Beginning, Previous Section, Section XVII, Next Section
"Evening sir, I trust your day was pleasant?"
"Pleasant be damned Nash." Darcy abruptly threw the book he was reading at the wall. "I've had Bing on the telephone all afternoon asking tomfool questions, Sister O'Niell has been trying to feed me abominable slop, and now you've reverted to your servant attitude and I've got a headache. Tell me the delivery was successful?"
"Well they accepted the coffin, the funeral is on Tuesday and Miss Elizabeth is to spin the 'truth'."
"Well if I wasn't in such a damnable condition I'd probably go see what they spin, go in proxy for me and report back."
"What's happened since I left?" Nash sat down with a resigned air, fully aware that such behaviour would probably induce Darcy to kick him out.
"Alastair called to pass the time of day." Darcy picked up a nearby paperback and started flicking through it restlessly.
"What's the sentence?" Nash's tone was sincerely resigned now.
"Another blasted month......minimum."
"Well be glad a certain Mr. Bennet wishes to see you before you return to France."
"Which me?"
"He desired to speak to Colonel Darcy, but I made no promises." Nash responded coolly.
"That's good because Colonel Darcy ain't going to be in action this side of Christmas if Alastair gets his way."
"I somehow doubt that Alastair will get his way." Nash stirred and dodged the book that was abruptly thrown at him. "Flimsy paperbacks sir are rotten ammunition."
"You'd prefer I had used this?" Darcy abruptly hefted an intimidating tome out from behind his pillow. Hardcovered, gilt-edged, and several inches thick it was indeed a weapon to be wary of.
"No thank you, I have more respect for my skull."
"Would make a hefty dent wouldn't it." Darcy hefted the tome a few times appreciatively, then restored it to its home under his pillow. "Give me three totally unrelated things Nash, I'm bored."
"How unusual." Nash rolled his eyes as he dug the block and paper from behind a mess of papers on the desk.
"Don't be rude." Darcy received the block and paper, and dug a pen out from under his pillow. It was a source of endless amazement to Nash what Darcy could produce from under his pillows. Even when it was a known fact that he had nothing he could still produce things from under it. "Now where are my three things?"
"Ummm, a drunken taxi driver at Hampstead Telegraph." Nash paused and scratched his head. "A Kentish Butler with a broad scotch accent. Errr." Nash rubbed his head again. "A school.....no too simple." Nash paused again, then abruptly gave a grin. "And a bag full of bullseyes."
"Oh horrible." Darcy pulled a foul grimace as he studied the items Nash had mentioned. "Are you sure you can't change something?"
"Well he could be a drunken French Taxi driver at the Hampstead telegraph." Nash gave a faint grin.
"Even worse.....are you sure you can't supply a change for the bag of bullseyes?"
"Would you prefer licorice......or perhaps evergreen candy?"
"Go away." Darcy pulled out his pipe and started chewing on the stem.
"I can see when genius isn't appreciated." Nash beat a hasty retreat with this response and it was against the closed door which the book came to rest. Nash considered his options, then decided it would be wise not to respond to that, it sounded like a hardcover which had struck the door.
"Maybe I'll come back later..." It was a somewhat nervous Charles Bingley who was half out of his coat by the door.
"Rubbish, he'll be delighted to see you." Nash abruptly deprived Bingley of his coat and shoved him into the room without knocking. "'Is Majesty King Charles ta seeya sir."
"Oh hullo Bing." Darcy glanced up, but his attention was clearly focussed elsewhere.
"What the....?" Bingley looked at Nash in perplexity, but all he got in response was a mischievous grin and a firmly shut door.
"Take a seat Bing, I will be with you shortly....just give me a minute, I have to deal with these blasted bullseyes first."
"Bullseyes?" Bingley looked slightly nervous.
"Don't be ridiculous Bing and sit down." Darcy was scribbling and crossing out at a rapid pace, but shortly he pitched the block aside and settled back on his pillows. "What brings you here mighty warrior?"
"I wish you wouldn't do that."
"Do what?" Darcy looked up in surprise.
"Appear so fit and active and....and cheerful dammit." Bingley was feeling somewhat morose.
"Fit, active and cheerful my foot." Nash reentered the room bearing one of the largest tea trays Bingley had ever seen. "That man has a minimum of a month in bed ahead of him, so he is not fit. He's consuming iron in a manner which makes the Navy pale...about a ship a minute I think his consumption is. And as for cheerfulness........well you will shortly find out your...." Nash stopped abruptly and came respectfully to attention. "Yes sir?"
"Nash....remove it immediately." Darcy was glaring darkly at the tea tray.
"What sir?" Nash paused for a minute, then assumed a face of puzzlement.
"Remove it, or I'll pour it down your neck.....after all, you'll know what I'm referring to if it is down your neck."
"Sister O'Niell will not be happy." Nash spoke in a depressed tone.
"Sister O'Niell is never happy....now remove it before you both go out the window."
"But...." Nash abruptly ceased his efforts and capitulated, after all there is only so much a man can put up with...and being thrown out a second floor window did not rank on Nash's list of acceptable. Nash gravely picked up the plate of stuff and eyed it doubtfully, he then glanced across at Darcy, who promptly pulled the tome out from under his pillow. Nash emitted a sigh and trailed disconsolately from the room, leaving Darcy to restore the book to it's hideout under his pillow.
"What on earth was that s...Darcy?"
"Life and times of some very boring man." Darcy fished around for a moment and pulled it out. "Ahh here we go, Life and times of Hector Hugh Haroldson."
"That's too bad to be real."
"It's also too bad to be readable." Darcy returned the book to its position and settled once more on his pillow. "Would you believe he took eight pages to describe his feelings on his first day of school?"
"I don't even remember my first day of school." Bingley responded frankly.
"Surprising, for me it was certainly a day I set about forgetting as soon as it was over." Darcy frowned. "What brought you here though? Surely you didn't come for my charming company?"
"Well, no." Bingley shifted in embarrassment.
"Then out with it." Darcy was more than slightly familiar with this Lieutenant's meandering habits of conversation, and today he hadn't the patience to sit through them.
"Well I was thinking of returning to Netherfield....I wondered whether you might not object to accompanying me."
"You are a damnable ass Bingley!" Darcy abruptly handed him a cup of now lukewarm tea. "I'm tied up in bed for a month, a fact you are aware of, and you come and ask me whether I want to go gallivanting up into Hertfordshire? Get that noggin checked."
"Dr Alastair to see you." Nash appeared for a few seconds, then pushed Alastair into the room.
"Ahh, the very man." Darcy sent the tea tray flying. "You are not interested in me Alastair, instead turn that beady eye of yours on Bing there and check to see if he has any brains."
"Why?" Alastair was calmly stripping off his coat.
"Because he was ass enough to ask whether I wanted to go to Hertfordshire."
"Why does that signify he has no brains?" Alastair opened his bag and started producing odds and ends which reminded Bingley of a movie he had seen the day before which had featured thumbscrews as the most preferred prop.
"Because you and Sister O'Niell are confining me to this blasted bed and feeding me slop...."
"Attempting, I have it on her good authority that you have yet to consume any of it." Alastair interrupted curtly.
"Okay, attempting to feed me slop, and he had the callous gall to propose a pleasure trip to me."
"Darcy.."
"Yes?"
"Shut up." Alastair continued pulling out his odds and ends.
"Why?" The question came after a brief pause.
"Because you are rambling my friend, and that is a sign I have a great dislike for."
"Why? You're always telling me to talk more."
"I didn't tell you to imitate Ashington-Frankston though. Try talking more...in a coherent and lucid manner. You sound like an escapee from bedlam."
"I feel like one." Darcy surrendered his arm without excessive protest.
"You are a nuisance Darcy." It was ten minutes later when Alastair spoke again.
"So I have been frequently told." Darcy was blinking somewhat muzzily.
"Well continue being one." Alastair finished packing away his stuff and with a firm hand he herded Bingley from the room. "You may as well clear out for a bit Bing, he's going to sleep until midnight....I hope."
"He was out until two last week." Nelli was standing in the hallway.
"Well don't panic unless four strikes and he still hasn't woken. When four strikes and he continues to sleep you have my permission to make as much noise as you like....and the sooner the better." Alastair stifled a yawn.
"What's wrong with him?" Bingley looked curiously at Alastair.
"Well he'll tell you nothing, I'll tell you that he's got anaemia......and he has it pretty badly."
"Uhh." Bingley looked very blank.
"Okay, in layman's terms his blood pressure is way, way down......well not his blood pressure so much as a critical part of it."
"Then why were you pulling it out of him?"
"Because low or not, it still has to behave as good blood. We're totally sunk, and he's probably dead, if his remaining blood starts to misbehave. Which reminds me, he won't take the 'slop', as he so elegantly terms it, how do you get the iron dose into him?"
"He takes it with a glass of water."
"Is he eating anything?"
"No." Nelli shook her head decidedly. "He won't touch the 'slop'....and neither will he say why he won't touch it."
"Well see if he'll take porridge. He needs to eat, but we can't risk solids yet."
"Why the slops anyway?" Bingley was looking, and feeling, totally bewildered.
"Typhoid has some unpleasant traits Bing, and frankly I have no intention of letting Darcy risk a ruptured intestine.....fortunately he knows the risks so he probably won't do anything too stupid."
"But surely that's not a problem, it's been a month since he was sick."
"Yes, in usual cases ten days of no fever usually fixes things..........but people usually don't spend those ten days haring about the place. Getting himself shot was not the smartest thing he's ever done....in fact getting sick at all was about the stupidest thing he could have done...short of walking across no man's land with a walking stick and a checked bookie's jacket."
"Will he be alright?" Bingley glanced nervously over his shoulder.
"Being Darcy, he will probably be fine. At a guess I'd say he'll be back on the front by the end of December.....Keep him in Hertfordshire as long as you possibly can."
"We-e-ell." Bingley hesitated, then shrugged. "I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you....November sometime he should be fit enough to join you." Alastair gave a curt nod and headed for the stairs, only to stop and look back. "Nash, tell Darcy his hovel is still abominable."
Thomlin frowned thoughtfully down at the ground, then glanced at the decidedly airsick private who sat in the observer's cockpit, then back down at the ground again. Fortunately the private appeared so airsick that he was unlikely to be even aware of what was happening around himself. Thomlin glanced down at the pad strapped on his leg and gravely read through his notes again then gave a slightly apologetic shrug, made a mental apology to the private just in case they didn't make it, then pushed the stick over, simultaneously kicking the rudder over. As they spun down on the central axis Thomlin counted the turns while his eyes darted around the wires and struts, totally alert for the first movement which might indicate he was about to shed his wings. It caught his attention just as he flattened out to pull out of the spin. Without waiting for a second Thomlin shoved the plane over on its wing slipping into a viciously fast side slip, dropping hundreds of feet in only a few seconds. Thomlin watched as the earth welled up and blocked his vision, vaguely he could hear the Private screaming, but it didn't disturb Thomlin, he was too busy fighting to save their lives and he still wasn't sure if he could do it. Thomlin stared at the growing clump of trees, half an eye still focussed on the starboard wing, then with a breath he shoved the stick across wrenching the 'plane out of the slip and sending it scudding across the tree tops shedding pace as fast as he could by ripping the undercart through the light upper foliage. The wing went with a tearing grind of material and the 'plane plunged savagely into the edge of the trees while Thomlin kicked viciously at the controls, the last thing he wanted was for the engine to fall on top of them as it sheared from its holding bolts. With a sickening screech the 'plane settled into the upper branches of the tree before sliding and plunging nose first towards the ground. Thomlin leapt from the plane as it slid over and started to fall to the ground. Half a minute later he had finished his descent from the tree tops at a much more decorous pace and went straight to the wreck. The Private lay motionlessly under a largish lump of plywood, but other then being out cold he appeared undamaged. Thomlin yanked the ply aside and started cleaning up the wreck with the use of a small hacksaw and some wire cutters, he was acquainted with very few land owners who actually liked the idea of having a wrecked aeroplane left behind. Had the plane been worthwhile salvaging Thomlin would not have touched it, but there was hardly a single part of the plane still intact.
"What the....?" The irate voice caused Thomlin to turn and he saw the irritated Private sitting up and rubbing his head.
"Oh, finally decided to wake up have you? Here, lend a hand with straightening this up and cleaning it up." Thomlin pitched over the second pack of saw and cutters.
"WHAT!" It was a cry of outrage which came in response.
"You heard me." Thomlin continued cutting the wires which prevented him from separating the prop from the mainframe.
"Listen, NO ONE crashes me then expects me to clean up the mess they made."
"Suit yourself, but you'll have an insubordination charge filed and passed against you within two hours of our return." Thomlin didn't bother glancing back at the Private.
"Wait a minute...." The Private grabbed the back of Thomlin's flying jacket and didn't see the fist until it was too late, his world dissolved back into darkness and stars.
"About time I had some silence." Thomlin gave his hand a shake and finished freeing the prop and turned his attention to the engine casing. Thomlin had nearly finished when the Private came around again. Wheels, prop, engine and general wiring were piled in one place, wood and canvas were piled in another place, Thomlin was busy separating the seats from the large chunk of plywood which served as the floor of these planes.
"Sir."
"Yes." Thomlin chucked the first seat into the metal pile.
"What happened?"
"The wing partially sheared at approximately 1,000 feet when we started to exit a spin. Being unable to come properly out of the spin without losing the wing we descended to the height of twelve feet in a slip, ripped the tops off a few trees with our undercart before descending to the ground at a pace suitably decelerated that we did not perish as we impacted with the ground." Thomlin threw the second seat across to the pile and finally straightened up stiffly. It was starting to feel like test piloting was not such a good idea, his rib cage had not been the same since that crash back in July.
"I'm sorry sir. I don't think I was thinking."
"Few people do after they've fallen nearly one thousand feet in a very short space of time and been knocked unconscious. Now on your feet or this mess won't be retrieved until after dark.....unless you wish to sit guard over it." Thomlin decided he must be getting old, had it been a year previously he would have probably withered the private out, but now he just accepted the excuse and gave an option of action.
"No thanks." The Private came to his feet rather unsteadily.
"HEY!" The cry stopped Thomlin and he turned to see a decidedly large man approaching. "What do you mean by landing there?"
"We didn't land, we crashed. Now would you be able to direct us to a telephone so we can call up and get this mess removed."
"That's ridiculous."
"Would you prefer we had crashed into your house?"
"Wha.." The man spluttered in outrage for a minute.
"We very nearly did, I can assure you. Now please, a telephone." Thomlin waited while the man spluttered for perhaps another minute then finally turned again and started to walk away. The Private hesitated nervously then followed Thomlin. The man continued to splutter until he realised he had no audience left, then stalked off in offence, he fully intended to send a strongly worded letter to the Times about this careless use of public funds and the total want of respect which was given to civilians.
It was late afternoon, almost evening when Thomlin finally delivered himself and the Private back to the aerodrome. That was one 'plane that was unlikely to ever make it to any front, let alone the western front.
"Thomlin!" General Carter was lounging around the driveway as they descended from the truck.
"Evening sir." Thomlin paused briefly to give instructions to the driver before finally walking over to where the General stood.
"Come into my office as soon as you've cleaned up."
"Yes sir." Thomlin marched off, only to be stopped by the Private.
"What do I do sir?"
"Get rid of your coat and arrange some transport back to your camp, there should be a tender leaving within the next hour or two." Thomlin turned and continued into his barracks. The use of a sponge, water and a comb did much to improve his appearance and five minutes later had Thomlin knocking on Carter's door.
"Come in." Carter glanced up as Thomlin entered. "It does improve you a lot to take the blood off your face. Take a seat Colonel." Carter waited until Thomlin had sat down. "You know I'm almost sorry for you."
"Is that so?" Thomlin paused. "That doesn't sound good."
"No, it's not good, considering what you usually do." Carter gave a slight grin. "Tomorrow your orders instruct that you take a 'plane of your choice and go to Squadron 284. On arrival you are required to hand your papers to an interesting individual character called Denny and issue orders for the current C.O. to be shipped off to hospital."
"What papers?"
"These papers." Carter shoved the stack across. "Either that or you can go via Paris and have a talk with a certain Colonel Johnstone who is Wing Intelligence for the region."
"Why do you almost pity me?" Thomlin had risen to his feet, then paused and looked back.
"Because of the squadron, it's more commonly known as the 'Cads of the Flying Corps'. They've run through two C.O.'s already, they've got the highest fatality rate on the front, they've got the lowest number of kills, they have the highest crash ratio and they have the highest alcohol consumption. There are precisely two left of the original twelve that went out there, and there are currently six members in the squadron."
"That's not a Squadron." Thomlin's tone was definite.
"They still cover their three flights a day, so we call them a Squadron. The Squadron-Leader is one certain Lord James Ashington-Frankston."
"I see." Thomlin hesitated. "What did I do?"
"I beg your pardon?" Carter looked stunned.
"What did I do? Why am I being sent to the most bombed out squadron in the Flying Corps?"
"If I knew that I might manage to change it. I'm damn sorry you're going but I'm afraid that the orders came direct from level one and there's nothing I can do about it."
"Well maybe Johnstone can answer the question. Good day sir." Thomlin abruptly marched from the room, for the second time in his life he was tempted to retire, this had left a very bitter aftertaste in his mouth. What had he done? Why was he being sent out? Why a paper pushing job? He was no damn good at it, only the Flying Corps had prevented him from retiring within days of his attaining the rank of Colonel. Thomlin suddenly kicked out viciously and five seconds later terrified ack-emma's were scrambling around madly as they prepped a test watched by the icey eyes of 'Old Icey'. Five minutes later 'Minnie' was in the air and seconds later it had vanished from sight.
"Jeez." Geordie scratched his head as he stared at the tree tops which still waved from the passage of the 'plane. Had Geordie been asked he would have almost bet his pay that Thomlin was out to kill himself, that plane hadn't been out since Thomlin had totally smashed it while landing, two words from Thomlin had put the plane on the untouchable list, but the landing had put Thomlin in hospital with fractured ribs. Geordie propped himself against the hanger and waited in silence.
"Geordie you are insane." Callan paused briefly beside the ack-emma, and for his pains all he received was a faint twitch of one eyebrow.
"Ahh, leave 'im alone Callan. 'E's obsessed."
"Yeah." Callan snorted briefly as he marched away and darkness followed soon afterwards and Geordie began nervously searching the sky, watching for the dark shadow which would announce the return of the Colonel.
"What the....!!!" The explosive exclamation came simultaneously with a heavy drag on Geordie's feet.
"Pardon sir." Geordie scrambled to his feet and saluted nervously, he recognised General Carter's voice and was in no hurry to fall foul of that man.
"Don't tell me Thomlin's not yet returned?" Carter stared at the diminutive ack-emma who was known generally as 'Icey's ack'.
"Uhhh, no sir. But he's still got over half a tank."
"It's also dark." Carter frowned as Geordie merely responded by tilting his head slightly.
"He's Colonel Thomlin, sir." It was a good minute later when Geordie spoke.
"Let's hope that faith is not misplaced. Tell him when he arrives I wish to see him before he leaves tomorrow."
"Yes sir." Geordie almost fell over as the General turned to leave. What was this? Thomlin leaving? Geordie just couldn't accept the idea, Thomlin was a fixture at Farnborough.
"JAMES!" The mighty yell had Thomlin's eyes searching the crowd, the voice was familiar but he couldn't say why. "JAMES!" The yell came again and by now half the packed train station were looking to find out who possessed the powerful lungs.
"Hello Johnstone." Thomlin nodded curtly as he shouldered his pack. "Enjoy making a spectacle of yourself?"
"Always the same Thomlin." Johnstone shoved a path to the exit. "Come, I'll stand you lunch. There is a magnificent little pub near here."
"Always the same Johnstone. Care to tell me why I got bundled out here?" Thomlin readjusted his pack as he forced his way through the crowd.
"I was afraid you'd ask that." Johnstone paused to glare at a private who had been slow in getting out of the way. "It was actually a special request made by me."
"You mean you deliberately asked the Airboard to send me out here? Are you off your head Johnstone?" Thomlin nearly stopped where he stood.
"No, I'll tell you more over lunch. I didn't make the original request, it actually came from a Lieutenant-Colonel, who had it from a former Flying-Lieutenant who is somewhat concerned that the Squadron-Leader is about to die. The Lieutenant got your name from some previous flight-leader of his, it's all horribly convoluted and I won't go into it in the middle of the street."
"I've heard more than enough already." Thomlin growled the last as they cleared the station.
"Nothing of the kind, you've heard the official report. You need the real report.....told in my own inimitable way."
"I need it like a hole the head....your inimitable way is imitated by ninety percent of the current brainless youths. Carter is persuaded that I crashed into 10 Downing Street, he can think of no other reason for why I've been shoved out here."
"Oh do dry up." Johnstone shoved an entrance into the packed little pub and soon Thomlin found himself morosely pushing a rubbery egg around with his fork while seated at a small table. "Now you have been sent out here to rescue the worst squadron in the world. It got assigned to you because I think you're the only one who could cope with the Squadron-Leader."
"The second son of an Earl? He has the reputation of a fool......Bosher seems to think he's the greatest fool in England."
"Save any analysis until after you have known him for a while. Ashie's an interesting one, win him on side and you'll be able to make a miracle. Get on his bad side and you'll follow the current C.O. and the one before him."
"And what's that?"
"Dead drunk. Current one reportedly has made three murder attempts on Ashie this past week."
"Man sounds insane."
"It's Rowland, he's dead drunk, been so for a while."
"Maybe I'll give the Squadron-Leader a medal." Thomlin's voice was sarcastic.
"Maybe you should."
"If you're trying to sell this as a good idea you are failing miserably."
"I'm not selling anything, I'm trying to save a Squadron which is incredibly useful to me and hoping not to kill you in the process."
The board had been hammered deep into the sun-baked earth and what it read brought a slight smile to Thomlin's face:
A final touch had been added by a skull and crossbones dripping blood in the bottom right hand corner.
"Cads of the Flying Corps?" Thomlin lifted a curious eyebrow.
"Don't actually know how they came by it, but we have reason to believe that Ashie was one of the original 'Cads of Harrow' a cricket team that took a tour of the midlands and got thrashed every single last game they played. I think the best score in the entire tour was all out for 52....I think the top score was 45 in that game." Johnstone continued on and led the way around to the tarmac. There were three occupants at the edge of the tarmac, so Thomlin propped his pack and case against the wall before following Johnstone over to where the men sat.
"'Ullo Johnstone, long time since you've been around to be a nuisance."
"Long time since you've given me an excuse to be a nuisance. How's Rowland?"
"Ashie's due back in five. Take a seat an' you can ask 'im."
"Ashie still got that ban up Katt?"
"Of course, ban remains constan', only the Squadron-Leader answers questions abou' the C.O." Katt's response brought Thomlin's brows together sharply, it seemed strange to say the least.
"Well I'm glad to hear I haven't missed him for the day." Johnstone leant up against the wall of a nearby shed. "Meet Colonel Thomlin."
"Our new C.O. is 'e?" Katt subjected Thomlin to a sharp inspection. "Well if 'e's 'oo I think 'e is then 'e prob'ly knows one end o' the plane from t' other." Silence then enveloped the tarmac until it was broken by aero engines some minutes later, two planes came in at tree top level and landed in very quick succession, managing to stop directly in front of the hangers. The skill shown in the landing drew a soft hiss from Thomlin as the two pilots hopped out of their cramped cockpits, the two pilots were arguing the minute they reached the ground, and the argument continued as they crossed to the recording office and vanished inside.
"Jarvis....looks like Jarvis' gone west." Katt rose stiffly to his feet as he spoke and strolled across into one of the nearby barracks, he soon returned and with a hefty kick he had the other two scrambling to their feet and they crossed the hangers where a single ack-emma was struggling with a 'plane. But ten minutes later the 'planes were up in the air.
"Looks like life must have been a bit rough for them." Thomlin made the observation to himself as his eyes took in the torn streamers of canvas and the scored woodwork. It was a matter of a brief to walk across to where the planes stood and Thomlin was back in a world where he reigned supreme and unchallenged. It was with thoughtful eyes that he noted the changes which had been made to the Sopwith Pups since he had last seen one, most of the changes brought an approving nod from Thomlin, but one change brought a sharp frown to his face and sent Thomlin scrambling up into the plane.
"Oi!" It was a sharp call which finally drew Thomlin's attention away from the dubious modification. There was an angry looking ack-emma glaring up at him. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"
"Looking." Thomlin returned to his inspection of the structure and totally ignored the ack-emma, who moved off after wasting a moment muttering dire remarks. Thomlin finished his inspection and slid down out of the plane and headed to the next one, where to his surprise the dubious modification was not to be seen. Thomlin scratched his head, then scrambled back up into the first plane, why this plane had a modification and the other had spelt interference on the part of the pilot, which was highly unusual. Thomlin went swiftly through the checklist which had become as familiar as life itself and on which his life spent an awful lot of time resting. Calculations flickered through his head as he calculated the various stresses and strains that were usually put on the mainframe of the aeroplane. He hadn't the faintest idea what the modification was there for, but he fully intended to have worked it out before he descended from the plane. It was probably five minutes later when he became aware that he was no longer alone and that someone was leaning against the tail watching silently. From the slightly damp condition of his uniform and the dark stain of castor oil on one shoulder Thomlin deduced that it was probably the owner of the 'plane come to check him out.
"Finding it interesting?" The man spoke up when he realised that he had Thomlin's attention.
"Quite. Unless that," Thomlin indicated the suspect modification, "is there to re-enforce the centre strut it is more of a liability then a use to you."
"I find that it enables sharper turning at higher velocities."
"Quite possibly, but some day your tail will fall off thanks to the unbalanced forces and then you'll really be in a mess. I assume you must be the Squadron Leader, Captain Ashington-Frankston."
"You assume quite correctly. I believe Denny wants to see your papers so he can finish work for the day."
"Then I'll go hand them over." Thomlin swung down out of the plane and headed for Denny's office, leaving Ashie to frown after him with a peculiar look.
"Something up Ashie?" Lieutenant James 'Pyro' Angel formerly of His Majesties Navy appeared from the hangers and came to stand by his Flight-Leader.
"I'm not sure." Ashie was still staring in the direction which Thomlin had left, even though that officer was no longer to be seen. "What do we know of Colonel James Thomlin?"
"Not much beyond he's considered to be the best flier in the world, cold blooded as they come, and what he doesn't know about any British or french aeroplane currently flying isn't worth knowing. There's also some rumour that he probably nearly knows as much about German aircraft as well, but neither have I heard it backed up and Mac over at 83 certainly doesn't mention the matter."
"Maybe I'll swing by 83 Squadron tomorrow." Ashie finally looked away from the shed which housed the records office and glanced up at the modification he had made. "But maybe I'll look into shifting that first."
"What did he say that made you suddenly decide to remove it?" Pyro looked curious, since he had heard none of the conversation which passed between the new C.O. and Ashie, though he had been there when the ack-emma Saine had come up bubbling about someone in Ashie's plane.
"He refers to it as more of a liability then an asset unless it's trying to reinforce the centre strut, which any fool could see it was not doing." Ashie's face was thoughtful as he stared up at the criss-crossing wires and struts. "I wonder how he knows it would be a liability, the plane hasn't moved since I landed and Saine said that he never actually touched it."
"I couldn't say, but Mac treats Thomlin's name with an awful lot of respect. I don't think he's someone to play games with."
"I never intended to." Ashie's response was short as he turned away from his plane. "Saine and I ought to be able to get that removed before dawn patrol tomorrow. You coming Pyro or do you intend to sleep in again?"
"I'm coming." Pyro followed Ashie away from the planes and towards the small cramped barrack which was attached to the hangers.
"Saine!" The little Frenchman came tumbling out of the barracks. "We're getting that extra modification off, get moving."
"I'll go see how long you have before dinner." Pyro moved off with a faint smile, for all Ashie's harebrained stunts and running of horrific risks he took remarkably good care of himself and those around him. Some might not believe it, but Ashie didn't go looking for trouble, it just came and made a challenge, after all you couldn't expect Ashie to ignore a challenge.
"Lieutenant." It was a soft call but it brought Pyro to a skidding halt immediately.
"Sir!" Pyro saluted stiffly.
"I have not been informed as to where I can put my things, might you have some ideas?"
"Well," Pyro blinked, momentarily staggered by the unexpected question. "Most of us either pile on the mess table, or leave it in the barracks. There's an office on the otherside of the records room, but I believe Rowland is still meant to be in there." In Pyro's experience C.O.s made demands, they did not ask questions.
"Thank you, could you show me the mess?"
"It's the door on the end of that building over there." Pyro waved his hand in the direction of the building mentioned.
"Thank you very much." Thomlin moved a couple of steps off, then stopped. "You look remarkably like your brother Lieutenant Angel, I'm somewhat surprised that you haven't been mistaken for him." Thomlin moved off again leaving one stunned and very worried officer behind him. Pyro turned and hurried towards the hangers again, how Thomlin knew his brother and what Thomlin knew of his brother was a mystery to Pyro, but Pyro didn't like the situation at all.
"Ashie!"
"What?" Ashie came down so fast from his plane it looked like he had fallen.
"There could be trouble up coming." Pyro led the way away from the plane and out onto the tarmac.
"Why?"
"Our new C.O. seems to know an about my brother."
"Why do you think that could be trouble?" Ashie's brows drew together sharply.
"This Thomlin isn't any old C.O., I think Johnstone had something to do with his coming here. He's the highest ranked C.O. in the Flying Corps, all the rest are Majors as far as I know. Thomlin is an experienced flier and has been test piloting since before the war began, I don't know why they pulled him out of that and dumped him with a paper work job."
"Maybe something else intervened, as I remember he was in hospital with a couple of broken ribs when we went through the Flying course." Ashie shrugged. "Looks like dinner's on, tell Morgan to save some for me, I'll be in when Saine and I have the old plane back in operational order." Ashie watched in silence as Pyro headed towards the mess, then turned and slowly returned to where Saine was working on his plane. Ashie rarely said precisely what he thought, and he certainly never voiced his thoughts when they were even more worried than the person who had initially raised the issue. To say that Ashie was concerned would be an understatement, how the hell someone else even knew that Pyro had a brother was an even bigger problem, for Angel was most certainly not the true family name of the brothers, it was in fact the third family name Pyro had possessed in his life.....besides which the only similarity between the brothers was in the occasional expression, there was certainly no similarity in features. Angel was a name that had been produced to get him safely into the armed forces without too many questions being asked. Ashie himself knew the real family name thanks to a regrettable accident which had landed both of them in a London prison while they had still been at the flying school. Ashie felt the matter damn fishy that Colonel Thomlin had been brought in to replace their C.O., in fact Ashie was surprised that the entire Squadron hadn't been scattered as widely as possible.
"What did Pyro want?" Saine looked down inquisitively as Ashie paused under the wing.
"Accommodation problems with our new C.O., Rowland is currently occupying the office and this new one needs a place for his junk." Ashie lied calmly and knew that he was actually speaking a degree of truth since they would have some difficulty in housing Thomlin until Rowland was dispatched back to England.
"Captain." It was three hours when the voice spoke. The voice caught Ashie by surprise since Saine had departed some ten minutes earlier, and he turned awkwardly to see who had spoken to him from his position on the wing.
"'Evening sir." Ashie cautiously returned to the body of the plane before descending to the ground. "Anything the matter?"
"Not at all, I merely noticed that the time was nearly midnight and there was still work happening out here."
"Not work." Ashie rubbed the scar ridge that ran across the side of his neck as he sought for a suitable answer. "Just a curious look see." Ashie shrugged slightly.
"I see you pulled off the extra modification." Thomlin noted the feature in surprise.
"It takes a matter of ten minutes to put on again." Ashie shrugged. "You said it was a liability, so I pulled it off. I was going to ask you why you called it a liability tomorrow."
"I can explain it now if you want a crash course in the design of a pup."
"I'd be quite interested." Ashie responded warily but honestly.
"My stuff is currently occupying a table in the mess, let's go there." Thomlin moved off to the mess and after a pause, to grab a cloth to wipe the grease off his hands, Ashie followed him. The Mess at Squadron 243 was literally a mess, when he had first seen it Thomlin had doubted that there was a single object which was without something balanced on it unless it could not have something balanced on it. The tables and chairs were piled high with bits and pieces from aircraft, cameras and guns. A Lewis gun in the dismantled condition shared a table with a partially completed game of chess and half a camera, on another table checkers vied for space with a half completed game of cribbage and the stick from an aeroplane. Ashie carelessly cleared the contents of one table onto the floor, and emptied the two seats in much the same manner.
"Take a seat Colonel, you'll probably lose me very fast, but I'm always willing to learn something new."
"We'll see." Thomlin carefully sat down on the chair which had been cleared for him and pulled a plan out and laid it on the table, then sat back to watch Ashie's response. The response he received however was nothing like what he expected, most of the people who viewed one of these plans without first having first some idea of how they operated would have thrown their hands up in disgust. But Ashie merely knitted his brows and leant over the plan and stared intently at it, uttering not a single sound until he tipped his chair back onto its four legs with a satisfied grunt.
"Three dimensional, two dimensional design. I remember trying to draw a cube in that manner at Harrow, the teacher gave up in disgust and I was kicked out of the class." Ashie gave a slight grin as he made the remark.
"Recognise anything else?" Thomlin was curious to say the least.
"Not a blessed thing, but then neither can I tell wires from solids when the solids are drawn as a framework." Ashie bent forward over the plan again, once more knitting his brows. Thomlin was curious to see how long this would go on for until Ashie asked for some help. "I assume this is actually the plan for a Sopwith Pup?"
"Structural only, the Germans would pay very little or nothing to get their hands on it, they can get much more reliable information by collecting one of the wrecks which get scattered around and analyzing that."
"Never thought it might be cashed in on, but I don't want you to have any fun by asking me to find similarities between a pup and some product of someone else's imagination." Ashie hadn't looked up from the plan in the entire exchange and this response brought Thomlin's brows together abruptly.
"Care to answer some questions Captain?"
"Depends on the question?" Ashie shoved his chair back and kicked his feet up onto the table top. Though his attitude appeared relaxed and confident, Ashie's tone was definitely wary.
"How about I ask and you decide whether to answer or not?" Thomlin proffered the idea.
"Right-o."
"How does this Squadron operate?"
"It doesn't." Ashie calmly responded.
"Then how do you get all three flights done a day?"
"Well I run dawn with Pyro and whoever else is awake.....if no one's awake we water the lot of them. Katt takes the mid-morning patrol, Jarvis the evening....actually we've re-shuffled since Jarvis went west, and Pyro and I run the afternoon flight for the most part. You take whoever is around up with you."
"Meals?"
"Morgan cooks and we eat when hungry. Usually after dawn patrol and before all the others." Ashie shrugged, then abruptly smothered a yawn.
"Frankly that setup is scandalous." Thomlin was hard pressed not to look startled, his remark had been a major understatement. The setup was not scandalous, it was so thoroughly rotten that Thomlin was amazed that it worked.
"Isn't it just, but it works." Ashie bit back another yawn and cast a glance at his watch while Thomlin frowned off into space.
"Hmm." Thomlin frowned for a minute. "If you've got dawn patrol you better get some sleep."
"True." Ashie crossed to the door, only to leap backwards and dive wildly behind the sofa. Thomlin frowned in perplexity at such peculiar behaviour then looked up curiously as the door opened.
"Whars dat mug-ump?" The man slurred his words badly as he staggered around.
"I beg your pardon?" Thomlin blinked, then realised that it was Rowland.
"Ahh, thar tha ist. Ahh'll get thee, tha bloomin' pomerganit!" Thomlin leapt nimbly out of his chair as Rowland staggered in his direction. "Wharred ye go?" Rowland blinked foggily around. "Ahh'll get thee yet naggeril." Thomlin winced at the way the large bottle was waving around, then blinked as he saw Ashie edging towards the door. "AHH!" It came out as a mighty roar. "There tha ist!" And to Thomlin's horror he watched as Rowland dove for Ashie.
"GET DENNY!" The yell rang out desperately and split seconds later an immense tussle had begun. Thomlin hesitated barely a second before he strolled over and lashed out with one accurate booted foot, Rowland slumped and became motionless and Ashie promptly proceeded to struggle out from underneath the Major. "You shouldn't have done that." Ashie was fighting for his breath but shook his head in response to Thomlin's lifted eyebrow. "Just winded, his knee impacted on my diaphragm."
"Get moving, I'll deal with Rowland when he comes to."
"Uhh." Ashie hesitated.
"Are you questioning my decisions?" Thomlin froze his tone over.
"No sir, but I am questioning your wisdom."
"I have it on excellent authority that I am a fool, now go."
"Yes.......sir." Ashie turned abruptly and left the room.
"What ha......oh." It was five minutes later when Denny came into the room. "You okay sir?" Denny glanced at the placid looking Thomlin.
"Yes, though Rowland will be a bit sore when he wakes up." Thomlin glanced briefly at the bound figure which lay on a nearby table. "And unless he's careful about waking up he'll be even sorer."
"Sir..." Denny paused.
"No one tries to brain a member of my Squadron."
"Uhhh, yes sir." Denny met the chilly eyes briefly and wondered what they had got themselves into, maybe calling Mac in to help was not such a good idea.
"Can you answer some questions?"
"Maybe." Denny remained standing.
"Why is Rowland drunk?"
"He kept drinking sir." Denny responded blandly, then took two involuntary steps backwards as Thomlin gave him a sharp look.
"The truth, please."
"I can't tell you because I don't have an answer."
"Do you know anyone who could?"
"No."
"Hmmm." Thomlin frowned at the Recording Officer for a minute, then with a shrug he returned to his seat. "You better get some sleep."
"Yes sir. Just yell if you have a problem."
"I won't." Thomlin watched as Denny left, then pulled the sheets out of his folder and was soon engrossed.
It was ten to five when Thomlin exited the mess, it was nearly light enough to fly and as he understood the matter the dawn patrol was due to fly in ten minutes. Thomlin paused on whim and glanced into one of the barracks, four flyers were sleeping soundly in there. Thomlin frowned, but moved on, it was possible that dawn patrol did not occur at five and frankly until he had things worked out he wasn't intending to annoy people. It had been pure stupidity which had caused him to make the remark concerning Lieutenant Angel's brother last night. On a thought Thomlin turned and strolled to the Recording Office, much to his surprise he found Denny scribbling away industriously while conversing to someone on the telephone.
"....Eh, C.O. just came, got to skip. Will call back later to get the rest of it...........no new one......will do, I'll call at eleven." Denny hung up the telephone and scribbled a couple more words on his pad before looking up. "Can I help?"
"I was wondering whether you could supply a timetable of when things occur."
"Sure." Denny produced a clean sheet of paper and scribbled on it briefly. "Here you go. One piece of advice, ignore dawn patrol unless they are late off the ground.....if they're late, you may freely let hell lose and it won't be held against you."
"I see." Thomlin frowned at the piece of paper then glanced out the window, where there had previously been nothing there was now furious activity. Thomlin glanced at his watch, three minutes until the dawn patrol was to take off and three planes were now on the tarmac being prepped. Thomlin watched silently his eyes flicking between tarmac and watch. Three minutes later Thomlin gently shut his clock with an impressed whistle, with three seconds to spare the flight had left the ground.
"Does this place have a car?"
"Old rust-bucket." Denny's tone was disparaging. "If you want to go anywhere you'd best use Ashie's cycle....though watch it, it has a vicious character."
"Any 'planes the C.O. can use?"
"Aye." Denny rubbed his head. "There's a pup, but it'll probably need some work."
"No matter." Thomlin rubbed his hand thoughtfully then turned and headed across to the hangers. A brief consultation with the only Ack-emma Thomlin had seen, produced the necessary Pup, and it was with thinned lips that Thomlin eyed the machine over. Thomlin then returned to the recording office. "Denny."
"Aye?"
"When does the mail go from this place?"
"Doesn't actually." Denny scratched a rueful head. "We just cart our mail across to 83 whenever we need something to go out, and at the same time we collect anything which might have arrived." Denny gave a shrug.
"I see." Thomlin turned and abruptly walked into the office behind the recording office. Thomlin returned a few seconds later with a grimace of distaste on his face and he walked straight out and across to the pup, before he turned and retrieved the mechanic kit from inside the hanger.
Ashie paused, just looking around the aerodrome. He still had a niggling feeling that this wasn't the best option, but it was too late to turn back now.
"Hey! Ashie! What brings you here?" Mac pushed up from his comfortable seat leaning against the sun-warmed hanger and crossed to where Ashie was finally stripping off his helmet. Mac had been leaning against Nero 'til Ashie had come in to land, but Nero had abruptly objected to being used as a pillow so Mac had had to substitute him with the hanger wall.
"Mail first." Ashie handed out the couple of envelopes.
"Well I'm afraid there's nothing I can hand back."
"Not to worry, I wasn't actually expecting you'd have any." Ashie hesitated, then abruptly blew out his breath. "What do you know of Colonel J Thomlin, RFC?"
"Now why do you ask me about him?" Mac leant against the wing and looked thoughtfully up at Ashie.
"Because I'm just curious." Ashie hedged.
"Arrived has he?" Mac paused. "Mind if I pay a visit tomorrow?"
"Well I can hardly stop you." Ashie bent down and picked his helmet and goggles up from the floor of the cockpit.
"You in a hurry?" Mac watched as Ashie started pulling on his helmet.
"You might say that, Pyro can only fly loops for so long without running into trouble."
"All I'll say is don't change unless Thomlin objects to it." Mac finally stepped back, only to immediately return. "And don't worry, if Thomlin doesn't like something you're more then likely to hear about."
"Immediately?" Ashie lifted an eyebrow.
"Usually two or three days later."
"Oh hell!" With that exclamation Ashie pulled his goggles down.
"I couldn't have said it better." Mac stepped forward and gave Ashie's prop a practiced spin. Ashie waved a hand as he surged forward for take-off and Mac gave a nod as he sank back to his seat against the hanger, he had a faint smile dancing across his lips as his eyes followed the vanishing fighter. "I think....." Mac paused and shifted.
"You're thinking Mac? That can't be good for you." Freddie came from the recording office.
"Mmm, that's why I do it so rarely." Mac gave a yawn. "I think life is about to become more interesting."
"Why do you say that?" Freddie found his life far to interesting already.
"Because the Cads just got their new C.O."
"Well give him my condolences if you see him before I do." Freddie turned to leave.
"Oh I will, though I doubt he'll want your condolences, I'd sooner condole those who are happy with the Cads as they are."
"You're one peculiar bird Mac. Why do you think the Cads will change, they've safely dealt with two C.O.s already."
"Neither C.O. was Colonel J Thomlin."
"Oh." Freddie stopped dead in his tracks, then gave slow nod and headed back towards the Recording Office, he did not actually share Mac's optimistic appraisal of the situation, but only the stupid remained to argue when Nero was around, the local wildlife were never a pleasant surprise to find in your bed.
Author's note: My thanks to Joanna and Tineke for their translating of this.
Chris paused in his work and stared up into the clear, cloudless blue sky. Swallows swooped and chased each other, but Chris could not help but shiver, something was coming. This had been lasting too long to be good, something would go soon and he had to be ready for it.
"Jules!" Marguerite's voice jerked Chris' head around.
"Mevrouw?" Jules laid his shovel aside and lumbered heavily across to where Marguerite stood. Madam?
"Als ge vanavond in 't stad komt, wilt ge dan wat zout gaan halen?" When you're in town this evening, could you get some salt.
"Zeker mevrouw." Jules turned and lumbered back to his work, where he remained until he had to milk the cows. Yes madam. After cows Jules lumbered slowly down the hill and into the town. Two hours later Jules was lumbering back up the hill and a few minutes later a light sprang up in one upstairs. Chris' fingers were stiff as he quickly unrolled the cigarette which he had acquired during the evening and tucked behind his ear, the thin ring of gold paper around it had Chris' fingers numbing out. Only once in what was now a year and a half had Chris seen this particular type of cigarette, and that had ended in the execution of three of his best men. Seconds later the piece of paper was rolled out flat and a few seconds after that a map of Belgium which any staff officer would have gladly killed for was spread out on the table top. Twenty minutes after that and a small fire was kindled in the grate and the cigarette and the map were reduced to crumbled ashes, the light was then snuffed and Chris walked slowly across to the window.
"Jules." Marguerite's call was soft and Jules blinked sleepily from his seat by the window, the soft light of dawn was creeping through the window and the cows were lowing loudly. "Jules, ge zijt te laat voor de koeien." Jules, you are late for the cows.
"Oh." Jules paused, gave a brief nod, then finally stood up from the windowsill and began to change his shirt. Five minutes later the cows were being milked, a few other chores and Jules was back inside consuming his breakfast. "Mevrouw, ik moet even weg." It was Chris who spoke as he stood up from the table, but it was Jules who left the room. Madame, I must leave for a bit.
"What's the matter?" The question came sharply as the 'plane ran to a silent stand still.
"Trouble." Chris said no more until Uncle Mac had descended from the cockpit and they'd stepped a bit back from the 'plane.
"How bad?"
"Very, we're going to be punctured next week unless they're distracted. The puncture is on the 3rd link and we'll all goes if that goes."
"We can't lose you!" Uncle Mac tensed. "You're dead behind the Somme front and without your information we'd be dead."
"We'll go within a week unless a distraction occurs. Hesson can take over, I'll shunt the weak parts into new positions, then set the distraction going. Things will be firmly settled by the time the distraction has finished and the line can probably last for a few weeks, if not more then a month or two."
"But........It's a damnable risk."
"What's the other option? That we all die?.....Which reminds me, Marguerite needs to be got to safety before I blow my cover, nothing doing if she's going to suffer at all."
"At worst all she'll suffer from is homesickness. But Chris..."
"Have you any other ideas of how this can be saved? I've shown you all I have on the situation. I'm very open for suggestions, I spent the whole of last night developing that one." Chris interrupted curtly, there was a few minutes silence and then Uncle Mac shook his head.
"No, nothing I can think of right now."
"So, we'll take my plan. Marguerite needs to be gone by wednesday. I'll blow my cover on thursday. Don't expect me in Holland before about the 25th, possibly later."
"What of the border?" Uncle Mac looked sharply at Chris.
"I'll get across my own way."
"Right." Uncle Mac rose stiffly to his feet. "I'll let Tarleton know you're incoming."
"Don't bother, or at least, not until the 25th."
"Whatever." Uncle Mac stifled a yawn and then frowned and looked about to say something when he was interrupted by a soft hale from the aeroplane.
"Sir?"
"What is it?" Uncle Mac went flying back to the aeroplane.
"Company incoming."
"Oh damn. Give us a spin Angel." Uncle Mac scrambled up into his cockpit.
"Don't bother making a return trip." Chris spoke as he wound the propeller around.
"Right." Uncle Mac's response was drowned in the bellow of the Fee's engine and Chris promptly dove into the nearby hedge, he didn't stop moving until some five minutes later, when he turned and looked back at the Fee which was nearly out of sight now. It was with a bitter flavour in his mouth that Chris turned and continued his return to Breque, if only the plane three months ago had made a similarly clean escape.
Four days later Breque was bubbling, first Marguerite, the widow who hadn't left home in twenty-five years had abruptly left to visit a distant relative in Brussels, and now the Military Police had arrived, it was said that they had a lead.
"Hey! Jan!" Leon of the Inn called over the back fence to his neighbour of forty-five years.
"Wat?" What?
"Hebt ge dat ook gehoord van dien embras deze morgen bij Weduwe Blanc?" You hear of the fuss up at Widow Blanc's this morning?
"Embras bij Marguerite? Nee, ik had daar nog niets over gehoord." Jan drove his fork into the garden and came across to the fence. A fuss up at Marguerite's? No I hadn't heard of it. "Wat voor een embras?" What fuss?
"De militaire politie is er binnengevallen rond 2 uur deze morgen en hebben de hele boel kant en klein geslagen." The military police went charging up there at two this morning and have been ripping the place to shreds ever since.
"Waarom? Marguerite heeft toch nooit iets gedaan." Why? Marguerite never did anything.
"Wel, ik weet het niet zeker, maar het schijnt dat Jules een Britse agent was. 't Schijnt dat een van zijn companen hem verraden heeft of zoiets." Well I'm not certain sure, but it seems that Jules was a British agent as they call them. Seems that one of his compatriots split on him or something like.
"Hebben ze hem kunnen vangen?" Did they get him?
"Wie? Jules?....Ik weet het niet....maar ik denk van niet, tenzij ze hem onmiddellijk hebben doodgeschoten maar dat is niets voor hen." Who? Jules?....I don't know.....but I don't think so, unless he was shot immediately and that isn't like them at all.
"Ik heb nooit begrepen waarom ze die niet onmiddellijk doodschieten." Jan shook his head dolefully. Never did understand why they didn't shoot them all immediately.
"Doden spreken niet." Leon responded cryptically. Dead men don't speak.
"Wat?" Jan screwed his face up in bewilderment. What?
"Ze hebben niets aan die agenten tenzij een of andere communicatielijn op het spoor zijn. Zouden ze die agent onmiddellijk doodschieten, ze zouden nooit kunnen uitvissen naar waar die lijn liep." Leon looked like he was about to continue when abruptly the sound of a loud hail silenced him. Them Agents aren't no good unless they have a lead on a communication line. If they shot the agent immediately they'd have no hope of finding out where his communication line ran.
"Dat zal wel de commandant zijn." Jan frowned. That sounds like the Commandant.
"Inderdaad" Leon's mouth tightened. It does indeed. "Ik denk dat ik beter ga kijken wat hij wil, ik zie later nog wel Jan." Best go see what he wants, talk to you later Jan.
"Ok." Jan watched as Leon hurried into the Inn, then turned back to his potatoes. It was so hard to do a nice job of the potatoes when you knew that they would just go to feeding those germans.
"'t Werd tijd." The Commandant's accent was foul, but Leon was not about to admit that he spoke German quite fluently. About time you got here.
"Wat kan ik doen voor de commandant?" Leon slid behind the bar and started polishing the top of it. What can I do for the Commandant?
"Ge kunt ophouden met den bar te poetsen om te beginnen, en ten tweede ophouden met me te bedriegen." The Commandant slammed his hat down onto the bar. You can stop polishing that bar for one, and for second you can stop giving me cheek.
"Wenst de commandant iets om te drinken?" Leon stolidly ignored the order to stop polishing the bar. Would the Commandant like a drink?
"Nee, ik hoef niets te drinken." The Commandant whipped out his revolver and hammered it down on Leon's fingers. No, I do not want a drink. "Wanneer hebt ge het laatst Jules Broecker gezien?" When did you last see Jules Broecker?
"Waarom wilt u dat weten?" Leon was scowling darkly as he nursed his injured hand. Why do you wish to know?
"Wanneer hebt ge hem het laatst gezien?" The Commandant waved his revolver threateningly. When did you last see him?
"Gisterenavond rond het sluitingsuur." Leon answered sullenly, he had no intention of letting the Commandant apply that revolver to his head. Last night at closing time.
"Zijt ge dat zeker?" Are you certain of that?
"Ja, hij is om 8 uur binnengekomen, heeft 4 pintjes gedronken en 4 liedjes gezongen en dan om 10 uur vertrokken als ze begonnen te sluiten. Hij is naar rechts gelopen en laatst gezien lopend in de richting van weduwe Blanc." Yes, he entered at eight in the evening, drank four beers and sang four songs before he left at ten in the evening when the curfew came into issue. He turned right at the door and was last seen headed up to Widow Blanc's.
"Kan iemand anders dit bevestigen?" Can anyone else confirm that?
"Zes van uw soldaten, Jan en Pieter, twee handelsreizigers en Jacques." Six of your soldiers, Jan and Pieter, two bagmen and Jacques.
"Welke zes?" Which six?
"'t Waren nieuwelingen, ik wist niet wie ze waren." They were new, I did not know who they were.
"Ge zijt slim geweest met zo snel te antwoorden, mijn vriend." The Commandant reholstered his revolver and picked his hat up from the bar, before he turned and marched from the bar. You are wise my friend to be so prompt in your answers. Leon scowled darkly after the grey back before he turned and wandered back into the backyard again.
"Leon, wat is er? Ge ziet zo bleek!" Jan came over to the fence as Leon came out of the inn, and he nearly jumped over it in his concern, instead he just climbed over quickly. Leon.....what's the matter? You're pale?
"Haalt Marie, ik ben ziek aan het worden." Leon suited his words with actions and vomited into the garden. Get Marie.....I'm going to be sick.
"MARIE!" Jan kept a hold on Leon's shoulder. "Wat is er gebeurd, Leon? Wat heeft hij gedaan?" Jan turned his head again as he heard a door open. What happened Leon? What did he do? "Ah, Marie, haast u!" Ahh, Marie, hurry.
"LEON!" Marie came running across vegetable patch which was the backyard, what had previously been a lovely stretch of green grass had long since been converted for food production. "Wat is er gebeurd?" Marie addressed her question to Jan, since Leon was clearly not open to questioning. What happened?
"Ik weet het niet. De commandant was hier net. Hij was nog maar 5 minuten weg toen hij zij dat hij zich niet goed voelde." I don't know, the Commandant just called him. He was gone about five minutes, then he returned and observed he was going to be sick.
"Wat heeft hij met Leon gedaan?" Marie shook his shoulder firmly. What did he do Leon?
"Alsjeblief, Marie, hij heeft niets gedaan." Leon whispered his response around bouts of nausea. Please Marie, he did nothing.
"Niets?!!!" It was an outraged howl of protest. Nothing! "Leon Paul, ge zijt zo suf als iets.......en wat is er met uw hand gebeurd?" Marie grabbed the member which Leon had kept tucked up under his chest. Leon Paul your head is addled.......what's with this hand?
"Niets." Leon struggled in vain to pull his hand back under himself. Nothing.
"Niets!" It was another outraged howl. Nothing! "Uw hand is gebroken, Leon, daar ben ik zeker van. De commandant mag mij uitleggen hoe dit gebeurd is." Marie gathered up her skirts and headed for the inn in a determined manner. That hand is broken Leon or my name is no longer Marie Paul. The Commandant shall answer for this.
"Marie, neee!" Leon struggled to stand up straight. Marie, no! "Marie, niet doen, ik had geweigerd om de commandant te gehoorzamen, da's alles." Marie you cannot, I had refused to obey the Commandant, that is all.
"Gewoon omdat ge niet onmiddellijk reageerde is geen excuus." Marie continued walking to the door. Just because you did not immediately spring to attention is no excuse.
"Marie, nee." Leon shook his head wearily. Marie, no "Ge gaat uzelf alleen in de problemen werken. Hij wou gewoon wat dingen weten over Jules Broecker." You will only get yourself in trouble. He wanted to ask questions about Jules Broecker.
"Wat wou hij nu weten over dienen onnozelaar?" Marie had finally stopped but she didn't look at all appeased. Why did he want to ask questions about that fool?
"Het blijkt dat Jules Broecker genen Belg is, hij is geen familie van Marguerite maar een Brits agent en ze zijn hem kwijt." Because Jules Broecker was not even of Belgian birth, he is no relation at all of Marguerite's, he was a British Agent and they have lost him.
"En gij hebt hem dat gezegd?" Marie looked outraged. And you told them?
"Marie, het enigste dat ik hem heb verteld is wat zes van zijn eigen mannen had kunnen zeggen, en dat is dat hij om tien uur gisterenavond is vertrokken en dan richting Marguerite is gelopen. Nee, ik moet er ook niet zoveel van weten, maar we moeten onszelf in leven zien te houden." Marie, all I told them was what six of their own could tell them, and that was that he left at ten last night and was last seen headed up to Marguerite's. No, I like them here as little as you do, but we must keep ourselves alive.
"Ik ga het u verwijten als ze hem pakken, Leon." Marie was scowling darkly. I will blame you if they catch him Leon.
"Als ze hem pakken dan is hij echt wel dom. Hij heeft 12 uur voorsprong op ze." If they catch him he is a foolish man. He has more then twelve hours start on them.
"Humph!" Marie would give no more and she vanished into the house, shortly to reappear with bandages. "Hand." And five minutes later Leon had returned to polishing his bar, his left hand completely covered in bandages which stretched the whole way up to his elbow.
"Mr Paul." The voice had Leon looking up, and to his annoyance he saw the Commandant was standing once more in his inn.
"Ja." Leon stopped his polishing and dropped his hands down out of sight. Ja.
"Ge moet uw handen niet verstoppen." The Commandant didn't stir from the doorway. Keep your hands on top. "Ik ben hier om u te laten weten dat van nu af aan uw herberg gesloten is voor het publiek. Ge moogt kamers verhuren en iedereen die komt eten geven, maar van nu af aan is uw cafe dicht." I am here to inform you that as of now your inn is closed to any public use. You may let rooms and feed any who come, but as of now your bar is offically closed.
"Jazeker, commandant." Leon stepped out from behind the bar and started closing the shutters. Very good Commandant.
"Moest ge geen Belg zijn, ik zou me verontschuldigen voor het breken van uw hand." The Commandant's tone was stiff. If you were not a Belgian I would appologise for breaking your hand.
"Moest u geen Duitser zijn, ik zou het aanvaarden." Leon motioned the Commandant out, then closed and fastened the door after him. If you were not a German I might accept it. The Germans had decreed his bar closed, so his bar was closed......but there was always the cellar. It was without surprise that Leon heard the curfew ring as the sun dropped behind the horizon that evening, it was to be expected that the curfew would be tightened as a result of this. It was not to be unexpected that while the citizens of Breque celebrated the continued non-capture of Jules, that they also cursed him roundly at the restrictions his existance had placed on them and their lives.
It had been midnight when Jules had finally slipped out of the farmhouse he had inhabited for the past year and a half and struck southwards. The past four days had been nerve wracking as he had started blowing his cover in an unsuspicious manner, the odd careless remark and one piece of half burnt paper did the trick. Now only two things stood between Chris and death, those two things were the strength of his legs and his ability to outwit the German Military Police....Ability to outwit them when he was deliberately leaving a trail for them to follow. It had been Jules who had fled from the farmhouse at midnight, but it was a ragged bagman who entered the township twenty miles to the south two days later. It was a German Officer who rode in the back of a staff car straight back through Breque, then across to Marz, discussing the German position the whole way. But it was not a German Officer who caught the train from Marz to Brussels a week after that, it was a businessman with high blood pressure who caught that train. It wasn't the businessman though who fell off the train forty miles short of Brussels, it was another bagman who fell off the train.
Chris had flattened himself under the hedge as the rest of the train passed, badly winded by the fall, but he had had to leave that train. It was not precisely safe to remain on a train which four Military Police were searching.....even if they were searching for a businessman with high blood-pressure. With the train finally out of sight Chris scrambled awkwardly out from under the hedge and with a cautious glance around he crossed the tracks and joined the road which was about a mile from the tracks. That had been a particularly close call, and he couldn't afford any more of them.
A week of wearying detours, exasperating delays and the occasional swim in a canal to avoid germans saw Chris finally tramping into Brussels, though he was now a farmer with a loaded cart. Chris left the cart in the market square and made his way cautiously to a small house, which required two passwords and the drawing of a curious figure to gain him entrance to. Chris had collapsed onto a musty bed and slept without stirring once for nearly twenty-four hours, but the sleep was not refreshing and it was with great weariness that Chris left that bed, made another change of clothes and departed again. It was as a eminent Berlin doctor that Chris caught the train for the border a week later, and after a brief conversation with one of his fellow passengers and a trip to the lavatory not only was he a doctor, but he was a doctor with passes to get him across the border. But just short of the border the doctor vanished and was replaced by yet another bagman.
Chris struggled off the train when it disgorged all its passengers at the border control, and after standing around for half an hour he found himself staring in desbelief at a bored border controller.
"Wat?" What?
"Ik had het u toch gezegd, ge moogt niet passeren, dat hier is gisteren verlopen." The man indicated the pass that lay on the counter between them. I told you, we can't let you pass, that expired yesterday.
"Welken dag zijn we vandaag?" Chris fought desperately against the woollen thickness which seemed to clog his mind. What's the date?
"We zijn de 26e september. Dus als u nu gewoon uit de kant zou willen gaan...." Today's the 26th September. Now if you'll just step back......
"Ah, laat hem gaan Hans, hij is ziek." Ahhh, let him go Hans, he's sick.
"Gij zout iedereen laten passeren, Karl." The controller Hans turned with a snarl on his fellow controller. You would let anyone and everyone passed Karl. "U kan uw pas laten verlengen in Brussel, of beter nog gewoon een nieuwe halen." You can get the pass renewed in Brussels, or even better get a brand new one.
"Maar..." Chris didn't manage to enunciate his protest as he was roughly shoved back. But... Chris stared silently at the two small boxes for a minute, then he turned and started walking, he had not a cent left on him, he was out of paper, and the controller had not actually returned his outdated pass to him. Twenty minutes later Chris gave a sigh and in the cover of a hedge he changed back into the attire of a doctor, totally discarding the bagman outfit. Totally without load now Chris continued walking, the attention he paid to where he was going was exactly zero, he couldn't get out of the country and unless he stayed on the move he couldn't stay in the country either.
It twinkled queerly in the moonlight, but Chris was sufficiently divorced from life in general that he totally disregarded it.....disregarded it until abruptly his feet sank from under him and he found himself spitting violently. It abruptly sank in that he'd walked into one of the many canals which criss-crossed across Belgium....sank in literally. Chris kicked out, intent on reaching the far shore, after all he'd already been on that side of the canal so he might as well try the other side. Chris had only gone about three strokes when the thing grabbed him around the neck, dragging him down and under. Then as suddenly as it had grabbed him, it also released him, but before Chris could even give one kick it had him again. Infact, between grabs Chris only just had enough time to spit out any water he'd swallowed and take another breath of air. It was a muffled shout which nearly caught Chris' attention, then suddenly he was caught by something else and he was jerked free of the water. The new thing dropped Chris onto a hard surface which winded him completely and then a bright light flashed into his eyes.
"Wel wel, er zwemmen wel vreemde vissen in de rivier tegenwoordig." The words were the last conscious recollection Chris had before the dark slid up and engulfed him. Well, well, well. The river does have strange fish these days.
"Wel wel, er zwemmen wel vreemde vissen in de rivier tegenwoordig." The Count heard Leonie muttering from the front of the barge. Well, well, well. The river does have strange fish these days.
"Wat was er?" The Count came up behind Leonie and took a look over her shoulder. What was it?
"Een zeer vreemde vis" Leonie flashed on her torch again and gave the Count a brief view of a sodden man who lay crumpled on the deck.A very strange fish.
"Een zeer vreemde vis." The Count agreed as he bent over and picked up the figure with a jerk before he carried it back to the cabin. A very strange fish.
"Moet ik aan land in het volgende dorp?" Leonie had returned to the tiller before she spoke again. Shall I come to shore at the next town?
"Nee." The Count responded as he emerged from the cabin, and his hands were full. No.
"Waarom niet?" Leonie paused, then cursed as the barge tried to crash into the bank. Why not?
"Omdat ik eerst wil weten hoe het zit met onze vriend." The Count was frowing at the items in his hands. Because I want to know about our friend first.
"Waarom?" Leonie threw her weight against the tiller again. Why?
"Omdat ik wil weten wat een Berlijnse dokter hier in België komt doen." The Count took a seat of a bench which ran along the back of the cabin and started turning over the things. Because I want to know what a Berlin doctor is doing here in Belgium.
"Wat hij bijheeft lijkt me normaal." Leonie made the comment as she took a quick look at the items. It looks pretty common what he has.
"Wat het juist verdachter maakt." The Count finally lay three things aside, a silver topped thermometer, a capped scalpel, and spare shoelaces which were knotted together. Which makes me even more suspicious. "Ik heb iets tegen mensen die perfect in het schema passen. Wat kan er nu mis zijn met een dokter die een thermometer, scalpel en schoenveters meeheeft?" I have an extreme dislike of people who fit perfectly into their picture. What could be more harmless than a doctor who carries a thermometer, a scalpel and shoelaces.
"Waarom schoenveters?" Why shoelaces?
"Hoe moet ik dat nu weten....en ik vrees dat we het niet onmiddellijk te weten zullen komen." How should I know....and I doubt we'll find out for a while.
"Waarom?" Why?
"Ziek...die vis ziet er zeer ziek uit." The Count frowned down at the items which remained in his hand, these consisted of a small carved metal medallion which was suspended by a coarse fibre string, and an ornately carved and embossed silver slate which had pencils slotted into its sides. Sick...very sick is the condition of that fish. "Nu, deze drie dingen maken onze dokter nog veel verdachter. Wat moet een dokter nu met deze rare dingen?" The Count held up the medallion and let it swing back and forth in the air. Now these three things make me even more suspicious of our doctor. What would a doctor want with such a curious thing as this?
"Nee!" The abrupt cry had the Count on his feet and into the cabin, leaving Leonie to shove once more against the tiller. No!
"Wat is er?" Leonie asked the question as the Count reappeared. What is it?
"Het ziet er naar uit dat onze friend moeilijk zou kunnen beginnen te doen." The Count was gently rubbing his jaw as he spoke. It looks like our friend could become somewhat difficult. "En ik vind het nog veel verdachter dan voordien....is hij hier per ongeluk? Of is hij hier met een doel." And he makes me feel even more suspicious then before....Is he here by accident? Or is he here deliberately.
"Alleen een dommerik laat zich vangen in zo'n touw." Leonie's tone was curt. Only a fool would get tangled up in the lead rope.
"Maar welke kant...." It was obvious that the Count had totally ignored Leonie's remark as he studied the small medallion which still hung between his fingers. But which side.... "Ik ben er zeker van dat dit iets moet betekenen voor iemand." The Count flicked it with one finger and set it spinning in the moonlight, there was no reflection of its dulled surface. I'm sure this must mean something to someone. "En dat brengt ons bij deze lei." The Count finally dropped the medallion into one of his pockets as he picked up the slate with the other hand. Which just leaves the slate. "Vrij nieuw, maar veel gebruikt." The Count turned it over, noting with raised brows that there were no finger prints on its silver surface....except his own. Relatively new, but well used. "En dat begrijp ik niet." Which doesn't add up at all.
"Wat begrijp je niet?" Leonie threw her weight against the tiller once more. What doesn't add up?
"We hebben hier een zilveren lei, die veel gebruikt is en gepolijst, maar er staan geen vingerafdrukken op. Gezien dat ie zo erg gepolijst is, veronderstel ik dat een vlak oppervlak essentieel was voor het gebruik...wat eigenaardig is gezien de meeste schrijvers weinig aandacht besteden aan hun lei...als ze dan al een lei gebruiken in plaats van papier of een boek. Diegenen die een lei gebruiken zijn normaalgezien niet zot van het zilveren type....Deze lei lijkt meer op een soort kader, maar de vorige argumenten blijven bestaan." The Count pondered silently for several minutes, then finally laid the frame aside. We have here a silver slate, which is well used and much polished, but there are no finger prints on it. The amount of polishing suggests that a smooth surface was essential to its use....which is peculiar since the majority of the literate world couldn't care how their slate was.....if they actually used a slate instead of paper, or a copy book. Those who use slates tend not to be prone to the silver variety.....Besides which this particular slate has much more the appearance of being a writing frame, but the previous arguements all continue to hold effect. "Ik vraag me echt af wat een Duitse dokter hier doet ver van alles, met te verwachten gerief bij zich, maar ook een zilveren lei." I really do wonder what a German doctor is doing this far from anywhere, carrying equipment such as you would expect a doctor to carry, as well as a silver slate and what looks like a peasant charm.
"Ik zou het ook niet weten." Leonie smothered a yawn. I can offer no suggestions.
"Gaat gij maar slapen, ik zal het roer wel overnemen" Go get some sleep I can watch the tiller.
"Dank U." Leonie gratefully handed over the job and retired to sleep for a few hours under a heavy piece of sacking, leaving the Count to sit silently his eyes alternating between the shore and the small pile of things which rested on the bench attached to the cabin. Thankyou.