wing shape and he
stared harder then burst into a choking laugh.

"They're Spits," he yelled.

"D'you hear me?  Spitfires."  The two dropped through the sky in a
curving dive and swept past UM7 on each side, wings waggling in
greeting.  They took up position three miles ahead, sweeping in long
circles ready to attack any antiaircraft post.  High above, the other
five cruised in formation, ready to deal with any fighter attack. Peter
swallowed hard and nursed the bomber up to a thousand feet, a more
forgiving altitude if UM7 started to get out of control.

He knew the coast was near when the Spitfires ahead started to make
strafing runs and he headed for a column of smoke that showed one
anti-aircraft post that would give him no trouble.  There was a brief
glimpse of a sandy shore below them then they were over the Channel and
the crew were laughing and pounding fists on the nearest part of the
bomber.

"That's enough, chaps," said Peter.

"Don't knock the last bit of stuffing out of the old girl.  She's had a
rough time."

Jimmy Campbell chortled: "When we get back to Wickenby I'm going to
suggest this plane, gets a medal.  What do they give bombers?"

Alan Bates crouched at Peter's shoulder.

"Congratulations, skipper," he said.

"It looks like we've made it.  A week ago I don't suppose any of us
would have thought it possible."

"God knows that's true," said Peter.

"Were we clever or were we just lucky?"

"I don't know.  I don't suppose we will ever know.  Does it matter?"

"Oh, perhaps not," said Peter, then he remembered a lone figure by a
roadside, an arm raised in farewell.

"Shall I try the radio now?"

"Yes, sure.  Go ahead."

"What shall I say?"

"Just tell them we are coming home."

AUTHOR

ALAN NORTH was born in Hayes, Middlesex in 1935, and during the war was
evacuated to the Rhonda Valley in South Wales.  He was educated at
Acton Grammar School after passing the Scholarship Exam.  He did his
National Service in the Royal Army Service Corps in Aldershot and later
in Lippstadt, Germany.  After training as an engineer and working in
the field for several years, he opened his own engineering company.

Alan's business interests grew to include such diverse activities as
industrial property development and fine art dealing.  Having satisfied
all his commercial aims, Alan North took partial retirement and turned
his natural energy to writing.  His experience of tough situations
combined with a deep understanding of ordinary people give him an
excellent base for stories of courage.

COMING HOME is Alan North's first novel and is based on a recurring
dream.  He plans further novels in the near future.

Published by The SPA Ltd Lloyds Bank Chambers, 18 High Street,
Upton-upon-Severn,