He felt one of the bees sting his leg – just a swift burn –and then a whole full bloom of pain spread as far as his right knee. He cried out, pushing the leg against the rudder, and finding that the movement produced a rough, grinding agony.
They were never going to make it. The hedge loomed up, and, airspeed or not, he pushed the stick forward an inch. The tail responded, but they were still too slow, the hedge racing towards them at a terrifying pace. He knew his mouth was open in a scream, felt the fire in his right leg, and gently drew back the stick. It felt mushy, as though the elevator was not reacting, then there was a sudden pull and, almost in slow motion, the nose lifted. But not high enough, for they were almost level with the hedge. He gave the stick another half inch, knowing it could heave the nose too high, leaving them sitting in a pile of wood, metal and canvas which just would not fly.
It would drop from the sky, he was convinced, and the entire weight of the Beardmore engine would go straight through his back. But the machine remained stable, groaning a shade, rocking as it clawed for air. They were just going to clear the hedge… only just. Then the main wheels hit the edge of the thick growth.
They seemed to stop for a good five seconds, and he heard her scream above the wind and the terrifying crackle as the wheels were ripped away. They dropped, ten, fifteen feet. He felt the elevator brush the hedge, then by some miracle they were still flying, only a few feet above the ground, with part of the wheel structure banging on the grass below.
Dick held her there, not moving the stick, punching the pedals to keep the nose straight, his right leg now so numb that he could only hope he was moving the rudder. The speed built, painfully. They began to climb, almost an inch at a time.
The Pup came down, flying alongside at around five hundred feet, its pilot pointing underneath the FE-2. Dick shouted, ‘I know! Of course I bloody know, you idiot!’
He realized the whole machine lacked stability, but slowly made two thousand feet, and then realized how weak he was. The agony in his leg turned to a kind of racking constant pain, as though someone had taken a blunt knife, cut through the flesh and was now systematically rubbing the blade up and down his shin bone. It also felt very wet when he put his hand down.
The instruments swam for a second, then the horizon tilted. Concentrate, Farthing, you fool, he told himself. Two more Pups and one DH-2 had joined him. Together they reached the German line and he did not notice much about ‘Archie’, except there was a lot of it, and he could not take any evasive action.
The smell of cordite was mixed with oil and petrol, and the heavy aeroplane became more difficult to fly, the stick jumping around in his hands as the wings were rocked and slapped by the explosions.
Then the three Albatroses arrived, and he could do nothing about them except fly on, worry about his course, and hope to God the Pups and DH-2 would take care of him. They must have done, because quite suddenly they were alone. Presently Grouse’s DH-2 came up on the starboard side, indicating that he would lead him home; and they were almost at the ’drome before Dick realized that the most difficult part still lay ahead. He was flying an aeroplane not known for its easy handling at low level and near-stalling speed. The aeroplane had no wheels, and Lord knew what garbage hanging loose underneath.
Grouse lined him up and waved good luck. Dick began to lose height.
They seemed to have cleared the field for him, and he knew this could not be a copybook landing. Get her down straight and level, he thought, just try and let her drift onto the tempting grass below and see what happened.
He thought of Sara – the mornings on the Downs above Redhill when she was still married to John, and had come out to see him land.
For a moment, as the grass came ever closer, he could have sworn she was standing there, over to his right, by the Pups lined up away from the hangars.
The nose was terribly heavy. It was all too heavy. Shouldn’t have put this bloody great engine behind us, he thought. The engine’s so damned big that it lifts the nose as soon as you calm it down. The engine was almost completely calmed now, just ticking over; and the nose still went up… up… up. Stick forward. More you stupid sonovabitch. More and more and more. Get the nose down and keep her level. Don’t you want to see Sara again? He was all too aware of that goddamn engine behind him, and he tried to sing, only his throat was too dry.
Like a feather floating down, they touched, lifted, touched again, lifted… and the feather became a grinding, crackling, shredding horror of wood, fabric and metal.
*
They took Mildred’s body back to the Essex village where she was born and had grown up. The Parsonage had changed little, Charles felt. It was about all he felt, apart from the numbness.
As they left the graveside, he looked up and saw the small patch of woodland that bordered the Parsonage garden. That’s where it happened, he thought. Where it all began. A little girl, terrified by the idea of sin and the eternal damnation preached twice every Sunday by her pompous father, comes to sin like a moth to the flame.
‘We have heard the chimes at midnight.’
‘What did you say, Papa?’
‘Nothing. We must go, Mary Anne. Little William Arthur needs the two of us now.’
‘He’s with Sara. We have tonight to talk, Papa.’ Mary Anne in her nurse’s uniform, smiled at him, and his face lit up. For a moment, it was as though all the cares of the world had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. ‘Doctors and nurses.’
‘I beg your pardon, Papa?’
He laughed, ‘Private joke.’
When they finally got home there was another message waiting which he opened in private. They wanted full details of the damage inflicted on the Grand Fleet – apart from those sunk – at Jutland, or as they called it, Skagerrack.
Andrew had not come down to the funeral, but he was dropping in with Charlotte, that night. They would talk.
*
Giles still had much influence, and a War Office motor car was put at his disposal. He drove to Redhill in style, and broke the news quietly to Sara.
‘I thought it better than to telephone.’
Richard had been wounded, he told her, and immediately she became distraught; so he hurriedly had to say that it was not serious. ‘Well, not very serious, though he might not be able to fly again. His leg. Right leg, smashed by a bullet, and then broken badly when the aeroplane crashed.’
‘Dear God!’
‘He was doing something very brave.’ Giles’ eyes were, for once, Sara noticed, almost warm. Watery.
In his own mind he thought of Denise, lying in her room, upstairs, at home, her eyes blackened, and one arm broken. Even C had visited her. At night, of course.
‘Probably a decoration,’ he said. Then Sara wanted to know everything. Did he swear that it was not serious? That he would not die?
Giles said he would be home soon.
*
‘You are certain this information is being used wisely, and not given to the enemy in any way it can hurt us?’ Charles asked ‘Brenner’. He always asked the same question, adding, ‘Swear it to me.’
And ‘Brenner’ always told him that the intelligence would not be used to hurt his country in any way.
Charles passed on all the details. ‘I would have thought they’d have known the Fleet was ready for action again by 2 June. Obvious the damage was slight.’
He went to the Travellers after that, discomforted by the knowledge that his daughter was with a bloody Hun that very evening. Otto Buelow was now allowed complete freedom.
The couple dined in a small café, and Mary Anne asked him what he planned to do when the war was over.
‘I have no doubt we will win – I mean the British, the Allies. I have become an honorary Englishman.’ His mastery of English was awesome, for he spoke it perfectly, and with what was known as an ‘Oxford’ accent. ‘If we do not win, then my real countrymen will probably shoot me…’
‘But when we win…?’
&
nbsp; He seemed unwilling to share a possibly unpleasant fact of life. ‘I am only an honorary Englishman. My country is still at war with England. When it is over, I fear my true country will need men to help rebuild it. I must go back, and help.’ Mary Anne felt it was not only wise, but right.
There was a long silence as a very old waiter brought some not very good coffee. It was not only coffee in short supply these days. The food situation was frightening if you stopped to think about it.
‘I should like…’ they both said together.
‘Please.’ Otto waved her to continue.
‘I should like to see your country… That was what I wanted to say. Your turn, Otter.’
‘Ha! You still call me Otter. What a long time ago that seems now.’ He looked into her eyes, reaching forward, placing a hand over hers. ‘I was going to say the same thing. Only we cannot talk of what I really wanted to ask. It would not be right.’
She did not help him. So, eventually, he continued, ‘I hoped you would come with me, back to my country. Know it is in my thoughts. Please, I am not asking yet, but I would like you to return with me. As my wife, perhaps?’
She smiled as though happiness had at long last defeated constant doubt and despond. ‘That’s what I want, Otter. It’s what I want very much; but you are right. We must neither say nor do anything about it until the war is won.’
‘And lost,’ he added.
(Mary Anne and Otto were, in fact, married, after the war in 1920. They went off to live in Germany; and in the family it was called ‘the Elopement’: but that is another story.) *
The year of 1916, autumn did not turn imperceptibly into winter. Winter came in with the lash – the longest, coldest in memory. In the following April, there was still snow in England. Troop movements were impeded, fighting iced up, weapons so affected that rifle bolts could not be moved.
It took the hospital train bringing Richard Farthing back to England a full four days to make the journey, but Sara, warned the day before, managed to get to London and spent the night there before setting out, with Charlotte, to meet the train at Charing Cross.
As they approached the great archway, once known as ‘The Gateway to the Continent’, Charlotte pulled Sara to one side. ‘Not through there,’ she mouthed. ‘It’s considered terribly unlucky,’ and pulled Sara around the station so that they came in on the Brighton line entrance.
The train arrived at eight p.m. It was the last week in November, already bitterly cold, and raining hard.
He climbed down from the train with the aid of a nurse and two sticks – his right leg a grey plastered appendage – and Sara almost burst into tears when she saw him. Dick Farthing seemed to have shrunk and become rake-thin. He hobbled slowly down the platform. Then he saw her, and the light came back into his face, so that she knew he would be himself again if she was allowed to care for him.
‘Home, love and comfort are the best things for this young man,’ the MO said, at the Receiving Hospital. ‘He’s to come and see us in six months and we’ll review his case. The leg was pretty smashed up, and it’s impossible for us to tell what kind of a life he’ll be able to lead.’
They would send an official notice regarding his medical board. The next morning Sara watched an orderly pack his kit, and then walked with him – he wanted no help and insisted on managing his two sticks – to the taxi, and thence by train to Haversage and Redhill.
Already there was snow in the air, and you could see the relief on his face when she finally got him to bed.
‘Giles said you smashed your leg doing something very brave.’ She leaned over and kissed him.
He gave a weak smile. ‘You know what a liar Giles can be. Tripped over a flying boot.’
Within a month, things were happening in the country. Lloyd George became Prime Minister and announced his new Cabinet. ‘Substitution of dynamite for a damp squib,’ they called it.
The winter was now well set. By the time spring did eventually arrive in 1917 there were many adjustments to be made. Kitchener was already dead, Britain had a new government, Hindenburg and Ludendorff had taken over the Imperial German Army, Joffre was out, the Emperor Franz Joseph was dead, and though few said it aloud, the Romanov dynasty was ailing. Many Russian prisoners, noted for being revolutionaries, were being released by the Germans, and sent home.
That winter, there was a new depression. The fact of the war dragging on, the slaughter and lack of movement, seemed to chill everyone to the marrow, dulling the senses, just like the icy weather as it swept over Europe. A new, pessimistic weariness embraced the country, like some medieval plague.
At Redhill they managed a full house and a moderately happy Christmas. Giles did not come, for once, but Andrew and Charlotte were there, now proud grandparents, and on better terms with Phoebe; Charles, looking lost, lonely and a shade desperate, came with Mary Anne, who spent a lot of time with Nanny Coles and young William Arthur. Margaret Mary, Nanny and the two children were very much in evidence (‘She still believes totally that poor James is immortal,’ Charlotte said, and Caspar rounded on her, ‘And so he jolly is, Mama. You’ll see.’). Rupert had made no progress; and Ramillies went about with secrets in his eyes. As Billy Crook was still at the front, they asked Vera to bring her baby in on Christmas afternoon, to get her little present from the tree.
On Christmas Eve, there was a telegram for Dick. He stuffed it away after reading it, and Sara had to nag, in front of the others, before he handed it to her.
She took one quick look and squealed with delight, bidding everyone to listen to Dick’s news. ‘He’s got a Christmas present. They’ve awarded him the Distinguished Service Order…’ She held up the telegram and read, ‘For conspicuous gallantry, against the enemy, putting his own life at risk in order to save others.’
Everyone cheered and clapped, then Denise, who had come with Malcolm on Giles’ instructions, stepped forward. Denise whispered ‘Thank you. Thank you so much,’ and kissed Richard hard on both cheeks, hugging him fondly.
‘Now why did she do that?’ Sara frowned.
‘French blood. Emotion of the moment.’ Charlotte muttered; and Caspar, who knew, hissed for them to shut up. ‘One day, he’ll tell you, Sara dear,’ Caspar smiled.
*
Another ship – a frigate – lay off Cromarty that Christmas. Work went on normally. Men came and went.
On the morning in question, the officer of the watch paid no attention to the chief petty officer with a limp and scarred face, as he came aboard saluting the quarter deck.
Later, when the watch was changed, the new officer of the watch did not give the CPO a second look as he went ashore.
Thirty minutes later, with a great roar and white flash, the frigate exploded, killing all on board at the time.
At Redhill Manor, Charles received a telephone call from Basil Thomson. Within the hour he was travelling to Scotland with his old colleagues Wood and Partridge.
As well as the explosion, a young girl had been discovered in an isolated cottage. She had been strangled with a silk scarf. But, by the time the men from MI5 and the Branch reached the area, ‘The Fisherman’ was on his way back to London.
Chapter Eight
When the long dark winter ended, several events had reshaped both the future of the war, and, though they did not know it, the Railton family’s fortune.
First, Giles Railton’s greatest wish was granted. C’s Service, now usually spoken of as the Secret Service, was placed under the direct control of the Foreign Office. Never again would the diplomats be left in the dark as far as major intelligence was concerned.
Second, ‘The Fisherman’ was given instructions that would lead to a head-on collision with the Railton family, though there was no way he could ever have suspected it.
Hans-Helmut Ulhurt had been directed to establish a base in London, to carry out delicate work for Steinhauer who, as had so often happened in the past, was using his agent to assist the now promoted Colonel Nicolai.
/> ‘The Fisherman’ went about his tasks with his normal professional efficiency. Then one morning he received new orders. Twice a week, at a particular hour, he walked a specially laid-down route. It was while performing this routine that an envelope was thrust into his hand by a small, rabbit-faced young man, who contrived to bump into him as he limped from the Holborn post office.
On returning to his rooms nearby, in the house of a Mrs Blacket, who imagined him to be a wounded NCO, ‘The Fisherman’ removed his code books and deciphered the message, which read: MOST IMMEDIATE. URGENT YOU LEAVE LONDON WITHIN THE HOUR.
FIND NEW TARGET. ACT AS BEFORE.
As though sensing danger, ‘The Fisherman’ was off, like a scalded cat.
Last, but far from least, America entered the war.
Later, ‘Blinker’ Hall claimed, in a cable, ‘Alone I did it.’ Certainly his devious footwork and cunning choreography played no small part, though Room 40 had much to do with this, the saving factor of the war.
Not even Andrew, who was the Railton nearest to both Hall and Room 40, had a whiff of what was in the wind, and it was many years before the full story emerged.
It is enough to say that the code-breakers of Room 40 unbuttoned a telegram, sent by the German Foreign Minister, Arthur Zimmermann, to Count Bernstorff in Washington. The Zimmermann Telegram has since become legend, for it proposed, in effect, to assist Mexico to reconquer Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, should the United States enter the war.
‘Blinker’ Hall’s difficulty was to make the Americans see the telegram as an authentic document. This he managed to do in a complicated manner, using many people (including his friend Ned Bell, the US diplomat who had caused Andrew much trouble) and much information gleaned in the past years; in particular the fact that the German Embassy in Washington was breaking a trust by using the United States Government Wireless Station on Long Island.
When the full shock of the telegram was laid on the pacifist President Wilson, there was no alternative.