D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

him. Balancing himself against the bulkhead, the Major offered the flask.

Thorley shook his head, grimacing when the plane vibrated from a peal of thunder that sounded as if Thor’s hammer had torn open the heavens. “No...thanks,” he said, feeling his guts roiling.

“Take it,” the Major shouted over the noise, and thrust the flask into Thorley’s hands. “It’s tea and sugar. It will prevent dry heaves.”

Thorley felt a wave of nausea swimming up from his battered stomach and grabbed for the tin flask as a drowning man for a lifeline. He brought it to his mouth and began to swallow the syrupy brew.

“Easy,” the Major said, grabbing for the flask. “Take it slower.”

Nodding, Thorley took one more sip and returned the flask to the Major. “How much longer?”

“About two hours. The storm has the whole of the continent socked in, so we shouldn’t have any trouble from your people,” the Major said, alluding to the ubiquitous RAF.

“That’s assuming we make it through all this.”

The Major allowed himself a smile. “Johann and I have flown through far worse than this, and Johann is the best. I’d rather fly through a fucking gale than what we went through over Dover in 1940.” He paused, his jaw working as he mulled something over. It became obvious to Thorley that something was bothering the man other than a concern for his well-being. A moment later it became all-too-clear.

“What did you see down there?” the Major asked, his face a somber mask, the words almost inaudible.

Anger flared through Thorley until he remembered what these men had risked flying him in, and why. “I’m still trying to piece it all together myself.”

“They were your people, weren’t they?”

Thorley nodded, the words sticking in his throat.

The Major sighed. “I was afraid of that. It’s all fucking madness.” Rising to his feet he returned to the cockpit and Thorley spent the rest of the flight trying to keep down the tea and sugar.

Fate, or whatever it was that smiled down on them this day, decided to clear the weather ten minutes out from Lisbon and the landing went without a hitch. Grateful to get back into his own uniform, Thorley folded the German one carefully, placing it back onto the seat as he’d found it. The plane taxied to a stop and the pilot emerged from the cockpit and exited through the hatch, while the Major hung back.

“We were told on the radio that your plane is ready and waiting for you. It seems that a certain Senhor Velasquez has asked that you be informed that your original crew requested to be allowed to take you back. They are waiting with the plane.”

Thorley smiled, feeling better knowing that the oily little diplomat had kept his word. “I guess this is goodbye, then,” Thorley said, feeling awkward.

“We Germans prefer, auf wiedersehen.”

Thorley smiled and stuck out his hand. “Until we meet again....”

The Major took his hand and gripped it firmly. “It’s Hartmann, Klaus Hartmann. And it’s been an honor to fly with you, Herr Thorley.”

“Danke schön, Klaus. I feel the same.”

Thorley started for the hatch.

“Wait.”

Turning, he watched as Klaus unpinned a badge from his tunic and pressed it into his hands. It was a badge consisting of a silver-toned flying eagle clutching a swastika in its talons, overlaying a gilt wreath of oak and laurel leaves.

“It is our combined pilot and observer badge,” he explained. “I think you’ve earned it.”

Here was a man who’d put himself on the line for an abstraction, and would now be going back to what might mean certain death if his mission failed.

“I wish I had something to give you,” Thorley said pocketing the badge.

Klaus gave him a sober look. “You already have—hope.” Outside the plane, he found Velasquez’s Mercedes staff car waiting for him a few yards away from the Heinkel. Michael wasn’t the least bit surprised to find that Senhor Velasquez had delegated the chore of escorting him to a lower functionary. This one, a stocky man of indeterminate age and a propensity for wrinkled linen suits and garlic-flavored breath, was as taciturn as Velasquez was loquacious, for which Thorley was sincerely grateful.

A few minutes later, he was aboard the Vickers-Wellington, where he greeted Hildy and the others like long lost brothers.

“Good to see you, sir!” Hildy said, clasping his shoulders in a comradely embrace. “We’ll get you back right as rain. Göring’s given the goons the night off. The storm front has settled over the Continent, so it’ll be smooth flying all the way back to Blighty.”

They were airborne ten minutes later and headed north across the Bay of Biscay.

As tired as he was, and as disturbed as he was by what he’d seen, Thorley felt a sense of exhilaration knowing that he was going home.

He wanted nothing more than to be debriefed and to return to his wife and his safe, boring job as a translator. Let Sir Basil and the others debate the complexities of what he’d found. He was not involved; he was just the messenger.

It was dusk when they touched down in Chipping Ongar. After saying his farewells to Flight Lieutenant Mullins and the rest of the crew, he entered the blockhouse and changed back into his civilian clothes. He carefully placed his major’s uniform into a suitcase, which had been provided, and after one last look around, he left the building. Outside, as it had been in Lisbon, a car waited, the exhaust fumes like white clouds in the cool night air. Unlike Lisbon, however, Thorley found the rear of the car empty, save for a basket filled with a supper of cold chicken and a bottle of brown ale. In a way, he was relieved, for he was not relishing his appointment with MacIlvey and the others,