The Man who Missed the War (55 page)

Zadok broke the picture. ‘Not too bad,’ he commented, after a moment. ‘We compelled the paratroops to scatter so that they’ll have great difficulty now in finding their rallying-points in the
dark, and we prevented all four gliders from getting in, so the paratroops have been rendered almost ineffective through the loss of their special materials. If only we can do as well with the main body and send the General’s glider crashing into the sea, we shall have achieved a ninety per cent success. The Germans will only have to mop up the stragglers in the morning. Let us see what is happening at the aerodrome.’

A series of pictures showed them the Mess, the Control Room, the Watch Tower and various other parts of the faintly moonlit R.A.F. Station. At last, they located General Gale with his A.D.C. and a number of other officers in the men’s camp, drinking beer with them. They were all laughing and in the best of spirits, little knowing that many of their comrades were already drowned or hopelessly lost in the Normandy cider-apple orchards. After a time they began to make their way towards their respective gliders, and, as the Generals left them to walk over to his, there was a great burst of cheering, and scores of the tough, black-faced paratroops spontaneously broke into the chorus of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.’

Another little party had already rendezvoused at the General’s glider to wish him good luck, among them the Station Commander and the man from London. Philip then began to record.

‘General Gale is still wearing his jodhpurs, and he now looks a more massive figure than ever. The innumerable pockets of his special kit are bulging with maps and all the other things he will need when he lands in France. Over everything else he is putting on a light-coloured mackintosh. Wing-Commander Macnamara and General Crawford are just saying good-bye to him. He is joking with Macnamara. The second wave is to consist of twenty-five Albemarle aircraft, all towing gliders. Macnamara is to lead them in, and the General is saying that he’ll break his neck next time they meet if he lets anyone get ahead of him so that his glider does not fetch down first.

‘Macnamara and General Crawford are now walking across the grass to the other limb of a V in which two runways meet, on which their aircraft is parked. General Gale’s officers are saying that he ought to put on his Mae-West—that’s what they call the life-saving jacket that one blows up. He says he can put it on later if necessary. They say it would be a bit tricky if he leaves it
to the last moment, when the glider might be diving head foremost into the sea.

‘He turns to the man from London and gives that deep laugh of his, as he says: “I’m supposed to be commanding this damn’ Division, yet just look how these fellows bully me!” Then he says to the others: “All right. I’ll put it on if you like.”

‘Several people are now helping him into it. Tom is saying to him: “The tapes should go up as high under your shoulders as possible, sir.”

‘He is burbling with laughter again. He has just said: “I know what you’re up to! If we fall in the water you want my head to go under and my bottom to be left sticking up in the air!” Now he’s slapping his enormous inflated chest and exclaiming: “Good God! Look at me! I must look like Henry the Eighth!”

‘The man from London is pointing to the huge chalked letters on the nose of the glider, just under its number—Seventy. He says: “I know you christened your glider Richard the First because you, Richard Gale, will be the first British General to land in France for many hours; but it ought to have been Richard Cœur-de-Lion, because he was just such another big man, and you are leading another Crusade.”

‘They are ready to emplane now, and all saying good-bye. Group-Captain Surplice has come forward with a tin of Golden Syrup. Apparently the General saw some on the breakfast table a few mornings ago and exclaimed: “By jove, I love Golden Syrup, and I haven’t seen any for years!” They are all laughing now as he accepts the tin and thanks the Station Commander for his hospitality. The man from London is pressing a sealed tin of chocolates into the A.D.C.’s hand to eat on the flight. They are clambering in. The doors of the glider have been closed.

‘The Station Commander and his party are walking across the grass to the Watch Tower. One-fifty is zero hour for the departure of the second wave. The minutes are being counted out. The engines of Macnamara’s aircraft are already roaring. The signal’s been given! They’re off! The aircraft is speeding smoothly down the runway. As it doubles its distance from its starting-place to the point of the V, the tow-rope suddenly becomes taut, and the glider slides forward. The aircraft has lifted. Now the glider is airborne too. Richard Cœur-de-Lion is on his way to France!

‘The next aircraft has already run out. It picks up its glider with equal smoothness. At the Watch Tower they are checking the timing. The aircraft are leaving to the split second at one-minute intervals. Several of the officers who were with the Station Commander have got into a car and are driving over to the Control Room. They are going upstairs and out on to the balcony. They are watching the procession of aircraft and gliders as they mount into the air. From the moment of General Gale’s departure to the last glider becoming airborne will take twenty-five minutes. The officers on the balcony are now looking at a great cluster of moving lights in the sky to the west. One of them just said: “That’s part of the American Airborne Division making for the base of the Cherbourg Peninsula. Good luck to them!” The sky is now alive with aircraft. The rest of the Sixth Airborne Division is being flown in from a dozen different airfields that all lie in Air Vice-Marshal Hollinghurst’s Command.’

Once again Zadok cut out the picture and spoke to Arkitl. The lever was thrown over, and the big retort on the instrument panel began to fill with red vapour again. Philip needed no telling that an additional voltage of the magno-electric current was about to be sent out to counteract the natural thinning of the cloud-bank which would otherwise have taken place before General Gale reached it. He turned and looked at Gloria.

At that second Coxitl walked into the room. It was the one thing that Philip had been so much afraid of—the unforeseen factor which might ruin everything. But it was too late to do anything about it. Without a word Gloria stood up, picked up her stool and began to walk with it towards the instrument panel.

Zadok’s glance left his team and followed her. ‘What is the matter? Where are you going?’ he called out in a surprised voice.

While his gaze was averted Philip had drawn his pistol. From the corner of his eye he saw Gloria falter and halt. He knew then that she was being held against her will by some swift hypnotic command sent out by Zadok. He squeezed the trigger of his automatic twice. There were two spurts of flame, and the two bullets hit Zadok in the middle of his emaciated body. The old Atzlantean coughed, his eyes bulged hideously, and he crumpled to the floor.

Gloria, as though released by a spring, bounded forward and began to run.

At the sound of the shots the old blind operator staggered up from his seat, and the screen instantly went black. Quetzl and Velig had leapt to their feet. The former dashed round the end of the table and flung himself upon Philip. They crashed to the floor together, but Philip was still clutching his gun.

While they were rolling over and over together he caught two sounds. One he had feared; it was the musical note of Coxitl’s silver whistle summoning his company of bearers. The other he was praying for; it was the crash of broken glass, and he knew that Gloria had succeeded in her share of their plan. With her heavy stool she had smashed the big retort that held the red vapour.

The thick-lipped Quetzl was on top of Philip and glaring down into his face. But knowing nothing of firearms the Atzlantean made a cardinal mistake. Instead of trying to get the gun away from Philip, he grasped him with both hands by the throat. For a moment Philip felt the awful pains of strangulation, but he lifted his gun, jammed it into Quetzl’s ribs and fired. The Atzlantean’s whole body jerked as though animated by an electric shock, then he suddenly went limp and slumped sideways.

Philip wriggled out from beneath him. He could see Gloria struggling gamely with Arkitl at the far end of the room. Normally he could not cover a dozen paces without the aid of his crutches, but the imperative necessity of reaching Gloria lent him both abnormal strength and resistance against pain. He had promised her the last bullet, and he was determined to spare her the horror of being taken alive. Scrambling to his feet he set off at a run towards her.

He had hardly covered half the distance before he felt himself checked. He faltered and could not force one foot in front of the other; his bad leg gave way under him, and he crashed to the floor. His brain seemed to be going numb, and he knew that Coxitl had stabbed him in the back with that terrible hypnotic force that the chief men among the Atzlanteans wielded with such devastating effect. And, even as he fell, he could hear Gloria calling to him:

‘Help, Boy! Oh, help, help!’

She was facing him and still struggling with Arkitl, but the Atzlantean’s body was now between them and covered most of hers, so Philip did not dare to risk his last remaining bullet. He knew, too, that his thoughts were swiftly becoming slow, vague and indeterminate. It was as though the room were growing larger and dimmer, the noises in it becoming more distant and himself beginning to float in space.

With a great effort he turned over on his back. The proud, cruel face of Coxitl was now right above him. The dark eyes in it pinned him to the floor. They were turning into the fiery pits he had seen before. For what seemed an age he forced his own eyelids slowly down and strove to lift his right hand, which still clutched the gun. It seemed to be twenty times its normal weight.

Then, for some unaccountable reason, there flashed into his bemused mind the last lines of the letter that the Canon had written to him just before he died. ‘From today I shall fly the flag of Saint George from the spire of the church, with the prayer that he may give you his special protection.’ Within a second his lips were framing an appeal they had never uttered before.

‘Saint George!’ he gasped. ‘Saint George!’

There was a blinding flash, a shattering report; his pistol, lifted now to within a few inches of his own head, had exploded. The bullet struck Coxitl under the chin. His face was smashed upwards as though struck from beneath with a great hammer, and he fell backwards, spurting blood.

Instantly, all Philip’s faculties were fully restored to him; but with sinking heart he realised that his last bullet was now spent. Rolling over, he staggered to his feet and lurched towards Gloria. Even as he did so, he was aware that behind him the room was full of Coxitl’s bearers.

In one glance he saw that Gloria had clawed open Arkitl’s face, but was now gripped firmly by him and being forced back, so that her hands could no longer reach his head. Hurling himself on them, Philip struck out with his left fist across Gloria’s shoulder. He caught the Atzlantean full between the eyes. Arkitl gasped and let go. As Gloria fell backwards Philip threw his left arm round her neck so that her chin was in the crook of his elbow. Lifting his right hand he brought the butt of the gun down with all his might on the crown of her head. He heard
her skull crack, yet he hit her again and again, and he was still hitting her as a dozen strong hands grabbed at and seized him.

As they dragged him away, she fell to the floor, and he caught one glimpse of her face. The bright blue eyes were wide and staring. He laughed then, because he knew that she was dead, and that he had saved her from the final torment.

All that followed seemed like a nightmare. He was pulled, pushed, hustled out of the room, up the ramp and along the gloomy tunnels. Before he even had time to collect his thoughts he was hauled into the Temple of the False Sun. Once more he caught a fleeting glimpse of the great truncated pyramid in the vast cavern. The baleful red glow of the fiery ball that seemed to hang suspended in mid-air coloured everything about him. The hidden gong gave out one deep boom. The horrible crowd of stinking, self-mutilated priests came surging up out of the red twilight. They tore him from the bearers and thrust him up the great flight of steps. Sharp-nailed hands grabbed and clawed at him from all directions. He was barely conscious when he reached the summit, and they flung him face upward on the great altar stone of basalt. He glimpsed the High Priest towering above him, the obsidian knife clutched in his right hand. It descended with a thud between Philip’s breast-bones, and ripped its way down to his stomach. His body was one frightful searing pain. He screamed aloud. Then he seemed no longer to be spreadeagled on the altar.

He was above it and looking down on his own body. He saw the High Priest tear out his heart and bite at it, yet he felt no more pain. A moment later the priests were tearing the carcass that had once been Philip Vaudell limb from limb, and smearing themselves with its still warm blood.

But Philip’s eyes were no longer dazzled by the red glare of the False Sun. They were bathed in the refreshing darkness of the night sky beyond the Mountain. He knew that he was travelling swiftly, faster than the fastest plane, over land and over sea towards Europe.

In earthly time barely twenty minutes had elasped between the moment that he had shot Zadok and the moment that the High Priest of Shaitan had torn out his heart. By half past two he was above the Bay of Biscay; but here he seemed to come up
against a great wall of blackness that as he advanced dissolved into a mass of screaming, evil figures that drove him back.

Swerving like an aircraft that is attacked by flak he sped out into the Atlantic, and came in again across the Cornish coast. Instinctively, he made for Southampton and from there struck out across the Channel.

He could see now with the eyes of the spirit as well as with those of the flesh. More than halfway across the Channel he sighted the Allied Armada. There were countless ships in line upon line, with all lights out, heading for the Normandy coast. But there were other ships that he could see as well: frigates and men-o’-war, dreadnoughts, galleons and caravels. Squadron upon squadron of them were sailing in front of and to either side of the physical Armada. The shade of
Victory
had left Portsmouth hard. Sir Richard Grenville’s
Revenge
, the
Golden Hind
, the first
Royal Sovereign
, the
White Ship
, the little, high-decked floating castle that had carried Henry V to Agincourt, all were there. And there were others that flew the Stars and Stripes of the United States and the Fleur-de-Lys of France.