Mason opened the farther door and announced me. I went in, walked up to the desk at which Ogilvie was seated, saluted and stood to attention. The office was a mixture of tidiness and disorder. The corner by the window was taken up with stores — boxes of gas equipment, a heap of battle dresses, steel helmets, gum boots. The sergeant-major’s desk, which was against the wall opposite the door, was a litter of papers, note-books and passes. There was an old-fashioned safe in the corner next to it. The falling plaster of the walls, which were distempered a rather sickly shade of green, was adorned with copies of standing orders, aircraft recognition charts, and posters of big-chested men in peculiar postures illustrating the more elementary physical training exercises.
But the corner of the room occupied by Mr Ogilvie’s desk was homely by comparison. Orderly batches of papers lay beside the yellow blotter and the desk itself rested on a strip of red carpet. The walls behind were practically intact. And beside the desk was a bookcase with a clock and the polished case of a three-inch shell.
Mr Ogilvie looked up as I saluted. ‘Ah, yes, Hanson,’ ae said, leaning back and taking his pipe from his mouth. About this conversation you had with the German pilot. I nave just had a visit from the Intelligence officer who interrogated him this morning. I had told him what the pilot lad said to you. The man didn’t deny it. In fact, he repeated it in the most truculent and boastful manner. But when questions were put to him about the nature of the plan, he could give no details at all. He spoke at length of the might of the Luftwaffe and how Britain’s fighter bases would be annihilated and our resistance crushed. He spoke darkly of a plan. But he said nothing that convinced the officer that there was in fact any specific scheme for destroying the bases other than a general plan that they should be destroyed.’
He produced a box of matches and relit his pipe. ‘On the subject of the raid on Thorby,’ he continued, ‘it does seem probable that he knows something. He was very evasive about it, said it was no more than a rumour and he couldn’t remember what day it was. The Intelligence officer had the impression that he was covering up. It is possible, of course, that it is a false scent. The German Air Force have apparently done that sort of thing before. They give the pilots false information, so that if they get shot down and are inclined to be talkative they won’t be giving anything away. However, I have been assured that all necessary steps will be taken to protect the station on Friday. I thought you would like to know as you were instrumental in bringing the matter to the notice of the authorities.’
I thought it was nice of him to give me such a full account of the position. But I was troubled. It seemed to me that the German pilot had been inconsistent. I said so. ‘There is only one motive he could have had in telling me the plan,’ I said. ‘Bitter at the loss of his plane, he wanted to frighten us. Now, either this plan was a pure fabrication or else there really is a plan and, knowing of it, he used his knowledge in the heat of the moment to achieve his aim.’
‘Come to the point.’ Ogilvie’s voice was staccato again.
‘Well, sir, if it was a pure fabrication he wouldn’t have hesitated to invent details.’ At that moment the whole thing seemed crystal clear to me. ‘My own view is that in the heat of the moment he let slip something he should not have done. He was in a very dazed condition. When the Intelligence officer questioned him about the plan, he knew it would only increase his suspicions to deny having said anything about it to me. Instead he repeated his statement, and when pressed for details made vague and grandiose claims that he knew would throw doubt on the whole thing. But about the proposed raid on Thorby he covered up in an obvious manner. Apparently he achieved his object in drawing the officer’s interest away from the plan for the raid.’
Ogilvie clicked his pipe stem up and down against his teeth. ‘Well, I’m afraid the Intelligence officer doesn’t take that view at all. He is experienced in these matters. I think you may take it that he is right.’
But the Intelligence officer had not seen the German pilot close up like a clam in the middle of a sentence as his eyes met Vayle’s. That seemed to be the key to the whole problem. ‘Could you tell me, sir, whether the Intelligence officer is making a report to Air Intelligence on the matter?’ I asked.
‘He didn’t say anything about it. I imagine it will be included in the daily report to the C.O.’
It was just as I had feared. ‘I think a report on the matter should go to A.I. without delay,’ I said.
‘I’m afraid what you think or do not think, Hanson, is of little importance,’ Ogilvie said curtly. ‘The matter rests with the R.A.F. and their Intelligence officer has formed his own views.’ He hesitated. ‘If you like, you can make out a report and I’ll send it in to Battery.’
I saw I was up against a brick wall here. Though I knew it was pretty useless, I said I would make out a report. He gave me paper and I settled down at the Sergeant-major’s desk. It took me some time to write it out. It had to be brief, yet comprehensive. There Was always the chance that it might get to somebody who would take the same view of its importance that I did.
By the time I got back to the pit it was nearly ten-thirty. Micky, who could never restrain his curiosity, immediately asked me what Ogilvie had wanted to see me about.
‘My grandmother has just died,’ I said. ‘He’s given me a week’s compassionate to see her decently buried.’
‘A week! No kidding. You ain’t got a week? Just because your grandmuvver’s dead? This is a lousy battery. You people all hang together. If it’s one of the nobs and he just happens to feel tired, why, give ‘im leave, give ‘im leave. A week because your grandmuvver’s died! Cor, stuff me with little green apples! If it was one of the roughs like me and Fuller, it would be go chase yourself. It ain’t right, mate. It wouldn’t happen in the real Army. Not bloody likely. Infantry, that’s what I ought to be in.’
Micky was very class conscious. But he was unintelligent about it. He saw privilege where there was none. This and his constant grumbling over nothing made him very annoying at times. He was always hardly done by, yet in point of fact he got away with more than anyone else.
‘Oh, don’t be a fool, Micky,’ said Langdon. ‘He hasn’t got leave. He’s just telling you politely to mind your own business.’
‘Oh, I get you.’ Micky was all smiles again. ‘Sorry, mate. I didn’t rumble it.’
Langdon had started examination of equipment, which was carried out on our gun every morning between ten and eleven. As there were already quite enough on the job, I sat down on the bench by the telephone. I was still worried. Most men, I suppose, would have considered the matter closed. If the Intelligence officer was satisfied, why should I worry? But journalism makes it instinctive in one to follow up a story to the bitter end. The Intelligence officer might be right. But what worried me was the way the German had broken off as soon as he saw Vayle. It was almost as if he had been caught saying something he should not have said. That alone explained the abruptness with which he had ceased speaking. And that suggested that he knew Vayle — that Vayle was, in fact, a fifth columnist.
When we were relieved at eleven by Bombardier Hood’s detachment, I got hold of Kan as he left the pit. ‘You’ve been here some time, Kan,’ I said. ‘Do you happen to know anyone in the station who can tell me anything about Vayle — you know, the librarian?’
He gave me a quick glance. But he did not ask me why I wanted to know about Vayle. ‘There’s an R.A.F. lad we used to meet in the airmen’s Naafi — that was before they put the marquee up. I think his name was Davidson. Anyway, he was assistant librarian. We got to know him because Vayle used to take those who were applying for commissions in trig. A dear fellow, he used to help us no end. I expect he’s still here.’