Vengeance 10

The passenger door swung open as the pilot turned around once more, ready for take-off. The sky exploded with light, and geysers of dirt and grass shot upward. Paul shouted for him to run, but the field was uneven and full of grassy hummocks and dead berry vines that clutched at his boots and trouser legs. A heavy machine-gun ripped the surface as he ran, gasping for breath. The Lysander aircraft was painted a flat black, and it was a moment before he realised it was rolling forwards in fits and jerks, propeller turning at full speed, the pilot allowing him every last possible chance by standing on the brakes.

An amplified voice shouted at him to halt, first in Flemish, then in German, and finally in English. There was a burst of explosions at one end of the clearing, and he could see the flicker of small-arms fire. Memling veered suddenly to his right, and a stream of bullets cut a deep furrow past his feet. He stumbled and nearly fell. The pilot saw what he was doing and at the last moment released the brakes. The aircraft jumped ahead. Memling ducked to avoid the strut, and as the pilot stamped the brakes one last time, he jumped and caught the cockpit coaming where he hung, feet scrabbling for purchase on the landing step, while the aircraft bounded ahead. The field was now in continuous eruption as successive explosions sparkled about them; something slicked past his leg as he hauled himself up and into the cockpit. The Lysander bounced one more time and was airborne. Memling could still hear the iron voice roaring at them as streams of tracers hosed the sky and they banked for the protection of the forest. There was just time to look back and impress upon his mind for ever the searchlight playing along the fringe of trees, the two armoured vehicles firing long strings of tracers, the flaring oil beacons at either end of the field, and, from the forest itself, the pinpoint flashes of answering gunfire as Paul’s group delayed the inevitable.

Then the engine shuddered and racketed as the Lysander lurched. Tracers whispered past, and for an instant they were standing on the left wing thirty feet above the treetops. The plane came upright with insane slowness, and the trees fled.

* * *

Not until the Channel coast had they outflown the anticyclonic disturbance and broken out of the nightmarish winds and cloud. There was nothing to see below, not even the lights of a ship to break the immense darkness. Not until the pilot was lining up for his approach did Memling realise they had crossed the English coast and were home.

Three men in civilian clothing were there to greet him. They introduced themselves too quickly to be understood and led him to a waiting motorcar. They were the immediate debriefing team, they had told him, and a few moments later the car drew up before a darkened building. Vague shapes came and went, and he blinked and closed his eyes as they pushed through the blackout curtain into a lighted hallway. The chatter of voices, the sound of gramophone music, the sight of women in short dresses, their groomed hair and make-up, were overwhelming, and he stumbled after his hosts in confusion.

They took him inside and sat him at a table near the far wall where there was a measure of peace and quiet, and the younger man went to fetch a tray of food. Jan looked around him, fighting down a feeling of naked exposure.

‘It is often like this, my boy,’ the older man told him in a kind voice. ‘You mustn’t take any heed. It will all begin to seem normal in a day or so as old habits reassert themselves.’

The younger man returned, placed the tray in front of Memling, and poured a cup of hot tea for him. The tray held buttered toast and some dried American breakfast cereal in milk. He started in on the tray without complaint, wondering if he dared ask for seconds, but found that after the tea and toast he wanted nothing more.

‘You aren’t used to rich food, my boy.’ The older man chuckled. ‘Had others before you get quite sick. Fat content’s too high. You must build up your tolerance again. Stick to tea and light pastry or wheaten products for a few days. Eggs, some milk, and fruit. No ham or bacon for at least a week, although you will find that easy enough in view of the rationing.’

When he had finished the tea, Memling searched his pockets and found the packet of cigarettes Paul had given him, but the young man nipped them from his hand quickly.

‘Thank you. We can always use these. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind a trade.’ He opened his case, removing a full carton of Player’s. ‘These for a German export brand?’

Memling took the carton and shook his head. ‘I could… could live for three months on these … just on what I could earn in the black market, a packet at a time.’

The three exchanged smiles, and the third man, who had remained silent so far, leaned across the table as Memling lit one of the cigarettes. ‘Tell us, why was Paul’s group destroyed?’ Memling jerked up.

‘What happened?’ the man repeated.