******
At least they didn’t have any problems waking up. Straw wasn’t nearly as comfortable to sleep on as it looked.
But they weren’t early enough.
‘Hell! We should have taken turns staying awake.’ Rhyllann said, glaring at the activity on the other side of the hedge. They were pulling planes from the hanger; three and sometimes four men to each aircraft.
‘I don’t think we could have managed anyway.’
Rhyllann didn’t answer. His glorious plan was dashed before it even got off the ground. He counted six aircraft lined up all ready for their pilots to take to the air. Probably commuter planes for high flying yuppies. If only he could somehow get over there – clamber aboard one of them. That one there would do nicely, he thought eyeing the useful looking Apache two seater.
They needed a diversion of some kind.
‘What we need is a diversion of some kind.’ Wren said.
Rhyllann looked at him in surprise. ‘Brawd – I was just thinking the same thing.’ They were laying on their stomachs again, under a hedge, sharing the last bottle of squash. Swigging back a mouthful of orange juice Rhyllann continued to survey Wren, waiting for the next suggestion.
‘If that diversion could happen as one of those planes is primed ready for take off, after permission’s been given from control.’ He prompted.
Wren began wriggling backwards out of the hedge. ‘Come with me. I’ve got an idea.’
Rhyllann followed, hoping it didn’t involve him pretending to be a woman again.
They were back at their vantage point. Only this time they had company. Wren held the reins of the liveliest pony in the field. It had taken twenty minutes to catch the nimble piebald. By the time they returned, only two planes still waited for take off. Rhyllann held his breath as one of them began taxiing to the top of the field, halting almost opposite them as it began its ungainly turn away from them onto the tarmac runway which ran the length of the field.
‘Here brawd – when it's in position here – start your show.’
Wren nodded. ‘Don’t wait for me. When the plane’s at that corner you set off.’
Rhyllann gave him a leg up, the pony dancing on the spot as Wren swung his leg over its back. Once Wren placed his feet in the stirrups, the animal seemed to quieten. Rhyllann put it down to an overactive imagination, but the pony seemed to be waiting for further instructions, as though thinking to itself “well this is different and might even be fun.” Turning the pony on a pinhead, Wren trotted off along the verge. Head up, his back ramrod straight, hands and heels down, almost merging with the pony.
Draping his bag across his back Rhyllann wriggled through the hedge into the field. The early morning rush hour over, the grounds’ people had sloped off for breakfast. Even so he felt exposed and worried he could have set off an unseen alarm. His ears strained, listening for an angry shout or worse still a siren. Instead, hearing an engine catch Rhyllann raised his head – yes. The plane he’d earmarked began its run up. In position! In position! he told himself. Don’t wait for Wren. They had one chance and one chance only. He needed to be at the start of the tarmac yet still undercover. Keeping close to the hedge, he waddled forward in a swift duck walk, dropping to the ground as the plane passed him, too soon. Hell! He’d never get there in time, any moment now he'd be spotted, and this was the stupidest plan in the world and he wanted to go home. The next moment all hell broke loose. Wren came galloping into the take off zone screaming and clutching at the pony’s black and white mane for dear life. Making a bee line for the tarmac strip its hooves clattered and slid as it whirled frantically, tossing its head and neighing loudly.
Wren screamed above the engine noise for someone to help him. In front of Rhyllann, the aircraft slowed then halted at the corner of the runway. A head appeared – a hand waved.
‘Get that bloody thing out of my way!’
Rhyllann hunkered low, dampening down nerves, waiting his chance. “Don’t lose it, don’t lose it.” He muttered. Then adrenaline kicked in making him feel invincible. If they could pull this off, they could do anything.
Wren was putting on the show of a lifetime. The reins seemed to shorten, tucking the pony’s nose into its chest. Wren clamped his heels against the pony’s flanks. Flawlessly he performed a number of dressage movements culminating in a series of half rears. All the while shrieking at the top of his voice, dangling first one way then the other from the saddle. No sign of the grounds’ crew; probably engrossed in their newspapers as they filled their bellies. Rhyllann hauled himself forward with his arms until he was parallel with the plane. Keeping his head down he squirmed across the last twenty yards of open ground, halting against the plane’s left wheel prop. He heard the pilot talking in a voice identical to Rhyllann’s squadron leader to air control, located behind the hangers, almost in the next field. Wren screamed again while manoeuvring the pony still closer, Rhyllann could actually feel the ground reverberating to hoof beats.
Muttering. ‘What is that child playing at?’ the pilot turned the engine off and jumped out, still clutching his briefcase. From his worm’s eye view Rhyllann caught a glimpse of expensive looking narrow shoes, and although he was now at least five yards away, wafts of gorgeous scented aftershave still lingered in the air. The pony quietened, emboldening the man to stride up to it. In his new role as rescuer, the man’s attitude softened.
‘Now don’t be silly, keep calm, don’t panic, just jump down.’ He spoke with the authority of one used to having his every whim obeyed, raising a hand to the pony’s bridle. For a moment the scene could have been a trendy photo shoot for an upmarket clothing chain. Then the pony shied away with a snort, splattering the beautiful dove grey suit with snot.
‘Help me – I can’t – I can’t! One of your planes startled him – he bolted – oh please help me!’ Wren wailed. All the time the pony danced and skittered, tantalisingly just out of arm’s reach. Within seconds Wren managed to coax the man into the middle of the field, and still led him by inches then feet further and further away from his aircraft. The next five minutes were crucial. Any moment now control might send someone onto the field to take a look see, or a passer-by stop to lend a hand.
Rolling under the plane, Rhyllann hauled himself in, without bothering about pre-flight checks he restarted the engine, and began pivoting onto the runway. The flat northern tones of his instructor resonating in his mind, “Steady now lad, check the wind sock … find your heading reference .”
The city-gent would-be pilot spun round.
‘My plane!’
Rhyllann jumped down from the cabin holding his hands up in surrender.
Wren encouraged the pony to rear again.
‘Eeek – Mummy help me!!!!’
And in the split second it took for the man to switch from reluctant hero to duped idiot an iron clad hoof rammed down on the wafer thin leather shoe. Rhyllann winced as the man screamed, hopped twice then toppled to the ground. Now Wren was galloping towards him, leaning alongside the pony’s neck, fumbling under the saddle. Rhyllann stepped to one side as the pony skidded to a halt snorting heavily, streaming foam towards him. Wren tumbled from its back, tugging the saddle free as he landed. Ignoring Rhyllann’s efforts to bundle him into the plane, he grabbed at the noseband, loosened a couple of buckles and pulled the reins and bridle over the pony’s neck and head, turning it as he did so.
The pony’s nostrils flared as it swung round to gallop off across the field bucking and spinning and calling out in triumph, rushing back to the wretched pilot who had only just regained his feet, and aiming a playful kick at his thigh.
Rhyllann threw his cousin into the plane’s cockpit then jumped up beside him. He opened the throttle, at the same time searching the skies for any descending planes. He clamped the headphones on, they were light and well fitting, immediately cutting out most of the engines’ noise, noting with surpr
ised delight the top of the range GPS.
Clicking the mike open, Rhyllann confirmed take off in a clipped Home County accent, then snapped the mike closed. Pilots tended to keep transmissions to the bare minimum. He’d already persuaded himself that even if anything was scrambled to intercept them, they’d be given the chance to land before being shot out the skies. Too late now for any second thoughts, he’d crossed the Rubicon. Opening the throttle to full, he checked the RPM: Good – already over 2550, and increased the speed to 55 knots. The joy that flooded through him cancelled out any nerves. He felt rather than heard engine noise escalate, thundering now and nothing could stop him. Wren, still settling himself into the passenger seat, found another set of headphones and fumbled them on. Now Rhyllann could hear him hiccupping with laughter through the intercom:
‘That pony should be in the circus! My god was he enjoying himself – did you see the look on his face? He was having …My god Rhyllann – You did it! We’re flying!!!’
Rhyllann grinned. ‘You noticed!’ He rolled the wings level, watching the slip ball return to the middle, confirming his little plane was flying in balance.
Below them fields, buildings and roads swirled away, forming a green patchwork intersected with grey and blue ribbons of roads, canals and rivers. Wisps of clouds drifted beneath them, sky soared above them, merging seamlessly in the far distance with the land racing below them. Checking the compass Rhyllann headed West for the horizon. Wren’s teeth chattered with excitement.
‘This is better then a cross country chase!’
‘Better than snogging Becky Roberts!’
‘Yeah right. Like you’d know.’ Adding. ‘I hope that little horse’ll be ok.’
Setting the radio to scan local frequencies, Rhyllann kept his own worries about jet fighter pilots and dog fights to himself. Wren couldn’t keep from grinning. Watching as Wren rooted around in the side pocket of his seat, Rhyllann felt amused and pleased with his cousin. When he produced an aeronautical map, scale ruler and protractor Rhyllann laughed at him.
‘You love to complicate things don’t you?’ He tapped at the GPS. ‘Stop worrying.’
But Wren couldn’t resist a new map or updating Rhyllann on the landmarks they passed; it kept him occupied. Rhyllann settled into cruise mode, keeping clear of other small aerodromes, and avoiding RAF bases like the plague. But air traffic was light, and they caught hardly any chatter on the airwaves.
Wren prodded him, wanting to know why Rhyllann occasionally rolled the plane from side to side.
‘Because we can see for miles and miles, but not what’s directly below us. It’s kinda like checking in your mirrors when you’re driving.’ He explained. ‘Here – d’you wanna try?’
Wren looked uncertain. ‘Another time. Let’s not push our luck. Anyhow we should be past Dartmoor soon.’ Adding ‘Yes! Look – The Tamar River! – we’ve done it! We’re over Cornwall!’ He whooped.
Rhyllann felt he’d been flying forever, this was second nature. Not even second. He was in his element, effortlessly predicting every little flurry of wind, thermals and down drafts. Glancing at the instruments Rhyllann estimated they’d covered almost three hundred miles in two and a half hours, and still had a quarter tank of fuel left. He patted himself on the back, not bad going at all. They’d caught snatches of conversation from other pilots, but none referring to the daring Denman raid. Rhyllann wondered who you would report a stolen plane to. The Ministry of Defence? Civil Aviation? Bit of a bummer really he thought.
“I say officer, my flying machine has been stolen!” Cue laughter. The poor guy would never live it down.
He’d gloated too soon. Up till then the radio had been issuing monotonous requests and permissions for take offs and landings, background noise and Rhyllann had stopped really listening. When the message came, it was like getting an electrical shock from something as innocuous as a kettle or light switch.
‘RAF Longmoor, seeking a light aircraft, Apache mark BP nwp. Say again. Bravo, Papa, November, Whisky, Papa. Thought to be heading west sou’ west.’
Wren stared in horror. ‘Oh no – what are we going to do?’ He wailed.
‘Easy. Find a field.’
‘A field! You’ve never flown solo before – you’ve never landed – we’re going to crash – you promised parachutes!’ Wren started hyperventilating as he realised there was nothing but a thin metal shell and miles and miles of thin air between him and the ground.
‘Stop it! We took off in a field didn’t we? – We’ll find a nice large field to put down in. I only need a run of fifty feet or so. You didn’t really think we were going to land at an airfield did you?’
Wren stared resolutely ahead; still hiccupping.
’Come on brawd, I need you now! You’ve been great – but I need you to sort out a field. Believe me – this is the easy bit! This little plane’s so light, as soon as the wheels touch down, it’ll just roll forward – it’s designed for this. All I’ll have to do is slam the brakes on!’
It wasn’t really a lie. Sooner or later every aircraft had to land: Newton’s Law. But Rhyllann kept that little gem to himself. That massive field there, just outside the moors would do he decided. He dropped ten knots, found an aiming point and began descent, hoping the change of altitude wouldn’t affect wind speed too much. For a moment he felt terribly isolated, without backup, and only himself to rely on. Then practice and training kicked in, dropping to two hundred feet, he began the short final: he heard Jack Turner’s voice. “OK now then Lad, maintain the airbrake setting, increase the angle of attack and pitch that nose up. And I promise you every time you take off or land, you will hear my voice!” Now they were only twenty feet from the ground, and Rhyllann began final roundout.
The small herd of cattle straggling the field trotted away as the plane swooped down. Rhyllann reminded himself to keep breathing as trees magically grew to tower above them and the ground rose up to meet them. The plane dropped gracefully, aligned perfectly, the wheels skimming the grass now just before stall, engines in overdrive, bumping along then taxi-ing smoothly forward to come to a controlled halt.
Rhyllann continued shutting down instruments ignoring the joyful voice inside his head urging him to take flight again. He’d done it! His first solo! Text book landing! And the only witness seemed totally unfazed.
‘We need to go in that direction.’ Wren pointed up the field, past the solitary oak. ‘– up there and through that hedge – we should find ourselves on the moors. Dunno which side we’re on though.’
‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me? Thank me?’
‘Congratulations. Thank you. Erm … we’ve got company – that guy don’t seem too happy about something.’ Wren indicated a figure hurtling towards them, growing stockier and angrier looking by the moment as he decreased the distance between them.
‘Probably the farmer. Upset about you stampeding his cattle.’ Wren mused. Ignoring the muffled yelps of pain, Rhyllann dragged Wren from the aircraft and forced his own cramped legs into a staggering run towards the hedge.
‘We’ll never make it!’ He panted. With their cumbersome three legged gait, they’d only managed a hundred yards, the hedge seemed a thousand yards away – uphill. Rhyllann supported his cousin on one side, with the damn bag banging against his hip. And he was expected to run? Trying to look over his shoulder and hurry at the same time he stumbled. Wren crashed into him sending them both sprawling to the ground.
‘He’s stopped. He’s given up!’ Wren crowed. Rhyllann squinted. The guy held a hand to his face.
‘No. No he hasn’t! He’s talking to someone. He’s calling the police!’ They struggled to their feet again.
‘Annie!’
‘Shut up. Walk as quickly as you can. We might make it.’ They would never make it. As they passed the oak tree an ominous growl filled the air. Before Rhyllann could think “two-stroke-engine” a scrambl
er bike roared into view, scattering the cattle into a mad stampede.
The pillion rider brandished a rifle their way letting off a warning shot.
Rhyllann froze as the noise reverberated through the air almost drowning the low pitched insane mooing of cows.
He hadn’t called the police. He’d summoned reinforcements. They were both dead.
Wren plucked at his sleeve. ‘Hoodie – quick – take your hoodie off!’ He shouted. Ignoring him, Rhyllann tried to hurry Wren up the hill.
‘Rhyllann! Give me your hoodie then run!’ As he spoke Wren dragged the oversized second hand fleece from Rhyllann's shoulders. Now he could make out words:
‘You hellers! I’ll have you, you buggers!’ The motor bike grew rapidly larger as it decreased the space between them.
Panic stricken, Rhyllann pulled his arms free, and thrust it at Wren, who grabbed Rhyllann’s bag from him.
‘Run!’ He shouted with a shove.
Rhyllann began running, rock hard ground rising to meet his feet as they slapped down, then flew up, faster and faster; his eyes streaming scalding wind burned tears. This wasn’t fair! How could he outrun a motor bike? Or a bullet? What was Wren up to? Getting ready to blame him – beg for mercy – negotiate? Rhyllann almost made the hedge when he spun round. He needed to see what Wren was playing at.
Wren had pulled the jacket hood up, and now stooped, wiping the ground then his face. He lurched back towards the oak, bending to pick up a stick, the motorbike almost on top of him.
Rhyllann began racing back down the hill. ‘No Wren, no! Don’t do it!’ Jesus Christ! He really thought he could angle that stick through the bike’s wheel Indiana Jones style. ‘Wren stop – You’ll tear your arm off – No!’ He yelled.
Machine and Wren seemed about to collide. Rhyllann would never make it in time but he kept running. ‘NO!’ The scream ripped through his lungs.
Wren ignored him. Dodging the bike, he lurched into the tree and with an awkward upward and sideways pounce, walloped one of the branches with his stick. A rugby sized ball spun away from the tree, smashing into the bike, and dissolved into a cloud of smoke. Wren rolled away, stumbling to his knees then his feet, before crouching low to stagger into a run. The bike swerved crazily; shouts filled the air – Now Wren streamed upwards throwing the stick before him like a drunken pole vaulter. A dozen black pinpricks darted around him searching for uncovered skin, before giving up and rejoining the main swarm.
Farmer and friend had the bike up and were juggling it between them as they swiped at the air furiously, yelping all the while. After a few false starts the engine roared again. Rhyllann didn’t wait to see anymore – spinning to race after his clever brilliant cousin. But the engine noise dwindled as the men turned tail, presumably back to Mrs Farmer and vinegar dabs.
Hunched on a log, hands and head between his knees, Wren waited for him. The jacket still swamped him and his face seemed covered with sweet smelling mud. Catching sight of Rhyllann he wheezed between gasps.
‘Nothing quite so scary as a nest of angry wasps!’