Bill, M-J and the Night Flight




Chapter 1

Observation

When my children asked me, "What did you do in the war, Mum?" I used to tell
them that I spent a lot of time freezing half to death at the top of a church
tower. At that time, I lived with my mother in the tiny village of
Tillingbourne, not far from Maidstone in Kent. (My father was in Egypt with
the Royal Engineers.)

After the debacle of Dunkirk, the summer of 1940 was dominated by the fear of
imminent invasion. The threat receded with the defeat of the Luftwaffe in the
Battle of Britain, but after that came the Blitz. Having failed to invade our
shores directly, the Germans sought to destroy the morale of the British
people through bombing. Night after night, for weeks on end, waves of German
bombers would pass overhead on their way to London.

The cities and major towns had a sophisticated civil defence organisation of
air-raid wardens, firemen, police, ambulance crews and army bomb-disposal
squads. In our small village, we were never likely to be the deliberate target
of bombing. Bombs nevertheless fell; bombers would sometimes turn back short
of their target, either as a result of anti-aircraft fire, RAF fighter attack
or simply through mechanical problems. As they did so, they would invariably
drop their bomb load. Kent became known as 'bomb alley'. In Tillingbourne, our
response to this threat centred around the fire-watch the ARP (the Air-Raid
Precautions Service) had set up. Every night, volunteers would watch from the
square Norman tower of the village church for any stray bombs falling. The
volunteers were mostly drawn from the local Boy Scout and Girl Guide units. We
had an army field telephone installed at the top of the tower and linked to
the village post office, where our calls could be routed to the ARP warden or
directly to the local Home Guard platoon, the police or the RAF as
appropriate. Most nights, the telephone was unused, but some nights were very
busy indeed.

At the age of 21, I was an active member of our local Girl Guide company and
leader of 'Kingfisher' patrol. Once or twice a week, I would report to the
church just before nightfall to do my fire-watch duty. We worked in pairs,
each pair doing half a night's duty. As I had to get up early to catch the bus
to school in Maidstone, my duties were always in the first half of the night,
so I got at least some sleep before a morning's school-work. As the autumn
wore on, the sunset time got earlier so that, even with year-round
daylight-saving time, I would come home from school, eat a hurried meal then
put warm clothes on and report for duty.

With the total blackout that was in force early in the war, a clear night
could bring a glorious display of the starry skies that we so rarely see in
these days of light pollution. Often those nights would also bring a grim
reminder of why we were there. A twinkling on the eastern horizon would mark
the activity of the anti-aircraft batteries on the cliffs above Dover while an
orange glow to the north-west would tell us that London was burning.

Some nights, of course, there were no bombers; there was no discernible
pattern to the Luftwaffe's attacks. It was one one such night, about three
weeks before Christmas 1940, that the interesting part of my story began. The
night was clear and still with no wind but a bitterly cold penetrating frost.
The winters of the early 1940s were among the coldest of the 20th century in
southern England. I was wearing several sweaters and two pairs of woollen
stockings under my riding jodhpurs with extra socks to fill out the boots I
had borrowed from my brother. I had a warm, if rather little-girlish, knitted
pixie-hood on my head and the hood of my heavy duffel coat up over it. For
those cold nights, my mother had knitted me a pair of thick mittens and a huge
chocolate brown scarf which I had swathed around my neck and pulled up over my
nose. My school-friend and partner for the night, Mary-Jane Philpott was a
small, skinny girl who felt the cold terribly, so she was similarly bundled
up, completely hiding her slight figure. Still we were both chilled to the
bone.

We conversed little when we were on duty. We usually stationed ourselves at
opposite corners of the church tower, about 30 feet apart and with the shallow
lead-covered pyramid roof between us. We could see over it, but had to follow
the wooden walkway around the edge of the tower to meet. The stone parapet
around the tower was exactly the right height to support the elbows while
using binoculars or simply to lean against while watching. On windy nights,
the parapet also provided some shelter, but the problem that night was simply
one of temperature.

The high point of the night always came at about 9:30, when the vicar's wife
would appear with mugs of cocoa and a plate of hot buttered crumpets for us.
We always ate the crumpets first, as they went cold quickly. Eating buttered
crumpets while wearing mittens without getting butter on them or wool in our
mouths was a skill we rapidly acquired. By the time the crumpets were gone,
the cocoa would have cooled from scalding to merely hot and would be ready to
drink. The tin mugs that would be too hot to touch with bare fingers were
comfortably warming when cradled with both mitten-covered hands. With the
cocoa drunk, we would quickly wipe our mouths with the cloth that had covered
the crumpets and then pull our scarves up over our faces again to ward off the
bitter cold of the night.

It was some time after the cocoa break, when the warmth was little more than a
distant memory, that I spotted movement in the night sky. The crescent moon
that had provided some light early in the night had set some hours previously,
so that all I could see was the faintest suggestion of a fast-moving object,
black on black, with the occasional star winking out and reappearing. I was
almost sure I could also hear an aircraft engine, but with the number of
layers of clothing over my ears, it was hard to tell. I watched for 30 seconds
or so, now certain that I was watching a low-flying aeroplane. It was
perilously close to the ground and I held my breath, waiting for the bang and
the flames that would surely follow. Nothing happened. I concluded that it
must have landed, but I was surprised; a blind night landing on farmer's field
was a feat that very few pilots could pull off. I decided to keep my eye on
the spot in case anything interesting developed.

"M-J!" I called, keeping perfectly still. There was no response. "Mary-Jane!"
I repeated using her full name to attract her attention. I had to call twice
more before she reacted. As I was facing away from her, my voice was muffled
by my scarf and her ears were as well insulated as mine, this was hardly
surprising.

"Bill?" she asked as she joined me. (My surname is Billinton, so my friends
nearly always called me 'Bill' rather than 'Susan'.)

"I think I saw a plane landing. Could you get the compass, please, M-J? It's
all black out there and I daren't move my head."

I heard Mary Jane make her way back to the hatch that led down into the tower,
and then return to my side. There was a sharp click as she opened the big
brass artillery compass we had been supplied with and I felt her gently press
it into my hands.

"It's the right way round already," she told me.

"If I'm right that it's a plane, I want to be able to hear it if it takes off.
Can you pull my hood down, please?" I requested.

Mary-Jane stood behind me so as not to get into my line of sight and loosened
my scarf so that she could pull it down off my face and lower the hood of my
coat. "Woolly hood too?" she asked. I nodded, so she unfastened the button
under my chin and pulled it off. I had my hair in pigtails, so there was no
protection at all from the cold that assaulted my ears.

I lifted the compass to my eye. These compasses are about 6 inches in diameter
have a raised sight at either side. The one you hold closest to your eye has a
notch to sight over and the one at the far side has a vertical sighting wire.
For use at night, each sight has a dot of luminous paint on it. When you have
the compass lined up, you press a small button on the side. This releases the
compass card so it's free to rotate. Once it has settled down, you can release
the button to lock the card again. The bearing can then be read using a line
engraved in the glass top of the compass.

I decided to take a preliminary bearing based on my memory of the point at
which the plane had disappeared. Once I had done so, I handed the compass back
to Mary-Jane and she read the bearing using a small electric torch with a red
bulb to protect her night vision. She turned her back on me to do this, so
there would be no risk at all to my night vision. Mary-Jane handed the compass
back to me and I raised it to my eye again, hoping that I was still pointing
in the right direction.

We waited in silence.

Eventually I heard the characteristic cough and then roar of an aero engine
being started. It was faint but distinct in the still night air. Mary-Jane
turned her head slightly; she had heard it too, despite the layers of clothing
over her ears. I kept as still as I could, trying to stop my teeth chattering.
My eyes watered in the freezing air as I tried not to blink. Eventually I
sensed rather than saw movement. Suddenly, it was quite clear as there was a
flicker of flame from the aircraft's exhaust manifold. I took another compass
bearing and then watched. As the aeroplane climbed above the distant
tree-fringed hills which formed our skyline, it became a black-on-black
silhouette once more and then was gone. While Mary-Jane read the new compass
bearing, I pulled the hood of my coat back up and tugged my scarf tighter
around my face, luxuriating in the warmth.

I used the telephone to report my sighting to the RAF duty officer, giving him
a verbal description of what I had seen together with my compass bearing and a
rough estimate of the distance from the church tower.

After that, the remainder of our watch was rather anticlimactic. We stood at
opposite corners of the church tower, changing places from time to time and
trying to keep warm in the steadily falling temperature, until we were
relieved by a pair of Boy Scouts a little after midnight.

Chapter 2

Interrogation

The day after sighting the mysterious aircraft was a normal school day. As
usual after a night on watch, I was fairly tired during my classes but I was
quite capable of doing my school-work and the teachers understood the
exigencies of other demands on pupils' time during the war.

Late in the morning, I was enjoying taking part in a Latin lesson. Miss
Fairweather, our teacher, insisted that to gain proficiency in Latin, we
should take time to use it as a conversational medium, just like any other
language. Accordingly, our lessons always began with about 10 minutes of
general discussion. This always involved use of a dictionary as we grappled
with everyday terms that classical writers had never dealt with. Sometimes we
even had to invent terminology for modern concepts such as aeroplanes. I
joined in by telling how I had spent half the night on top of the church
tower (summa turris ecclesiae), freezing with my scarf wrapped across my
face (frigida vulto stola obvoluta). I was just about to say that I had seen
an aeroplane (navem volatilem vidi) when the headmistress ushered a visitor
into the classroom.

The whole class rose to its feet: automatic courtesy in those days. The
headmistress gestured us to sit again and I had my first clear view of the
visitor. He was in a blue RAF uniform with the rings denoting a squadron
leader on each cuff. His cap was tilted at a jaunty angle and he was rakishly
handsome. More precisely, he had once been rakishly handsome. The black patch
covering his left eye, the puckered scar tissue visible at the hairline just
behind it and the empty left sleeve of his uniform jacket told a tale of
aerial combat barely survived.

"I would like to speak to Miss Susan Billinton," the squadron leader announced
in a deep but warm voice. My girlish passions had already responded to his
remaining good looks and even at the tender age of 21, his injuries aroused my
maternal instincts; I was already doubly smitten before he spoke. To top it
all, he got my name right first go. (People will call me Billington, as if it
had a G in it, which it hasn't.)

"That's me, sir," I replied, rather ungrammatically, and stood up.

"May I borrow Miss Billinton for a few minutes?" he asked the Latin teacher in
that lovely deep voice.

Miss Fairweather was visibly flustered by his request, simple though it was.
Clearly he was having as much effect on her as he was having on me and the
rest of the class. She managed to stumble out enough words to give me
permission to go and to suggest that I took my books with me, in case my
absence turned out to be more than a few minutes.

The headmistress led the squadron leader and me to her study and told him to
take as long as he wanted with me.

The squadron leader indicated I should sit down, as he settled himself down
into the headmistress's chair. He put his leather briefcase down on the desk
and extended his hand to me. "Squadron Leader Peter Barclay," he announced.
"I'm an intelligence liaison officer with the Air Ministry."

I dutifully shook his hand. "You seem to know my name already, sir," I
ventured.

"That's right, Miss Billinton," he confirmed. "May I call you Susan like your
teachers do?"

"I'd rather you called me Bill, sir. My friends all do."

He smiled indulgently then started to explain his reason for meeting me. "You
put in a report about seeing an aeroplane land and then take off again near
Tillingbourne about 10:20 last night."

"I'm quite sure that I did see one," I replied defensively.

He raised his hand to still my panicky reaction. "I'm also quite sure that you
did, Bill," he reassured me. "We keep records of all the observations logged
and yours are among the most reliable. If you say you saw an aeroplane, then I
have no doubt you did see one. I just want to ask you some more questions to
see if we can work out a bit more detail. Tell me exactly what you saw."

I was pleased at Mr Barclay's assessment of my skills as an observer, but was
too embarrassed to say so. I took him through what I had seen and exactly how
I had gone about taking a bearing on the aircraft. He asked questions as I
gave my explanation and made notes in small neat handwriting as I talked.

"On the strength of your report, we sent out a photo-reconnaissance plane this
morning," Squadron leader Barclay told me after listening to what I had to
say. "Could you open up that roll of paper in my case please, Bill?"

The roll of paper was slightly too big for the case and stuck out from under
the flap at one side. I removed it and took off the rubber bands around it
then spread it out on the desk. It was a mosaic of aerial photographs which
had been joined together to make a map.

"That's your church," Mr Barclay explained, pointing to its image, "and the
red lines show the bearing you recorded." He indicated a pair of lines drawn
in red wax pencil, starting at the church tower and diverging to about quarter
of an inch apart as they crossed the mosaic of photos. "How accurate do you
think your bearing was, by the way?"

"Within a degree either way at worst," I speculated. "Quite possibly better."

"That's about what we thought, so those lines are a degree either side of your
bearing."

"So I saw the aircraft taking off somewhere inside that thin triangle?"

"Ordinarily, I would agree with you, Bill, but take a look at the photos."

I stared at the photographic map in increasing puzzlement.

"Too much detail?" Squadron Leader Barclay asked, not unkindly.

"Yes, sir," I replied, still puzzled, "that must be it. I thought it would be
easier to read than a map because it's got everything on it, but it isn't."

"That's often the problem until you've had a lot of practice. Maps tell you
what's important and leave out what isn't. Photos show you everything and
leave you to work it out for yourself. It's a bit of an art reading it. If you
look in my case, there's a map too."

I found a folded map and opened it out on the desk. It proved to be several
adjacent Ordnance Survey six-inch scale maps pasted together. Red lines had
been drawn on the map in the same way that they had on the photos. I had no
trouble locating the church and understanding the direction of my bearing on
the map. The photos proved to be printed at about the same scale as the map,
so I could easily relate one to the other. I studied the two of them intently
for several minutes.

"So, where do you suppose the aircraft took off from?" Mr Barclay asked.

"Well, somewhere between the red lines," I replied.

"Exactly, but can you see anything that could be used as a runway on those
photographs? You saw the plane take off nearly stern-on to you, maybe 10
degrees from your line of sight, you estimated, so there should be something
cutting across those red lines at about 10 degrees that could serve as a
runway for a light aeroplane."

I looked at the map and found an old avenue of trees marked, with a possible
line of take-off between them. "What about this, sir?"

"Yes, we found that too, Bill. Look at the same spot on the photographs."

The map was obviously many years out of date. On the photograph, the avenue
was almost totally non-existent, reduced to a few isolated trees. The
potential runway between them no longer existed, now blocked by an orchard, a
small building and several fence lines.

"I don't doubt that you saw what you say you did," the squadron leader began
when I had digested the total absence of even a makeshift airstrip, "but I
don't see how an aircraft could possibly have landed and taken off where you
reported seeing it. There must be some other explanation."

"I see what you mean, sir. What should I do?"

"Just keep an eye out in that direction, next time you're on duty," he advised
me. "I'll also get the police to do a little snooping around the
neighbourhood."

"Should I get people to look out for anything funny going on?" I asked.

"No, I think we should keep all this confidential. If there is something going
on, we don't want to alert anyone. I'm sure that rumours fly around a village
like yours like lightning." He softened his criticism of Tillingbourne with a
smile and I grinned in reply.

I quickly explained that Mary-Jane already knew most of the story as she had
been on duty with me and had helped me take the bearings. Squadron Leader
Barclay advised that I tell her the rest of the story to satisfy her curiosity
but to ask her to tell no-one else.

With the interview over, the squadron leader held the office door open for me
like the gentleman he was (despite having to put his briefcase down to do so).
I basked for a moment in the joy of being treated like a real grown-up woman
before bidding him farewell and returning to my lessons.

Chapter 3

Reconnaissance

Having started the whole business of the mystery aircraft, I felt that I
really had to follow it up. Part of it was pride; despite Squadron Leader
Barclay's assurances, I felt that the apparent impossibility of an aeroplane
landing and taking off where I had seen it reflected badly on my reputation as
an observer. The rest of it was sheer curiosity; if there was something
strange and possibly sinister going on in my village, I wanted to know what it
was.

It had been a Wednesday when the squadron leader visited me at school. It
wasn't full daylight when I left for school on the Thursday and Friday and
already dark when I returned home, so Saturday morning was the first
opportunity I had to revisit the church tower in daylight. The compass was
stored in the bell-chamber along with the other equipment for the fire-watch
volunteers, so I picked it up as I made my way to the top of the tower.

I was not wearing as many layers of clothes as I wore for fire-watch duty but
was still dressed warmly for being outdoors on a cold December morning with my
school scarf tied over my head to keep my ears warm. I nevertheless felt
frozen to the marrow almost as soon as I put my head above the parapet, so I
wasted no time in admiring the view, magnificent though it was. I placed the
compass on the stone parapet around the tower and rotated it until the compass
needle showed me that I had it aligned on the bearing that Mary-Jane had
recorded for me on the Tuesday night. I kept the compass still and squatted
down so that I could use the sights to see where that bearing led in daylight.
The line of sight was just to one side of a large farmhouse which I recognised
as Manor Farm. However, I quickly realised just how difficult it was to
estimate distance. I had no idea if the point at which I had seen the aircraft
take off was closer than the house, beyond it or right next to it. The
significance of the lines that Squadron Leader Barclay had shown me on the
aerial photographs and the map came home to me; that was the only definite
information that could be taken from the report I had filed.

Somewhat gloomily, I returned the compass to its place and made my way out of
the church. I decided to visit Mary-Jane so I could tell her how I had got on
and to see if she had any bright ideas.

Mary-Jane lived out on the edge of the village, whereas I lived quite close to
the church, so I went home to pick up my bicycle and to tell my mother where I
was going. A brisk cycle ride improved my spirits and warmed me up, although
my cheeks were rosy and burning with the cold air by the time I reached
Mary-Jane's house.

The front doors of houses were only for formal visiting in those days, so I
dismounted from my bicycle and wheeled it round to the Philpotts' back door
and knocked there. Mary-Jane's mother opened it and ushered me in, closing the
door quickly behind me to keep the heat in the kitchen. Mary Jane was sitting
at one side of the coke-fired kitchen range and it was obvious from the empty
chair that her mother had been sitting at the other side. On the floor,
between the chairs, was a wicker laundry basket containing a pile of socks and
stockings.

"I'll be free as soon as we've finished this darning," Mary-Jane explained,
holding her hands up so that I could see the sock over her left hand and the
darning needle in her right.

"Well, I'll help too, and it will be finished quicker," I offered, peeling off
my gloves and removing my coat and scarf.

"That's very kind of you, Susan," Mrs Philpott replied. "Now I'm on my feet,
I'll put the kettle on. Would you both like a cup of tea?"

I accepted gratefully and brought a third chair over to the warmth of the
range. I equipped myself with a wooden darning mushroom, a needle and some
black wool and set to work finding and repairing actual and incipient holes in
Mary-Jane's winter stockings. The time passed quickly as we worked and chatted
together.

Once the darning was finished, Mrs Philpott gave her daughter leave to spend
the rest of the day as she wished. Mary-Jane and I went up to her bedroom,
which was freezing, but private. Mary-Jane gestured for me to take the only
chair in the room while she sat on the edge of her bed and wrapped herself in
the eiderdown for warmth. I helped myself to the shawl slung over the back of
the chair and we settled down to discuss developments.

I had already told Mary-Jane about my encounter with Squadron Leader Barclay
and she knew that I had planned to go to the church tower that morning. She
was almost as disappointed as I was at the inconclusive result of my visit.

"I'm going to ride my bike out to Manor Farm and see if there's anywhere you
could land a plane around there," I told her.

"But you already said that there wasn't anywhere on the photographs Mr Barclay
showed you."

"I know, M-J, but it might look different from the ground," I replied, more in
hope than confidence.

"I'll come with you, Bill," Mary-Jane told me firmly. "Two pairs of eyes are
better than one."

While Mary-Jane changed into some warmer clothes for our sleuthing, I headed
back downstairs to the kitchen. I found my coat hanging on a chair in front of
the range, where Mrs Philpott must have left it to warm up. I put my scarf
over my head again, crossed it under my chin and knotted it under my hair
which was tucked into a snood. Nothing out of ten for elegance, but it would
keep me warm. I put my gloves on and let myself out through the back door.

When she emerged from the house, Mary-Jane was clearly taking no chances with
the weather. She had on a pair of neat warm navy blue leggings which I rather
envied. (A skirt is a fundamentally draughty garment, no matter how you
supplement it with long underwear and thick stockings.) Her hip length coat in
a rather brighter blue was probably more practical for cycling than my duffel
coat. All I could see of her face was her eyes between the brim of her knitted
stocking cap and the scarf that was wrapped across the lower part of her face
and knotted behind her head.

"You look as though you're going to rob a stage-coach," I commented. The
slight wrinkling of the skin around Mary-Jane's eyes suggested that her reply
might be a grin.

We cycled through the maze of narrow country lanes that took us to the
vicinity of Manor Farm, pausing occasionally while I referred to the one-inch
Ordnance Survey map I had in the front basket on my bicycle. I wanted to find
the avenue of trees that was so clearly visible on the six-inch map, but not
quite so clearly marked on its smaller scale counterpart. Even though the
aerial photographs that Squadron Leader Barclay had shown me made it quite
obvious that the avenue was no longer unobstructed, I still wanted to be sure.

We finally stopped at a point that I judged was in line with the avenue. We
could see the farmhouse quite distinctly through the bare winter trees and the
square outline of the church tower was quite clear about two miles away in the
opposite direction. Our immediate view was impeded by the very overgrown hedge
alongside the road where we had stopped.

"I'd like to take a look around," I told Mary-Jane, "but I don't want it to be
too obvious that I'm snooping."

"I could have a flat tyre and that would give us an excuse to be here,"
Mary-Jane offered, dismounting and tutting over an entirely imaginary
puncture.

While I walked along the verge of the road peering through the hedge where I
could, Mary-Jane let the air out of her front tyre and then settled down to
remove the wheel and lever off the tyre.

The hedge was not just overgrown but now boasted some quite substantial trees.
Some parts, however, were far less dense and certainly wouldn't have been able
to contain farm animals if it wasn't for the post and wire fence that had been
erected behind it. After a few minutes' exploring, I found the erstwhile
avenue. The story told by the RAF reconnaissance photographs was depressingly
accurate. The avenue was long gone, now given over to a variety of
agricultural uses and blocked by a small building. Besides that, I realised
that it clearly wouldn't have been wide enough for even a very small
aeroplane.

I turned and looked at Mary-Jane, who was still busy with her mock puncture
repair and had the inner tube completely out of her front tyre. She was
working with bare hands, which were by then bright red with the cold.
Nevertheless, she waved cheerily at me and carried on with her task. There was
nothing to be lost by exploring further, so I turned again and continued
trudging along the lane and peering through the hedge. I came to a section of
about 20 yards of hedge that was lower than the rest, apparently recently
trimmed, so that I could see over it quite easily. I took the opportunity to
have a good look at the farmland beyond. The field immediately adjacent to the
hedge was smooth grass of almost cricket pitch quality. I knew that other than
a mowing machine, only sheep could crop grass that short. There was an old
wooden livestock feeding manger on wheels in the middle of the field, but no
sign of sheep or any other animals. As I continued to look, I noticed that
there was a white painted wooden post about 8 feet high close to the far side
of the field. I puzzled about it for a moment and then spotted another similar
one about midway along the low section of hedge. I walked further along the
lane until I reached it. I looked across the field at the first white post,
which I was now seeing through the wooden bars that made up the manger. After
a few moments, I noticed that this line across the field also corresponded
with a gap in the woodland that stood on the far side of Manor Farm. It was
then that it dawned on me that I was looking at the elusive runway I had been
searching for. The white posts must indicate the direction of approach and
take-off, in line with the gap in the trees and the low section of hedge. The
frost was still white on the short grass and from this angle, it was possible
to make out faint wheel marks. I had been expecting to find a long narrow
feature in the pattern of land use, but instead there was nothing but two
posts. They didn't even correspond to the long dimension of the field but
instead ran obliquely across its width. The only thing that bothered me was
that if this was a runway, it looked far shorter than I would expect.

"What do you think you're up to then?"

I span around, startled by the suddenness and roughness of the voice. I had
not heard anyone approach, so I was astonished to find a man standing right
next to me. He was a ruddy-checked countryman dressed in well-worn tweeds with
a shotgun broken over the crook of one elbow. I took him to be a gamekeeper of
some kind.

"Just waiting while my friend finishes fixing her bike," I explained, trying
to keep my voice from squeaking.

I walked back to where Mary-Jane had finished repairing her illusory puncture
and was now pumping up the tyre. The man followed a few paces behind me. He
inspected the scatter of tools and puncture repair outfit on the grass where
Mary-Jane had been working and grunted, apparently satisfied with my
explanation.

"Be off with you as soon as you're done then," the man ordered peremptorily as
he walked off.

It was high-handed, to say the least, for the man to order us to go away like
that when we were on a public road, but it wasn't an uncommon attitude amongst
minor authority figures in those days. Given that I had just discovered a
covert airstrip on the land he was apparently patrolling, I was thoroughly
intimidated by him.

As soon as Mary-Jane was finished, we remounted our bicycles and pedalled back
to the village.

Chapter 4

Planning

As we freewheeled down the gentle hill back into Tillingbourne, I suggested to
Mary-Jane that we go to my house to warm up and to discuss what we had seen.

My parents' house was one of a row of two-storey brick-built 19th century
artisans' cottages in the middle of Tillingham, the traditional English 'two
up and two down'. Access to the back yard was via a narrow lane running along
the back of the whole row which, with care, it was possible to negotiate
without dismounting.

We propped our bicycles up either side of the back door and let ourselves into
the kitchen. With my father in Egypt and my brother away at college, my mother
and I virtually lived in the kitchen. Like Mary-Jane, my mother was small and
skinny and felt the cold terribly in winter. My mother taught at the village
primary school so most of our fuel ration was used up at weekends to run the
fire in the kitchen range like a blast furnace while the rest of the house had
to make do with second-hand heat. Accordingly, as soon as we were inside, I
pulled my gloves off, unwound my scarf from around my head and shed my coat,
before even acknowledging my mother, let alone greeting her.

Mary-Jane was more polite and managed a muffled "Hello, Mrs Billinton" from
behind her scarf before frantically peeling off layers of clothes.

My mother had put the kettle on as soon as she saw us enter the back yard and
we were soon clutching steaming mugs of tea. It was well past midday, so my
mother offered us both some lunch. "Scrambled eggs, perhaps?" she suggested,
with a perfectly straight face but a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Ooooh, yes please!" Mary-Jane replied ecstatically. As my mother well knew,
Mary-Jane adored eggs, cooked in almost any fashion, so one of the treats of
visiting the Billinton household was the availability of off-ration eggs from
our half dozen hens.

As I warmed up, I took off the socks I was wearing over my stockings and the
heavier of the two sweaters I had on. Mary-Jane was looking a little
uncomfortable. "Would you mind terribly if I took my leggings off?" she asked
tentatively, "I'm fairly respectable underneath."

"Go ahead, we won't mind," my mother assured her. "I do like it to be nice and
cosy in here," she added, blithely unaware of her understatement.

As plates of scrambled eggs on toast arrived on the table, Mary-Jane kicked
off her shoes, unfastened the buttons that held the leggings snug around her
calves and wriggled out of them. Underneath, she was wearing ankle length
bloomers in a startling shade of scarlet, tucked into sturdy-looking grey
socks. "That's better," she declared, with obvious relief, and turned her
attention to her lunch.

As we ate, we listened to the BBC news on the radio. My mother and I were
naturally anxious to hear any news about North Africa, but there was no
mention at all of that theatre of the war. (As it happened, we only had to
wait until Monday to learn of the overwhelming British victory over the
Italians at Sidi Barrani.) Most of the news stories were fairly routine issues
of shortages and the general privations of war. The only unusual item was an
appeal for any information on the whereabouts of a missing Polish scientist
named Maria something-ska. Lastly there were the mysterious and enigmatic
'personal messages', which were widely (and as it turned out correctly)
believed to be communications to resistance fighters and to our secret agents
abroad.

After we had eaten, Mary-Jane and I had an earnest conference in my bedroom.
It wasn't quite as Arctic as her room, my mother's heating policy saw to that,
but cool enough for the leggings to go back on. I told Mary-Jane exactly what
I had seen at Manor Farm while she was displaying her skill at repairing a
bogus puncture. Her reaction was the same mixture of alarm and excitement
which I felt. Mary-Jane was of the opinion that we should go and tell the
village policeman what we had seen. I agreed with her in principle, but
remembered Squadron Leader Barclay's instruction not to tell anyone in case
word got back to the operators of the illicit airfield. I wasn't sure whether
or not that meant we shouldn't tell the police, but felt sure that informing
the RAF was our first priority. We decided to go to the Post Office and ask to
make a free call on fire-watch business.

We returned to the boiler-room like heat of the kitchen, where we put our
coats on and headed out into the back yard before we succumbed to heat
prostration. Once we were outside, I put my scarf and gloves back on and
Mary-Jane followed suit, knotting the scarf around her neck rather than across
her face this time.

Tillingham Post Office was in the centre of the village, not far from my house
and doubled as a tobacconist and general store. It took perhaps five minutes
to walk there. We waited patiently while several other customers were served
then made our request to the Postmistress. She was initially sceptical about
the propriety of putting through a fire-watch call other than from the
telephone in the church tower, but eventually decided that it was up to the
RAF to decide how important the call was. While the Postmistress put the call
through on the small switchboard at the back of the Post Office, Mary-Jane and
I squeezed into the small wooden telephone kiosk that was built into the end
of the counter.

I held the receiver so that Mary-Jane could hear the call as well as I could.

We heard the Postmistress's voice first. "Putting you through now."

The ringing tone came next and almost immediately the telephone was answered
by a female voice. "11 Group ARP liaison. Can I help you?"

I explained that I needed to speak to Squadron Leader Barclay to follow up a
meeting I had had with him earlier in the week and that it was urgent. The
WAAF officer I was speaking to replied that she was at 11 Group headquarters
at Uxbridge and didn't think that Mr Barclay was based there. She asked me to
hold on and I could hear a muffled conversation going on in the background
before she came back on the line and told me that Squadron Leader Barclay was
attached to the Air Ministry rather than being part of the operational group
structure but that he had an office at RAF West Malling, which I knew was not
far from Maidstone. I thanked her and hung up.

Some vigorous rattling of the receiver cradle brought the Postmistress back on
the line. I begged her to give us another call, this time to RAF West Malling.
She was reluctant but eventually decided it was not her place to refuse.

A cheerful male voice answered this time. "RAF West Malling. Warrant Officer
Morton speaking. What can I do for you?"

Once again, I asked to speak to Squadron Leader Barclay.

"I'm sorry, miss, but I think he's on weekend leave. If it's urgent, I'll
check with the gatehouse; they're bound to know."

I assured him that it was urgent. I could hear one side of a call, apparently
on another telephone, and then he spoke to me again. "He's definitely on
leave, miss. Can I give him a message?"

I wasn't at all sure how much detail to put into a message, so I settled for
asking that Squadron Leader Barclay contact me urgently at any time of the day
or night as soon as he received the message. I felt a little foolish phrasing
my message in quite such melodramatic terms, and just hoped that my
information was important enough to justify it.

I put the telephone receiver down and Mary-Jane and I extricated ourselves
from the telephone kiosk again. I thanked the Postmistress for her help.

"Any time of the day or night," she quoted back to me. "Very cloak and
dagger."

As the Postmistress had obviously eavesdropped on my entire conversation, I
was glad that I had put no hard information into my message. I resisted the
temptation to rise to her mockery and thanked her again politely before
leaving the Post Office.

"So what do we do, Bill?" asked Mary-Jane as soon as we were out in the
street.

"I'm sure Mr Barclay will come looking for me as soon as he gets the message,"
I replied. "Maybe we should just keep a look-out for any more flights until
then."

"We can't very well spend the night looking over that hedge up at Manor Farm.
Not with the shotgun man prowling around."

"True," I agreed, "but I've got an idea. I need to look at the map first
though."

We made our way back to my house and, braving the furnace of the kitchen,
returned to my bedroom. I unfolded my one-inch map on my bed and studied it.

"Look, M-J, the field we looked at must be about here." I indicated the place
with the point of a pencil. "And the runway must go about this way." I lightly
sketched a line.

"Looks about right," Mary-Jane agreed.

"Now your house is here," I continued, "and your bedroom window faces this
way." I sketched in the 90 degrees or so field of view from her window. "I
believe we would be able to see a plane coming in to land for most of its
approach."

"Only if we could spot it," Mary-Jane objected. "It was almost impossible to
see, even from the church tower."

"That was four days ago. The moon will set about four hours later tonight and
it's phase must be close to first quarter by now." A quick check of my pocket
diary confirmed that first quarter did indeed occur that very night.

We decided to mount a vigil in Mary-Jane's bedroom that night. Mary-Jane asked
my mother if I could go to tea at her house to return the favour for
lunch-time and if I could spend the night there. For my part, I promised that
I would be sure to get to church in plenty of time for the service in the
morning. After a moment's thought, my mother consented.

I had to spend part of the afternoon at choir practice in the church so I
agreed to meet Mary-Jane at her house about 6 o'clock.

Chapter 5

Surveillance

After choir practice, I went home and changed. It was completely dark by 5
o'clock and the temperature dropped like a stone after that, with another hard
frost. There was a good chance that Mary-Jane and I might have to go out
during the night, so I dressed for warmth and practicality. I put on my riding
jodhpurs (the only trousers I possessed at that time) over warm stockings and
underwear and added a pair of socks on top. For the top half, two sweaters and
a zip-up corduroy jacket, which I also wore for riding, would keep me warm.
The dark green jacket, grey jodhpurs and grey socks would also be relatively
inconspicuous for prowling around at night, but my warmest hat, the pixie hood
that I had owned since I was about 8 was a light beige colour. I borrowed my
brother's old grey balaclava helmet instead and tied a short black scarf
belonging to my mother over my mouth and nose, leaving only my eyes exposed.
With my brown mittens covering my hands, I hoped I would be close to invisible
at night if I kept to the shadows.

As I pedalled around to Mary-Jane's house, I discovered that I did not need
the lights on my bicycle as the moonlight was strong enough to illuminate the
road. Where it shone through the branches of trees, it cast a patchwork of
deep and confusing shadows.

At Mary-Jane's house, I parked my bicycle beside the back door, knocked and
let myself in, pulling my scarf down as I did so to make myself look a little
less sinister.

The entire Philpott family was in their spacious kitchen. Mrs Philpott was
cooking, Mr Philpott was sitting in a battered old armchair with a newspaper
open on his lap and turned to the sports pages, Mary-Jane was perched on the
edge of one of the upright wooden chairs, while her 12-year-old sister Becky
was tied up on the floor. Mary Jane and her father were shouting encouragement
to Becky as she rolled around struggling with her bonds. Their adopted stray
cat (just named Cat) watched with apparent interest from the vantage point of
her basket next to the kitchen range.

The kitchen was quite warm, so I quickly shed my outdoor clothes and one of
the sweaters I was wearing and put them all on a chair.

"Becky wants to be a famous secret agent," Mary-Jane explained, "and she
thought she ought to practice escaping in case the bad guys catch her."

"Bad idea," I counselled. "The best secret agents and spies are the ones
no-one's ever heard of. The rest only get famous if they get caught. You don't
want to end up like Mata Hari, do you?" I pointed an imaginary rifle at her
and pulled the trigger with the appropriate sound effect.

Becky looked at me with wide serious eyes and shook her head.

I took a seat and settled down to watch the show. Becky was tiny and slightly
built, in all respects a smaller edition of Mary-Jane. Looking at their
parents, it was obvious who they had inherited their size from. Mrs Philpott
was a big-boned countrywoman while her husband was barely 5 feet 2. Mr
Philpott had been a jockey in his younger days and later trained as a
veterinary surgeon, now running a large-animal practice, which was severely
strained under wartime conditions.

It seemed that a good use had been found for some of the stockings which had
been in the mending basket earlier, but which Mrs Philpott had declared to be
irredeemably holed and consigned to the rag-bag. Becky's wrists were tied
behind her back with one, her ankles were tied with another, while a third had
been pushed between her teeth and knotted behind her head.

"It's quite easy if you do it the way I showed you," Mary-Jane instructed her
sister. "Kneel down and bend forward then you can work your hands down over
your bottom."

Becky did as instructed and, with some difficulty and a great deal of
grunting, manoeuvred herself into a kneeling position. She tried to work her
wrist binding down over her bottom but couldn't get it to work at first.
Eventually, she managed to scrunch up her upper body enough to do it.

"Well done!" Mary-Jane congratulated her. "Now roll over on your side and get
your hands to go under your feet."

Becky rolled over with no difficulty, but getting her feet through the loop
formed by her arms involved a lot more grunting. Eventually she managed it.

"Almost done! Now use your hands to pull your gag down and you can untie your
wrists with your teeth."

Levering herself up with one elbow, Becky shifted herself to a sitting
position She hooked the gag out of her mouth with her thumbs then used her
fingers to pull another rolled-up stocking out of her mouth. I hadn't even
suspected the presence of that fourth stocking.

"Hello, Bill," Becky greeted me, now that she could speak, then immediately
set to work with her teeth on the knot securing her wrists. It yielded after
about a minute and she turned her attention to untying her ankles. Once Becky
was completely free, she stood up and made a little curtsy while we applauded
her efforts.

I had seen Mary-Jane perform this stunt from time to time at Girl Guide
meetings, except that she had always escaped from ropes, which I suspected was
harder. In common with a number of our mutual friends, I had been challenged
by Mary-Jane to emulate the trick, only to discover that I did not possess the
prerequisite small and flexible build with a short torso relative to the
length of my limbs. I had to plead to be released once I discovered that I
couldn't escape. It looked as though some of Becky's unsuspecting friends
might be in for the same experience.

"If you put your things upstairs, Susan, I'll be ready to dish up in a few
minutes," Mrs Philpott informed me.

Mary-Jane and I went upstairs to her bedroom. There was a bed-roll made up of
blankets and a pillow on the floor. The usual arrangement when I stayed
overnight was that I would have the bed as the honoured guest while Mary-Jane
would sleep on the floor. (The opposite arrangement would prevail when
Mary-Jane stayed over at my house.) However, we had different plans that
night. I was used to Mary-Jane's house being colder than my mother kept ours,
but with four people in the kitchen and cooking going on, I had been
uncomfortably warm, so I took the opportunity to take my jodhpurs off and
change into a skirt. I had already noticed that Mary-Jane had substituted a
skirt for her warm leggings but was amused that she was still wearing her
bright red long-johns instead of stockings.

By the time I had changed, Mrs Philpott was calling for us to come and eat.
The meal was lentil soup, followed by an excellent rabbit stew with dumplings,
just right for a cold winter night, and finished off with an apple crumble. An
advantage we country-dwellers had over townsfolk was the barter economy that
went on to exchange off-ration items like the wild rabbit we had eaten and the
home-grown apples in the crumble. The dandelion and burdock we children had to
drink and the elderberry wine that Mr and Mrs Philpott enjoyed were similarly
home produced either by the Philpotts or by someone else in exchange for
something.

After we had eaten, Mary-Jane and I went back upstairs. We needed to organise
ourselves to mount a continuous vigil at the bedroom window and to be ready to
make a quick exit if we saw another aeroplane. We hoped that there would not
be an air-raid warning that night as it would rather spoil our plans if we had
to spend the night in the Anderson shelter in the back garden. (The ARP warden
generally sounded the air-raid siren only if German bombers were flying
directly overhead, which was rarely the case.)

Mary-Jane put her leggings back on and I exchanged my skirt for my jodhpurs
once more, so that we would be ready to make a quick getaway if we needed to.
We turned out the light and opened the curtains so that we could begin our
lookout as soon as our eyes adapted to the dark.

We had not been looking out for long when there was a knock on the bedroom
door. Mary-Jane opened the door and Becky came in. "What are you doing?" she
asked.

"Never you mind," Mary-Jane replied, stonewalling her.

It was hard to see in the dark, but Becky seemed to look a little crestfallen
at this. "Can I stay with you anyway?"

"No."

I had a certain sympathy for Becky as she slunk away back to her own room. As
a little sister myself, I had felt left out of things when my brother decided
that he didn't want me involved in whatever he was doing.

As the night wore on and the outside temperature dropped, we soon had a
condensation and then a frost problem on the inside of the window. There was
no alternative but to open it to the cold night air. As the room cooled down,
Mary-Jane and I both progressively put more of our outdoor clothes back on.

We heard Mr and Mrs Philpott going to bed about 10 o'clock, so there would be
no difficulty getting out of the house unobserved if we needed to. About half
an hour later, there was a gentle tap at Mary-Jane's bedroom door.

"Bet it's Becky again," Mary-Jane hissed to me. She opened the door an inch or
so and her prediction was proved right.

"Can I come in?" Becky whispered. Mary-Jane allowed her to come in.

By the dim red light of our torch, I could see that Becky was already dressed
for bed with a heavy sweater on over a warm flannelette nightdress (such were
the exigencies of sleeping in an unheated bedroom during a cold winter.

"You're planning to sneak out aren't you?" Becky accused us, still in a
whisper.

"What if we are?" Mary-Jane countered.

"What if Mum and Dad find out?"

"Promise you won't tell."

Becky saw that she had some leverage here. "I might tell."

"This is really important, Becky. You must promise you won't tell."

Becky folded her arms and adopted a belligerent stance. "Shan't."

The entire argument was conducted in a whisper. Becky could have alerted her
parents in an instant by calling out, but the threat of telling them was just
a bargaining chip in the power struggle that was unfolding.

All the while this was going on, I was keeping watch through the window while
trying not to be distracted by the posturing going on behind me.

Mary-Jane decided to wheel out a bigger gun. "If you won't promise, I'll have
to tie you up so you can't tell."

"I'll escape: I know how now."

"Not the way I'm going to tie you up. This is your last chance, Becky. Will
you promise not to tell?"

"No."

"I really will tie you up."

Becky called her sister's bluff. "Better do it then."

The two Philpott girls left the room and I continued my vigil alone.

About five minutes later, Mary-Jane returned alone. I was just about to ask
she really had carried out her threat when I saw what we had been waiting for.
There was strong enough moonlight to turn the sky a dark blue rather than
black and the aeroplane we had been waiting for was clearly visible against
it. We quietly closed the window, gathered up the remainder of our outdoor
clothes and the torch and left Mary-Jane's bedroom, closing the door silently
behind us.

"What did you do to Becky?" I whispered.

In reply, Mary-Jane carefully and quietly opened another door and shone our
red-shielded torch into what proved to be Becky's bedroom. It seemed that
Mary-Jane had again made use of the black winter stockings that had ended up
in the rag-bag. Becky was lying on her back in bed with her wrists securely
lashed to the wooden bars that made up the headboard of her bed. Her arms were
quite relaxed with her elbows bent almost at right angles, so the position was
probably no more uncomfortable than it had to be and I saw that she was
wearing gloves to keep her hands warm in the chilly bedroom. Becky's face was
almost invisible as she was both gagged and blindfolded. Another stocking
emerged from under the blankets and was fastened to the footboard; I assumed
that the other end was tied around her ankles.

In the altercation that had gone on with Mary-Jane, Becky had seemed to be at
least partly complicit in her own fate, and their sororal wrangling was none
of my business, but I was concerned for her predicament. "Are you all right,
Becky," I whispered. She nodded without any hesitation. I just hoped that she
would still think she was all right after being tied up like that for a few
hours.

Mary-Jane and I let ourselves out through the back door as quietly as we
could, wrapped ourselves up in our scarves again and pedalled off into the
night.

Chapter 6

Engagement

Mary-Jane and I both knew the maze of narrow country lanes that surrounded
Tillingbourne and connected it to the neighbouring villages and the many
isolated farms and houses in the surrounding countryside, so with a little
moonlight to help us, we had no problem retracing our route of the previous
day back to Manor Farm.

We hid our bicycles in a hedgerow some distance short of our goal and made our
way on foot the last hundred yards or so. We crept along in a semi-crouch to
keep our heads below the lowered section of hedge that had led me to discover
the secret airfield then cautiously peered over the top. The previously
tranquil field was now a hive of activity. In the middle of the field stood a
small single-engined aeroplane. It had a high wing and remarkably long spindly
struts for its undercarriage. Aviation buffs would probably recognise it as a
Fiesler Storch, a German reconnaissance plane famed for its ability to operate
from very short improvised airstrips. All I knew was that it represented enemy
activity on English soil. There were several figures moving around the
aircraft. I could not tell how many and could really only see them by the
occasional flicker of an electric torch. I assumed that they were preparing
the plane for its return flight across the Channel. I looked around to see if
there were any other signs of illicit activity. The manger had been pushed to
one side of the field. Both of the white posts that marked the line of
approach now had red lamps on top of them, presumably screened to make them
invisible from the church tower, but the aeroplane seemed to be the sole focus
of activity.

"Torch," I hissed to Mary-Jane and she handed it to me.

I flipped the red filter off it and aimed it towards the church tower, hoping
that it would be bright enough to attract attention even on a moonlit night. I
also hoped that the watchers on duty would be as proficient at Morse code as
they were supposed to be. The torch could be flashed by pressing a small
button next to the switch. I cradled it against the side of my head so that I
could sight along it to aim it accurately at the church tower and still get my
thumb to the button. I sent the standard signal for 'call attention', AA AA AA
repeated until it elicits a response. I had sent about a dozen groups of AA
when someone on the tower replied, correctly, with a string of Morse T's (T is
just a single dash in Morse code). I was suddenly worried that the signalling
from the tower might be noticed by someone in the field, but decided to press
on. I identified myself next, QRZ BILL, and received a single letter K in
response for 'go ahead' or 'over'. I kept my message simple but explicit and
hoped that the whole thing wouldn't be repeated back to me, further attracting
attention, URGENT SEND POLICE HOME GUARD MANOR FARM RPT SEND POLICE HOME GUARD
MANOR FARM K. It was painfully slow to send. With a proper signalling lamp,
the light is on all the time and the beam interrupted by a mechanical shutter
but I had to signal slowly enough to allow time for the bulb to warm up at the
beginning of every dot and dash and to cool down afterwards. I could only
manage about 6 words per minute. After a few seconds' delay the reply was R R
R, for 'roger roger roger'. I replied with CT CL for 'end of message' and
'closing down' then pocketed the torch.

Without having to discuss the matter, Mary-Jane and I knew that we had to beat
a hasty retreat or risk being discovered. Before either of us had a chance to
move, there was a sharp metallic clunk alarmingly close. I turned my head and
looked straight into the muzzle of a shotgun pointed directly at my head. The
sound had been a broken shotgun being snapped shut.

"On your feet," a voice ordered brusquely. It was the same shotgun-wielding
man we had encountered earlier and his approach had been just as silent this
time.

We both stood up. I glanced at Mary-Jane. Her face was unreadable behind her
scarf, but I assumed she was as frightened as I was.

I fumbled in my pocket wondering if there was any way I could possibly use the
torch as a weapon. The man saw my movement and gestured with the gun. "Hands
up and let's go up to the farmhouse."

Mary-Jane and I obediently put our hands up and walked down the lane to the
beginning of the private road up to Manor Farm. We were off balance and
stumbled a lot negotiating a rutted track in the dark with our hands in the
air. It would have been comical if it hadn't been so terrifying.

Eventually, we reached the farmhouse door. "Knock and stand back from the
door," the man ordered.

Mary-Jane did as she was instructed and after a moment or two, the door opened
and a grey-haired woman looked at us quizzically while we blinked in the
light from inside the house.

"Caught these two poking around," our captor explained.

"Better take them to the boss," the woman replied.

We followed the woman through a series of corridors until we reached what was
probably the farm office, a spacious Victorian sitting room equipped with a
desk and filing cabinets. There was a man of about 50 sitting behind the desk.
He was heavily built with a weather-beaten complexion. His bald head was
fringed with steel-grey hair and he sported a military-looking moustache. I
recognised him as Colonel Smith-Bensted, a retired army officer and owner of a
number of local properties, including, I assumed, Manor Farm.

Sitting opposite the colonel and deep in conversation with him, was a man whom
I didn't know. He was probably in his 40s and had the thin wiry build that
suggested he might have been an athlete in his younger days. His greying hair
was cut short at the sides and back and the hair on top was slicked back. He
wore a good quality tweed suit but of a slightly unusual cut. Even if he had
not spoken, I would instinctively recognised him as not being English.
Although I did not understand it myself, I was nevertheless easily able to
identify the language that the colonel and the stranger were speaking as
German.

We waited in silence until the colonel paused in his conversation. As soon as
he did so, his shotgun-wielding employee explained our presence. "These two
were hiding by the hedge down at Parson's Lane. I thought I'd better bring
them to you, sir."

"Quite right, Perks."

"I recognise this one," Perks continued, gesturing at Mary-Jane with his
shotgun.

The colonel said nothing but raised his eyebrows questioningly. Mary-Jane and
I were of course completely unrecognisable with only our eyes visible above
our scarves.

"Well, she was dressed just like she is now," Perks explained a little lamely.

"Ah, I see," the colonel acknowledged. "Better let us see who you are, then,
girls," he continued, addressing us for the first time.

Mary-Jane and I cautiously lowered our hands and pulled our scarves down.

The Colonel stared intently at each of us in turn. "I've seen these two
before," he said. "They both live in the village."

"What should we do with them, sir?" Perks asked.

"We'll have to arrange an accident," the colonel replied, "but we haven't time
just at the moment. Put them in the cellar for now. Would you see to it
please, Mrs Jackson?" He turned back to his visitor and resumed the
conversation.

I was shocked beyond any words of protest. His meaning could not have been
plainer: we had both just been sentenced to death. I stood rooted to the spot
with my stomach clenched into a knot and my knees threatening to give way.
Eventually Perks nudged me with his shotgun and I realised that I was supposed
to go with Mrs Jackson, the grey-haired woman who had opened the door to admit
us. My mind numb with terror, I followed Mrs Jackson and Mary-Jane out into a
hallway. Mrs Jackson paused next to a battered chest of drawers. She rummaged
in the bottom drawer and pulled out a bundle of lengths of rope.

"Turn around and put your hands behind your back," she ordered me.

My mind still wasn't really taking things in properly, so I stared back at her
uncomprehendingly.

"Come along, girl, I haven't got all night."

Still stunned, I turned around and offered my hands behind my back as
instructed. I was jolted back to reality as the rope tightened around my
wrists. I had been tied up on a number of occasions previously, but always
within the context of a game, sometimes with quite serious rivalry, but never
with any truly malicious intent. Having my hands tied behind my back
preparatory to being killed in some unspecified way was horrifyingly
different.

Once my wrists were secured, Mrs Jackson bound Mary-Jane in the same way then
opened another drawer and found two white cotton cloths. She quickly folded
one into a band and offered it up to my mouth. "Open," she instructed. I did
so and the cloth was wedged between my teeth and knotted behind my head. It
was clean but tasted faintly of beeswax furniture polish. Mary-Jane was
similarly gagged with the other cloth.

Mrs Jackson selected another two lengths of rope and led the way to a narrow
door about halfway along the hallway. She opened it and switched on the light
inside. Mary-Jane and I followed her down a steep flight of stone stairs while
Perks followed us with his shotgun still at the ready.

The cellar was full of spare furniture, mysterious boxes and chests, tools and
stuff that could only really be classed as junk. Mrs Jackson led us to a pile
of old sacks. "Sit down there, girls," she told us. We did so, rather heavily
without the aid of our hands. First Mary-Jane's and them my ankles were
swiftly and efficiently bound by Mrs Jackson, who clearly knew how to handle
rope. She inspected the knots on our wrist bindings again and, apparently
satisfied, stood up.

Mrs Jackson looked at us for a moment then her expression softened slightly.
"I'll make sure it's quick and it doesn't hurt," she assured us, then she and
Perks went back up the cellar stairs, switching the light off as they went,
and left us to contemplate our fate.

Chapter 7

Captivity

As my eyes became used to the darkness in the cellar where Mary-Jane and I lay
bound and gagged on a pile of old sacks, I realised that it wasn't entirely
dark. A rim of light was visible around the door at the top of the flight of
steps leading up to the rest of the house and it was just possible to make out
dim shapes.

I struggled with my bonds for a few minutes but it was obvious from the start
that it was a hopeless task. The ropes were far too well tied for me to stand
any chance of slipping my hands out of them and if that was impossible, then I
had no idea what else one was supposed to do to escape. Beside me, Mary-Jane
seemed to be engaged in a similarly fruitless struggle.

After several minutes of futile effort I felt Mary-Jane nudge my shoulder with
hers. She mumbled something at me through her gag, but it was utterly
incomprehensible. However, she seemed to be trying to get into a position
where she could reach my bound hands with hers, so I manoeuvred myself until I
was back-to-back with her and held my arms as far out behind me as I could. I
could feel Mary-Jane fumbling with my ropes for some time, but nothing seemed
to be loosening. Eventually she gave up with a dispirited grunt through her
gag.

I reached out behind me to see if I could free Mary-Jane. I could reach the
rope bound around and between her wrists, and I could identify a knot, but
with my gloves still on, I didn't have the dexterity to manipulate it. I tried
to get my gloves off, but they had deep cuffs that went well above my wrists
and the rope binding me stymied any effort to get them off. I made a second
attempt to untie Mary-Jane's wrists with my gloved hands, but after several
minutes of useless fumbling, I gave up.

We sat in depressed inactivity for some time, then Mary-Jane shifted herself
to a kneeling position and leaned forwards with her forehead on the rough
hessian of the sacking we were lying on. I recognised this as the starting
point for the escape trick she had been teaching Becky and the trick I had
seen her perform a number of times. I had only ever seen her do this trick in
relatively light clothing and realised that it might well be impossible with
the layers of sweaters and the heavy jacket she was wearing. I assumed that
was why she had not tried that approach first.

By the dim light available, I could see Mary-Jane try to force her bound
wrists further and further towards her bottom with ever more strained-sounding
grunts emerging from behind her gag. A critical inch or two short of her goal,
she seemed to reach a limit. There were more straining sounds interspersed by
rough panting, but no more movement. I reasoned that a little more pressure
might just do the job, so I manoeuvred myself until I was squatting on my
heels with my bottom almost in contact with Mary-Jane's then I raised myself
until I could feel the rope binding her wrists with my outstretched hands. I
hooked my thumbs over the rope and allowed my full body weight to come down on
them. There was a muffled squeak of alarm (and probably pain) from Mary-Jane
as her hands rode smoothly over her bottom and down behind her knees. I
toppled over in a heap as the resistance to my pressure abruptly disappeared.

I rolled myself off Mary-Jane and gave her space to work on escaping. The
extra layers of clothes clearly made it much more of a effort for her to get
her feet through the loop formed by her arms but, after a couple of minutes of
struggling and grunting, she managed it.

Without pausing, Mary-Jane brought her hands up to her mouth and hauled the
gag out of her mouth, forcing it down below her chin with some difficulty.
When, at last, it was hanging loose around her neck, she set to work on the
knot securing her wrist binding with her teeth. With her hands free, Mary-Jane
was able to pull her gloves off.

"Quick, Bill, move round so I can do your hands next," she chivvied me.

I turned myself so that she could reach the knot on the rope around my wrists.
The knot was tight and her hands were rather battered after the treatment she
had given them, but the knot yielded after about a minute. Once my hands were
also free, it was the work of a moment for us each to untie our own ankles.
Lastly, I untied my own gag. We dumped our discarded bonds in a heap on the
sacking where we had been left.

We crept up the cellar stairs to the door out into the hallway. I carefully
and slowly turned the knob and eased the door open a fraction of an inch,
delighted to discover that it wasn't locked. We could hear voices, but they
didn't sound to be very close to the door so I took the risk of opening it
fully.

The hallway appeared to be deserted, but it was critical that we knew where
the voices were coming from. We made our way towards the office first, but
that seemed to be the wrong direction. As we tiptoed gently past the cellar
door and towards the corridor that would lead to the outside door, the voices
became clearer and we could distinguish the Colonel, Perks and Mrs Jackson
talking together.

"I think they're at the front door," I whispered to Mary-Jane.

"If we go upstairs, we might be able to go out through a window and down a
drainpipe," Mary-Jane suggested.

It didn't sound like a particularly promising plan, but it was the only one
either of us had and, as the staircase was in sight, we knew we could get
there without being observed. It took only a moment to reach the stairs and go
up them, treading as lightly as we could.

Upstairs, the house was silent and in almost complete darkness. The only
source of light seemed to be one of the bedrooms, the door of which was
standing open. We knew that the only three people we had seen so far in the
house were downstairs, but if there was anyone upstairs, that room would be
the most likely place for them to be. We decided to investigate, so as to
avoid the risk of being surprised later.

Mary-Jane approached the open door first, flattening herself against the wall,
peering through into the room and ready to retreat if she saw anyone. I heard
a slight gasp and then she gestured for me to follow her.

I approached the room less cautiously than Mary-Jane had, on the assumption
that she had determined that there was no-one there. As I reached the
threshold, where my friend was standing, I too gasped. There was indeed
someone in the room, but that person, a woman, was lying on the bed and had
been more thoroughly tied up than I had ever seen before, even in films. She
was lying on her back with her arms underneath her, presumably tied at the
wrists. Her upper body, from shoulders to waist was swathed in turn after turn
of rope all crossing at different angles and pulled snug around her arms and
chest. Her legs were lashed together at ankles, knees and thighs and she was
gagged and blindfolded with white cloths similar to the ones Mrs Jackson had
used to gag us.

The woman on the bed turned her head slightly, apparently sensing our presence
at the door to the room, but made no other movement.

"What should we do?" Mary-Jane whispered to me.

"You should both put your hands up," Mrs Jackson's voice advised us.

We raised our hands and turned slowly. Mrs Jackson was alone, but had a very
large and ugly automatic pistol in her hand and, from the expression on her
face, was clearly going to brook no nonsense from us.

"I underestimated you two," she told us, with a strange mixture of reproach
and admiration, "but we'll just go back to the cellar and I'll do a better job
this time."

Mrs Jackson shepherded us back down to the hallway and then down into the
cellar, back to the site of our escape, negating our efforts and crushing the
brief elation we had both felt.

I wondered how Mrs Jackson proposed to tie us up again while still keeping us
covered with her gun. Surely she would have to put it down at some stage in
the proceedings and then we might have a chance to overpower her.

"The ropes are still where you left them, so you might as well sit down."

We sat down on the heap of sacking again, with out former bindings between us.

"You can start by putting your gags back on," Mrs Jackson instructed. "Make
them good and tight, because if I have to tighten them, you'll really regret
it."

Mary Jane and I eased the bands of cloth back between our teeth. They were
cold, wet and unpleasant now. I decided that I would prefer not to find out
how tightly Mrs Jackson could tie a gag, so I pulled mine as tight as I
thought I could stand it. Mary-Jane seemed to be doing the same.

"Very good, girls. You seem to be getting the idea. Now let's see you both tie
your ankles together."

Mary-Jane and I selected the two longest of the four pieces of rope that had
bound us previously. I wound mine several times around my ankles, jerked it
tight and formed a neat knot. Mary-Jane followed suit.

"This is where I have to be careful, girls. You're nearly helpless, but
there's still two of you and only one of me." She gestured towards Mary-Jane
with her pistol.

Mary-Jane shrank back from the gun.

"You tie your friend's hands behind her back next."

I turned around and offered my hands behind my back so that Mary-Jane could
reach them. She did not tie my wrists quite as tightly as I expected. I hoped
they didn't look so loose they would arouse suspicion,

"Now," Mrs Jackson continued, still addressing Mary-Jane, "take your scarf off
and tie it over your eyes."

Mary-Jane did as she was instructed. I had assumed that we would simply be
tied up as we had been before, but it looked as though Mrs Jackson had
something else in mind. I was probably more frightened than I had been in my
entire life up to that time.

It was clear that Mary-Jane was as frightened as I was. She sat impassively
with her hands folded in her lap, waiting for Mrs Jackson's next move but I
could see that she was trembling with fear.

"Raise your knees," Mrs Jackson instructed.

Mary-Jane obeyed, moving her hands out to her sides to steady herself.

Mrs Jackson crossed the cellar and returned with an old-fashioned
wooden-handled floor mop. She slid its handle under Mary-Jane's legs and
lifted it up against the back of her knees.

"Now put your arms under the stick and clasp your hands in front of your
shins."

Mary-Jane reached forwards blindly and found the wooden mop handle. She put
her arms underneath it and then leaned well forwards to be able to clasp her
hands. As soon as she was in position, Mrs Jackson put her gun down and used
one of the remaining pieces of rope to lash Mary-Jane's wrists together.

With Mary-Jane now secure, Mrs Jackson turned her attention back to me. "I
really ought to have blindfolded you before I did that," she commented,
apparently to herself.

I considered her off-guard comment. If she thought it might possibly be
helpful to me to have seen what she did to Mary-Jane, than it was worth
thinking about. There could just be a way to escape from this situation.

Mrs Jackson remedied her error by removing my scarf (or at least the one I had
borrowed from my mother) and tying it across my eyes as a blindfold.

I felt my wrists being untied and then a stick of some kind being held against
the backs of my knees.

"Arms under the stick and clasp hands," Mrs Jackson instructed. I did so and,
seconds later, my wrists were securely tied.

"Don't do anything stupid," Mrs Jackson advised us and I heard her feet ascend
the cellar stairs once again.

As soon as I heard the cellar door shut, I started struggling with my bonds. I
rapidly discovered that this tie-up was far tougher than it looked. Watching
Mary-Jane being tied, I had imagined that it would be a simple matter to work
the stick out from between my elbows and knees and so escape. However, almost
any movement caused the stick to press painfully into my arms or legs and
didn't budge it in the slightest. With an overwhelming wave of despair, I
realised that we were doomed to spend whatever time we had left doubled up
like this in increasing pain until they came to kill us.

Chapter 8

Rebound

Dr Johnson once said that when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight,
it concentrates his mind wonderfully. Being tied up in a cellar with my best
friend, knowing that we would shortly be murdered in cold blood, had the
opposite effect on me. My mind was a blur of panic and terror. Somewhere deep
down, I knew that the only possible chance we had of escape depended on
thinking clearly enough to come up with a plan. I forced myself to calm down
and concentrate.

I had watched Mary-Jane being tied, with her knees drawn up, a the handle of a
floor mop jammed under her knees and above her elbows and her wrists tied in
front of her shins. I was tied in the same way, but had been blindfolded so I
didn't know if the stick between my elbows and knees was another mop or some
other household implement.

It was obvious that the key to escaping was to rid myself of the stick. I had
already tried and failed to work it out of position. Trying to break the stick
through brute force, simply placed intolerable pressure on my elbows and
knees. It occurred to me to try to push the stick out of position by tipping
myself to one side in the hope that it would hit the floor. I initially rolled
to my left, toppling suddenly as I overbalanced. I could feel something solid
against my left arm and from the sounds I could hear of bristles in contact
with the floor, it was obvious that I had a broom handle between my elbows and
knees with its head hard against my left arm. With some difficulty, I managed
to roll myself onto my back and then forward into a sitting position again. As
I tipped to the right I heard the end of the broom-handle hit the floor, but I
had not tipped far enough to put any real pressure on the end of the handle.
Instead it was levered painfully against the underside of my right knee and
the crook of my left elbow. I pushed with my feet to try to apply more
pressure and felt the broom-handle flex quite distinctly. I wondered if there
would be enough leverage for me to break it like this. I shifted myself to
apply as much twisting moment as I could, simultaneously pulling up with my
left arm and down with my right leg. There was a satisfactory creaking noise
so I redoubled my efforts. I was rewarded by a splintering sound and rolled
over to my right as the broom handle split. The handle had not broken
completely but had split in such a way as to leave a sort of hinge of wood.
With both hands free it would be a matter of moments to flex this back and
forward until the wood parted completely. As it was, I now had more freedom of
movement, but the broken broom-handle still impeded my escape. I rolled onto
my back and then into a sitting position again.

My left arm was still effectively held down by the broomstick, but somewhere
under my knees, there was a partial break in it so that the end of the
broomstick was now pointing straight up and no longer holding my right elbow
down. However, the piece that was sticking up in the air was far too long for
me to get my elbow up over it. I had to find some way to break the broom
handle completely. I rolled to my right again until I was on my side and the
flapping end of the broomstick was flat on the floor. I still had too little
freedom of movement to apply any leverage to roll myself further, so I rolled
onto my back again and then to my right once more, but faster, in the hope
that my momentum might do the job. There was a satisfactory creaking and
splintering sound, but the broom-handle still held. The broom-head against my
left elbow brought my roll to an abrupt halt. I repeated the process and was
surprised by the result. The broomstick held, but my abuse was all too much
for the nail securing the broom-head. There was a clatter as the nail parted
company and the broom-head skittered across the floor. Quite suddenly neither
of my elbows were pinned down any more.

I rolled onto my back once more and for a few seconds luxuriated in being able
to straighten my spine. Escape was, however, more imperative than ever, so I
lost no time in getting back to a sitting position to continue the process. I
reached up with my bound hands and pushed my blindfold up above my eyes, not
that it made a great deal of difference in the near-darkness of the cellar. I
tried to pull my gag down and immediately regretted having tied it so tightly.
With the tips of my fingers, I was just able to claw it out from between my
teeth and then to drag it down towards my chin, pulling my bottom lip down
painfully as I did so.

Mrs Jackson had formed the knot on top of my wrist binding when she tied me
up, which left it in an ideal position to tackle with my teeth. Working mainly
by feel, I located the knot and worried at it until I felt it loosen. A little
more work, and the knot came away completely. After that, it was just a matter
of wriggling my wrists until the rope was slack enough to pull my hands out.

I decided that the next priority was to free Mary-Jane. I steadied her with
one hand and pulled out the mop handle that was holding her in position. There
was an audible groan of relief from behind her gag as she was able to
straighten up. I pulled my gloves off to work with bare fingers and removed
her blindfold and gag as quickly as I could, then freed her hands. We
completed our escape by each untying our own ankles.

I decided that the broken broom-handle might make a useful weapon, so I spent
a moment completing the break in it that I had started, leaving myself with a
stick about two feet long ending in a wickedly sharp splintered point. It
probably wouldn't be effective as an improvised spear, but it looked
intimidating and I hoped that would be enough.

My scarf was still bizarrely tied around my forehead. I retied it around my
neck and put my gloves back on as Mary-Jane and I made our way back up the
cellar steps. I was surprised to discover that the door was still not locked
as I cautiously tried it; possibly there was simply no key.

The house seemed to be silent. I could hear the ticking of a clock, but no
voices. Mary-Jane and I decided to make straight for the door as we had no
information on anyone else's whereabouts to use as the basis for any other
strategy. We walked quietly, treading as lightly as we could and looking
nervously from side to side in case anyone should be lurking in the rooms that
we passed.

As we neared the front door, but before it was actually in sight, we heard it
open and close. It was impossible to tell if the sound had been someone
entering or leaving. We crept on more cautiously. I peered round the last
corner and was dismayed to see Mrs Jackson. She was hanging her coat up on the
hall stand and had evidently just returned to the farmhouse after being
outside. As chance would have it, Mrs Jackson must have been looking in my
direction when I saw her, for she also saw me. She snatched up her pistol
which had been laid on the hall stand while she took off her outdoor clothes,
and pointed it at me.

"Come out and show yourselves," she ordered.

Mary-Jane and I did as we were instructed and emerged from behind the corner.

"You two won't stay put will you? I'm going to have to tie you up again and
it's going to hurt this time."

Mrs Jackson was holding her gun about waist level, pointing in our general
direction but not, I judged, actually aimed. There was absolutely nothing to
lose, as we were going to die anyway, so in a mixture of desperation and
anger, I advanced threateningly on Mrs Jackson, brandishing my broken piece of
broomstick.

"Stay where you are," Mrs Jackson said, with just a hint of uncertainty in her
voice.

I kept going. Mrs Jackson took a step back. She seemed to have been working on
the assumption that people would obey her if she pointed a gun at them, but
wasn't sure what to do if they didn't.

As soon as I was within range I swung my stick at Mrs Jackson's gun hand. She
shrieked and dropped the gun as it made contact. Fortunately, the gun didn't
go off, an eventuality I hadn't even considered until it was mentioned to me
later. Mrs Jackson looked furious as she charged me like a lion. I tried to
hit her with the stick but she was to fast and I took a hard blow to my cheek.
Stunned I fell backwards against the wall with the stick dropping to the
floor. Mary-Jane tried to attack Mrs Jackson but the elder woman kicked her
hard between her legs. With a scream Mary-Jane doubled over and held her groin
in pain. Mrs Jackson elbowed her hard on the back of her head and she slumped
unconscious to the floor.

Slowly like a grey-haired cat she turned towards me. "Now your turn dear, I am
going to silence you..... permanently" A evil smile was on her face as she
came at me like a predator.

Fighting for my life I tried to fight as best as I could. However I was no
match for the wicked woman. She easily avoided my punches and replied with a
hard punch to my belly. After backhanding me hard across the face she seized
me roughly by the hair and threw me to the floor. In an instant she was on top
of me and straddled my waist. I tried to break free but with both hands she
grabbed my breasts and squeezed hard. The pain was terrible, I cried out in
pain as it felt like she was about to rip my boobs off my chest.

"That was for hitting me, now time to silence you" she said with a sadistic
smile on her face. Pinning down my arms with her knees she then grabbed my
throat with both hands and started to squeeze. Unable to move, my vision got
blurry and I realized she was going to choke me out.

As I was close to passing out I suddenly saw Mary-Jane appear behind her and
hit her over the head with the gun. Mrs Jackson went limp and fell off me.
Mary-Jane rolled her over and made sure she was unconscious.

"We'd better tie her up, Bill."

"Good idea," I replied, massaging my sore throat.

I searched around for something to use then took the belt from Mrs Jackson's
overcoat, which she had just taken off, and lashed her wrists together behind
her back with it. I don't consider myself to be a cruel person, but I admit to
taking a certain savage satisfaction in pulling the belt brutally tight around
her wrists.

While Mary-Jane continued to keep our prisoner covered with the pistol, I
subjected Mrs Jackson to a quick search and found what I was looking for, a
handkerchief in her skirt pocket. I balled it up and forced it into her mouth.
Mrs Jackson's was still wearing the scarf that she must have put on to go
outside, now hanging loose around her neck. I used it to complete her gag,
pulling it between her teeth to keep the handkerchief in place. As I did so, I
realised that the scarf was quite long, so I wound another loop around Mrs
Jackson's head to act as a blindfold and knotted it securely.

We opened a door in the hallway at random and discovered that it was a small
cupboard used to store cleaning materials. The gun was quite unnecessary now
(besides Mrs Jackson couldn't tell if we were still pointing it at her), so
Mary Jane put it back on the hall stand. We pushed Mrs Jackson into the
cupboard and persuaded her to sit on the floor. While I held our captive
still, Mary-Jane pulled off Mrs Jackson's shoes and stockings and then used
the stockings to bind her ankles. That done, we closed the cupboard door and
locked it.

With the coast clear, Mary-Jane and I finally got away from the farmhouse. We
retraced our steps down the rutted farm road with the intention of recovering
our bicycles and pedalling away as fast as possible. As we made our way in the
confusing shadows cast by the moonlight, we could see the activity still going
on in the field which served as the covert airstrip.

The aeroplane had been pushed back until its tail was almost at the hedge
where I had carried out my initial reconnaissance. Several people, the Colonel
and Perks among them, were watching, all standing well back. The plane's
engine was running and it was obvious that it was just about to take off.

"They'll get away, Bill," Mary-Jane said indignantly. "We have to do
something!"

Chapter 9

Sabotage

I shared Mary-Jane's indignation that there was a German aeroplane, containing
an enemy agent of some kind, just about to take off and escape back to France,
but I wasn't at all sure that there was anything we could do about it.

There was a gate from the farm road where we were standing into the field
where the illicit airstrip was. Still unsure of what to do, we clambered over
the gate. Suddenly inspiration struck as my eyes fell on the animal feeding
manger that stood in the field.

"M-J, that thing's on wheels. It was across the runway when we were here this
morning. I'll bet it moves quite easily."

Mary-Jane understood my intention immediately. We ran across to the manger and
put our shoulders to it. It was hard to get it started, but once it was
rolling, it didn't require much pressure to keep it moving.

The aeroplane had already started to run forward across the short grass of the
field. I fully expected the pilot to abort the take-off as soon as he saw what
was happening, but he kept going, apparently trying to race us.

Mary-Jane and I pushed harder and with bursting lungs managed to get the
manger to accelerate.

I could see that the pilot was now fully committed but had nowhere to go.

"Down!" I yelled just before the inevitable impact.

Mary-Jane and I sprawled on the frosty grass and looked up just in time to see
the aeroplane strike the heavy manger. There was a splintering crash as the
propeller tangled with its wooden structure. Just before the engine stalled,
there was enough torque with the propeller suddenly stationary to tip the
plane over to the left. The undercarriage strut on that side collapsed and the
wing-tip hit the ground, crumpling and buckling with the impact.

Most of the men who had been watching the take-off ran to the stricken
aircraft. Only one man didn't. Perks ran towards us instead, his shotgun at
the ready. Mary-Jane and I were still getting to our feet and had no chance of
reaching any kind of cover.

"Hold it right there," Perks ordered, snapping the shotgun closed.

There was nowhere to run to, so Mary-Jane and I stood up and raised our hands.

My blood ran cold as Perks shouldered the shotgun and aimed it at me. He was
only about ten yards away, so there would be no question of survival when he
pulled the trigger. I just hoped that my death would not be too painful.

Just as I was certain Perks would fire, there was a tremendous commotion from
the lane beyond the hedge. A car had screeched to a halt and a small but very
noisy group of people was swarming through the sparse hedge and into the
field. Perks turned to face them, apparently uncertain whether to run or
shoot.

A loud, commanding voice rang out. "In the name of the King, lay down your
weapons. You are all under arrest." I recognised it as Squadron Leader
Barclay. It was very hard to tell who anyone else was in the dark.
Nevertheless, the shock of the attack following immediately after the plane
crash that Mary-Jane and I had engineered seemed to take all the fight out of
Colonel Smith-Bensted's men.

The sole exception to this was Perks, who dropped his shotgun, but started
running towards the farmhouse. "Halt or I fire," the squadron leader
commanded. Perks carried on running. There was the sound of a single pistol
shot and Perks collapsed. From the stream of swearwords that poured out of
him, he was down but not fatally wounded. I was hugely impressed by Squadron
Leader Barclay's marksmanship: shooting a moving target to wound and not kill,
in the dark and with a single pistol shot was a feat that not many people
could match.

Mary-Jane and I made our way over to the huddle of people close to the
stricken aeroplane. Someone had thought to turn on the plane's landing lights
to create a small pool of brightness in the otherwise pitch-black field. The
Colonel's farm workers formed a small dejected group under armed guard by two
members of the village Home Guard unit. The Home Guard sergeant had a pistol
trained steadily on the German I had seen in the Colonel's office. He had his
hands raised, but looked to be in a very dangerous mood. Lying on the grass
was the aeroplane's pilot, recognisable from his Lufwaffe uniform. He appeared
to be in some pain and was being checked for broken bones. I was astonished to
see that it was Mr Philpott, Mary-Jane's father, who was doing the checking.
Also on the ground was the woman we had seen bound and gagged in one of the
farmhouse bedrooms. The gag and blindfold were gone and she was being released
from the ropes that secured her. My astonishment as seeing Mr Philpott was
nothing to the shock of recognising my mother as the one freeing the bound
woman.

Squadron Leader Barclay came over to join us. Two Home Guard privates followed
him, supporting Perks between them. He was limping heavily and still cursing
volubly.

"Well done to raise the alarm, girls," the squadron leader said. "Do you know
if there are any more of them?"

"There's a woman back in the farmhouse," I told him.

"We tied her up and locked her in a cupboard when we escaped," Mary-Jane
added.

"When you escaped?" my mother echoed in alarm. "What the deuce have you two
been up to?"

"We can discuss that later, Mrs Billinton," the squadron leader told her
firmly. "Let's get this situation under control first."

Mr Philpott completed his examination of the pilot and declared him bruised
but otherwise largely uninjured, with the disclaimer that her was a veterinary
surgeon not a doctor. He turned his attention to the woman whom my mother had
now completely freed. The woman spoke in oddly-accented English. I wondered if
she was German too.

A few minutes later, another car arrived in the lane and four policemen
climbed out of it. One of them, a sergeant, held a brief discussion with the
squadron leader. Squadron Leader Barclay had presumably handed control over to
the police at that point as it was the sergeant who instructed the Home Guard
and his own men to move the prisoners and the wounded up to the farmhouse.

As we reached the farmhouse, Squadron Leader Barclay encouraged Mary-Jane and
me to take the lead as we knew the layout of the place. When we had escaped
earlier, Mary-Jane and I shut the front door to the farmhouse but did not
attempt to lock it. We opened the door and entered, the squadron leader
following close on our heels. However, it was immediately obvious that all was
not as we had left it. The door of the cupboard where we had left Mrs Jackson
stood open. On closer examination, it was obvious that the door had been
kicked open from the inside. The belt and stockings that we had used to tie
Mrs Jackson up were lying on the floor in the cupboard. They had been cut. The
handkerchief I had stuffed into her mouth was also on the floor, but the scarf
was missing.

"She's gone," Mary-Jane commented rather unnecessarily.

I quickly explained to Squadron Leader Barclay how Mary-Jane and I had
disarmed Mrs Jackson, how we knocked her out after she nearly killed us and
tied her up. I was aware of my mother's gaze boring into me as she approached
apoplexy at what she was hearing. I tried to ignore her for the present, well
aware of the wrath I would eventually have to face.

As I explained to the squadron leader what we had done, I gestured towards the
hall stand to show him where we had left the gun. It was immediately obvious
that it had gone, as had Mrs Jackson's coat. The implication was clear without
anyone voicing it: Mrs Jackson was on the loose outside somewhere and she was
armed.

With his experience as an officer, Squadron Leader Barclay took control of the
situation, even though the police were nominally in charge. After quickly
consulting with Mary-Jane and me, he concluded that the four farm workers were
the least concern and left them in the charge of the Home Guard sergeant and
two of his men in the dining room of the farmhouse. He identified the colonel,
the unknown German, the Luftwaffe pilot and Perks as the most important and
possibly dangerous ones most in need of watching and elected to take charge of
those himself in the colonel's office, with support from a Home Guard private
and his WAAF driver. The police sergeant stayed with the squadron leader,
while two constables searched the house. One policeman and the remaining Home
Guard private stood guard at the front door in case Mrs Jackson should return.

The immediate problem was how to secure the prisoners. There were only four
policemen present, so only four pairs of handcuffs available. After some
discussion, it was agreed to use those on the farm workers, while securing the
higher risk prisoners with rope.

Perks was no risk to anyone in his present condition. He was laid on the floor
with his coat rolled up under his head as a pillow, while Mr Philpott
administered first aid. Perks had taken a bullet wound in one thigh and
appeared to have sustained a fractured femur: a near-perfect disabling shot.
He had lost quite a lot of blood and was fairly subdued by the time he had
been brought into the farmhouse.

To my surprise, my mother volunteered to tie up the remaining prisoners. I
showed her the drawer where Mrs Jackson had found the rope that she had used
to tie Mary-Jane and me up. I watched utterly awestruck and with enormous
admiration as my mother set to work to tie the remaining three prisoners to
upright chairs brought from the farm kitchen. She tied their crossed wrists
behind their chairs, used a coil of rope to secure their upper arms and chests
to the chair backs then lashed their ankles to the front legs of the chairs.
It was all done very quickly, neatly and competently. I never imagined that my
mother possessed a skill like that, nor could I think how she had come to
acquire it.

Once the captives were secure, my mother sat with the woman who had been tied
up. She looked surprisingly well for someone who had been through what she
had. After a moment, I realised that they were speaking French together. This
was one skill that I could account for; I knew that my mother had served as a
nurse in France through most of the Great War. I inadvertently caught the
woman's eye and she looked at me, so I asked after her health in my best
schoolgirl French. "Comment a va, ma'm'selle? Est-ce que vous vous sentez
mieux?" She assured me that she was feeling much better now and was grateful
for my concern. Her accent sounded odd (although probably not as odd as mine)
and I tentatively concluded that French was not her native language either.
Something Eastern European perhaps?

The police sergeant reported to Squadron Leader Barclay that he had telephoned
the county police headquarters in Maidstone for reinforcements and expected
them to arrive within half an hour or so and that the village doctor should
arrive shortly to attend to Perks. With the situation now under control, the
squadron leader wanted a full explanation from Mary-Jane and me as to just
what had been going on. He placed particular emphasis on 'full', so I felt
obliged to tell him everything, however embarrassing it might turn out to be.

We decided to begin with my visit to the church tower in the morning, a time
that now felt like the far distant past. The bulk of the investigating had
been done by me, so I told most of the story and Mary-Jane chipped in
additional details from time to time. As our story progressed, I became
uncomfortably aware of my mother and Mr Philpott listening gravely to every
word as we revealed the danger we had been in and sordid truth of the
deception that we had practised.

"Well, girls," Squadron Leader Barclay said as we finished our tale. "I think
you did rather well. Your observation was top-notch and you did the right
thing to try to contact me. It's just a pity I hadn't told you who to ask for
if I was off duty. Well done to get a message back to the fire-watch too. It
was really just bad luck you got caught, but it was terrifically plucky of you
to escape like that, and to do it twice."

"What about Mrs Jackson?" I asked.

"Well, it's a pity she's got away, but the police will be looking for her and
I don't imagine she will stay at large for long come daylight. My report will
still have to make you two quite the heroines of the hour."

A lovely warm glow of satisfaction replaced the gnawing fear I had been
feeling at having to tell our story. I glanced at my mother and then at Mr
Philpott. Both of them were clearly shaken by what they had heard.

"All the same," the squadron leader continued, "I can't condone your lying to
your parents and gallivanting around the county at night without telling them.
And as for tying up your little sister, well, I'm speechless. However, it's
not my responsibility to speak for your parents; I'm sure they will do that
for themselves."

Mr Philpott and my mother exchanged significant glances and nodded agreement
at the squadron leader's summary. Mary-Jane and I knew that what he had said
was true but hadn't really felt ashamed about it until then.

Our embarrassment became more acute as the squadron leader told his side of
the story. It was late evening when he received the message I had left for him
at West Malling aerodrome. He knew from his interview with me earlier in the
week that our house did not have a telephone (relatively few private
individuals did in those days), so he requisitioned a staff car and had the
duty driver (the WAAF who now stood patiently listening to the stories
unfolding) take him to Tillingbourne. He arrived at our house about 11
o'clock, not long after Mary-Jane and I discovered the German plane at Manor
Farm. He took my injunction to call 'at any time of the day or night'
seriously and pounded on the door, waking (and slightly alarming) my mother.
She informed him that I was spending the night with Mary-Jane and insisted on
getting dressed so that she could come too and find out what I had to say that
was so serious.

The pounding on the door was repeated at the Philpotts' house. As a veterinary
surgeon, Mr Philpott was well accustomed to people knocking on the door at
dead of night and answered it promptly. He was quite naturally surprised to
find my mother and an RAF officer on his doorstep. After an explanation was
given, he too was concerned to know what was so urgent it required the
squadron leader to come calling so late. Mr Philpott led the way upstairs to
Mary-Jane's room and knocked but of course obtained no response. He opened the
door to find the room empty and the bed not slept in. In considerable
consternation, he went to Becky's room to see if she knew anything. By now Mrs
Philpott was also up, having been wakened by the commotion on the landing
outside her bedroom door. There was no response to the knock on Becky's door,
so Mr Philpott opened it and turned on the light only to find his younger
daughter tied to her bed, gagged and blindfolded.

Fearing that some sort of abduction had taken place, Mrs Philpott quickly
freed Becky and asked what had happened. Becky later told us that she had
planned to keep our illicit expedition secret, but faced with a room full of
agitated adults, she immediately told them all she knew. Unfortunately,
although Becky knew that we had gone out somewhere, she had no idea where.

Mrs Philpott stayed with Becky (who was probably more distraught at the
general panic of the situation rather than from being tied up) while her
husband joined my mother in what had now become a search party. Squadron
Leader Barclay instructed his driver to take them down to the centre of the
village on the off chance that they might find us there.

When the car arrived at the village green, the squadron leader found the Home
Guard sergeant mustering a detachment of men. He explained that a message had
been received requesting the Home Guard and the police to go to Manor Farm
urgently. My name was not mentioned, but Squadron Leader Barclay had no
difficulty putting two and two together. He instructed the sergeant to sit in
the front seat next to the driver so that he could direct her while he climbed
into the back with my mother and Mr Philpott. Four Home Guard privates clung
onto the outside of the car, two standing on each running-board and hanging
onto anything they could grip. The car made a rapid, if precarious progress to
Manor Farm, arriving just in time to witness Mary-Jane's and my effort at
plane-wrecking and just in time to save the day, not to mention our lives.

"I think you'd better drive these good people home," Squadron Leader Barclay
said to his driver after completing his account of the night's events. I was
pleased, not just because I was dog-tired, but also because it absolved me
from having to make any immediate defence of Mary-Jane's and my reprehensible
behaviour. I was sure that sooner or later our parents would nevertheless call
us to account for our actions.

While we had been securing prisoners, Squadron Leader Barclay's driver, who
introduced herself as WAAF aircraftswoman Betty Newman, had driven both the
RAF Humber staff car and the police Wolseley up to the farmyard, so we just
had a few yards to walk rather than the length of the farm road.

Mr Philpott sat in the front next to the driver while Mary-Jane and I sat in
the back on each side of my mother. It was good to sit quietly with my head
against my mother's shoulder, just enjoying being reunited with her, as the
car trundled down into the village.

The first stop was at the Philpotts' house, which was almost the first house
you came to on entering Tillingbourne from that direction.

"That's funny; my car's not there," Mr Philpott remarked quietly but with a
note of concern in his voice as the car drew to a halt at the opening into the
back yard.

Nothing could be dismissed lightly that night, so my mother and I and ACW
Newman accompanied Mr Philpott and Mary-Jane to the back door. Mr Philpott
fumbled with his key then discovered that the back door was not in fact
locked. He opened it and we followed him in.

"Sarah!" Mr Philpott cried in alarm and rushed into the kitchen.

I craned my head to see past my mother, who was blocking my view. As she
dashed forward to join Mr Philpott, it was obvious what was wrong; Mrs
Philpott was securely tied to a chair which was tipped over on its side in the
middle of the floor. She was frantically struggling and trying to shout
through a gag.

While Mary-Jane and I helped Mr Philpott set the chair upright, my mother
found a sharp kitchen knife and hacked through the gag. It was a dish towel
which had been torn in half, pulled between Mrs Philpott's teeth and knotted
tightly behind her head. It was holding in place the other half of the towel,
which had been rolled into a ball and stuffed into her mouth.

Mrs Philpott croaked something unintelligible then urgently slurped at the tin
mug of water that Mary-Jane held to her lips.

"She's got Becky!" Mrs Philpott blurted out in a panicky voice as soon as she
could speak again.

Chapter 10

Abduction

"Who's got Becky?" Mr Philpott asked, horrified at the news that his younger
daughter had been abducted on top of all the worry he had been through with
Mary-Jane that night.

"That Jackson woman from the farm took her," Mrs Philpott replied, now able to
speak but still tightly bound to her chair.

It was only then that it occurred to me that Mr and Mrs Philpott would know
the people at Manor Farm as they must be clients of his in his professional
capacity as a veterinary surgeon.

"I waited up in the rocking chair," Mrs Philpott explained, "because I
couldn't just go back to bed until I knew that Mary-Jane and Susan were safe.
I heard someone banging on the door. I thought it must be you without your key
and went to open it. Mrs Jackson was on the doorstep pointing a gun at me. She
had a scarf tied over her mouth and nose like she was in a cowboy film but I
knew it was her as soon as she spoke. She told me that she was going to take
our car and leave me tied up and that if I did as I was told, I wouldn't get
hurt."

"She must have seen me up at the farm and known that Sarah would answer the
door," Mr Philpott interjected in a mixture of anger and disgust.

"I could only think of Becky asleep upstairs, so I thought if I did exactly as
she told me, everything would be all right," Mrs Philpott continued. "She said
that a vet must have rope somewhere and I gave her that big bundle you keep in
the porch. Then she tied me up like this. I told her where to find the car
keys and let her gag me and I thought she would just go after that, but Becky
woke up and came downstairs. That Jackson woman tied our Becky's hands behind
her back and gagged her and took her away. And I couldn't do anything to stop
her!"

The last words came out as a series of racking sobs. With a face set like
stone, Mr Philpott went to the telephone while my mother cradled his wife's
head against her bosom. Meanwhile, I helped Mary-Jane set her mother free.

My earlier assessment of Mrs Jackson's skills were confirmed: she certainly
knew how to handle rope. Mrs Philpott's wrists had been crossed behind the
back of the chair and tied securely together and to the woodwork of the chair.
A coil of rope around her upper arms and chest and the chair back pinned her
back into her seat. Some of the turns of rope had been threaded through the
mesh of wooden bars that made up the chair back for extra security. Mrs
Philpott's legs were bound together at the knees and ankles and a rope ran
from her ankle binding to her wrist binding, pulling her feet back up under
the chair. Finally another coil of rope went across her lap and under the
chair seat. It was no wonder that her struggles had been ineffectual.

Mary-Jane and I shared the kitchen knife that my mother had found, sometimes
using as a marlin spike to tease knots undone and sometimes just sawing
through ropes with it. It took us several minutes to free Mrs Philpott; Mrs
Jackson must have taken a lot longer to tie her up.

While Mary-Jane and I were working to free Mrs Philpott, her husband
telephoned Manor Farm. The police sergeant answered the call. He took down a
description of Mr Philpott's car and its registration number and said that he
would put the word out via county headquarters in Maidstone.

Mrs Jackson could have been almost anywhere by then, so the only thing to do
was to sit and wait for developments. Aircraftswoman Newman decided to return
to Manor Farm to see if there was anything she could usefully do there.

The atmosphere in the kitchen was terrible. Mr and Mrs Philpott and Mary-Jane
were all hugging each other for mutual support, squeezed together on the
battered two-seater sofa that stood at one side of the spacious kitchen. My
mother and I occupied two of the upright wooden dining chairs and held hands
silently.

I felt dreadful. Not only had my stubborn determination to solve a mystery
nearly led to my own death and that of my best friend, but now that we were
safe, Mrs Philpott had been threatened at gunpoint and Becky had been
kidnapped. Even though Becky's abduction had been Mrs Jackson's doing, the
events leading up to it had been precipitated by my actions, just as surely as
toppling a line of dominoes. I knew that if Becky were to die, I should never
be able to forgive myself.

Suddenly our miserable introspection was broken by the telephone ringing. It
was the police sergeant up at Manor Farm. Apparently, the driver of the police
van that had just arrived bringing reinforcements from Maidstone had seen a
car answering the description of Mr Philpott's one heading towards Maidstone
and being driven very fast. He hadn't noticed the number plates, but
everything else tallied. The sergeant told Mr Philpott that he had reported
the information back to headquarters and that roadblocks would already be
going up around the town.

It was some relief to hear the news from the Farm, but it still offered only
the faintest glimmer of hope. We all settled back into gloomy silence.

After a while there was a knock at the door. Before anyone could answer it,
Squadron Leader Barclay let himself in and ACW Newman followed.

The squadron leader took stock of the situation then, seeing the dread on my
face, addressed me. "This isn't your fault you know, Bill. Mrs Jackson seems
to be a ruthless woman and we all underestimated her."

"But if I hadn't..." I began.

"'If' never got us anywhere, Bill. The fact is that your actions tonight were
brave and decisive. It's true that they were also foolhardy, but you flushed
out some very dangerous characters. However, their subsequent actions are not
your responsibility. Do you understand?"

I nodded, not entirely convinced.

"I think these people could all do with a nice hot cup of tea," the squadron
leader remarked to ACW Newman. "See if you can find the tea things, Betty."

Mrs Philpott's pride as a housewife was not about to allow someone else to
provide hospitality in her kitchen. She rose to her feet, still a little
unsteady, and made for the sink.

"No you don't, Sarah," my mother told her firmly. "Not until I've seen to
those bruises."

Mrs Philpott looked at the deep red welts on her wrists, now spreading out
into purple bruises, as if she had been unaware of them until that moment.

My mother took charge of Mrs Philpott and began to administer first aid, while
Mary-Jane and I assisted Betty Newman in making a pot of tea and a pile of
toast. The squadron leader and Mr Philpott talked together in quiet concerned
voices and then went out into the yard to have a smoke.

The men returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, declaring that it was too
cold to stay out longer than necessary. Mr Philpott knocked his pipe out on
the edge of the coal bucket and pocketed it. The squadron leader followed suit
by flicking the stub of his cigarette in amongst the coal.

Squadron Leader Barclay's psychology was admirable. By having something to do,
we broke out of the terrible apprehension that had gripped us all. We were
still desperately worried about Becky, but were no longer paralysed by fear.

I was getting to the point where I was so exhausted that I could no longer
think clearly so took little part in the conversation, except to answer the
occasional question. My mother and Mr Philpott, on the other hand, were in
full flood. I was acutely aware that they were questioning the squadron leader
closely to determine the precise extent of their wayward daughters' tissue of
lies and deceptions over the previous few days, but I was too far gone really
to care.

Time passed slowly and the conversation trickled to a halt. Finally, the
silence was broken by the telephone ringing. Squadron Leader Barclay and Mr
Phillpot both moved as if to answer it then hesitated. Remembering that he was
in a private house, the squadron leader deferred to Mr Philpott who picked up
the receiver then drew a deep breath as he listened to the voice at the other
end. Slowly a broad smile spread over his face.

"They've found her!" Mr Philpott cried. "She's all right!"

We all leaped to our feet with whoops of rejoicing at the news. I don't think
I had ever literally danced with joy before, but I did that night.

Mr Philpott eventually remembered that he was still on the phone and asked a
few more questions of the policeman who had called him before thanking him and
hanging up.

"The police found my car parked next to Maidstone East railway station," he
explained. "Becky was in the back tied up and wrapped in a blanket. The police
doctor has had a look at her and says that apart from a few bruises, she's
fine. She's already on her way back here in a police car."

With the arrival of the good news, the atmosphere in the house lifted to
something close to a party spirit. Time still seemed to drag as we awaited
Becky's arrival. It was less than half an hour's drive from Maidstone,
especially with a clear road in the middle of the night, but it seemed much
longer. Betty Newman offered to drive my mother and me home now that we knew
Becky was safe, but we both wanted to see her for ourselves before going
anywhere.

Finally, we heard a car outside and then a knock on the back door. There was a
moment of confusion as we all tried to get to the door at once to let Becky
in, before allowing Mrs Philpott to do the honours. Becky was bundled up in a
blanket and being carried by a large woman police constable. It was a joy to
see her grinning face peeking out at us.

Mrs Philpott indicated that the sofa was the place for her younger daughter,
so the WPC deposited her there.

"I went in a real police car," Becky told us excitedly, "and I got them to
ring the bell almost all the way here!"

If that was her most important news, then there couldn't be much wrong with
her, I concluded.

Becky wriggled out of the blanket. She was still wearing the nightdress and
sweater that I had seen her in hours before, but it was now supplemented by a
big shawl around her shoulders and crossed over on her chest like a Victorian
matron and another one wrapped around her hips as an improvised skirt. A scarf
was swathed around her head and shoulders and she had what looked like a pair
of woollen stockings over her hands.

"I need to give all these back," Becky explained, indicating her extra
clothes.

"The stockings are my spare pairs, so I'll have those back, please," the
policewoman said, "but the rest came out of the lost property box and had been
there for months, so you can probably keep them."

Mrs Philpott helped Becky pull the stockings off her arms and another pair off
her feet. The WPC pocketed them with thanks, then saluted and left. I noticed
the bandages that Becky had around each wrist, presumably the work of the
police doctor to treat the after-effects of being tied up. I also saw that she
had the beginnings of some nasty bruises on each side of her mouth where a gag
had been.

"Are you all right, Becky?" Mrs Philpott asked.

Becky would probably have been able to answer, had it not been for the barrage
of questions on the same theme from everyone else in the room. She wilted
under the onslaught.

Finally Squadron Leader Barclay's warm voice cut through the hubbub. "Why
don't you tell us what happened, Becky, and we'll all just listen quietly."

"From the beginning?" she asked.

The squadron leader nodded encouragingly. I noticed that ACW Newman had
discreetly taken out a notebook and pencil.

"Well," Becky began, "it was after you had gone looking for Bill and M-J. By
the way, I'm glad you found them; I knew they'd be all right."

Becky's parents and my mother exchanged significant glances.

"Anyway, I couldn't really get back to sleep properly because I kept worrying.
I heard voices downstairs and I thought there might be news, so I came down
here. I never thought there might be any danger, so I just came straight into
the kitchen. There was a woman here all done up like a burglar with a scarf
across her face and she'd got Mum tied to a chair. I think I must have
screamed, because she pointed a gun at me and told me to shut up. She said
she'd hurt Mum if I didn't do as I was told, so I had to let her tie my hands
behind my back. Then she gagged me with a hankie and it hurt because she
pulled it very tight."

Becky gingerly fingered the bruises beside her mouth before continuing.

"She took me out to Dad's car and made me get in the back then she tied my
legs together and wrapped me up in that old blanket we keep there."

Becky indicated the blanket she was now sitting on.

"She said she'd tie me up some more and put me in the boot if I didn't keep my
head down and keep quiet, so I did as I was told. We drove for quite a long
time and I could tell we came into a town. I thought it was probably
Maidstone, but I didn't dare look. We drove for a bit more then stopped and
the woman got out and left me alone. I thought she would come back after a few
minutes, but when she didn't, I decided to see where we were. It was very
dark, but I worked out that we must be up near the East station. I tried
yelling, but I had a gag in my mouth and there was nobody to hear me."

I could hear an edge of panic creep into Becky's voice as she relived the
experience in her mind.

"I even tried escaping the way you taught me, M-J, but it's hard when you're
in the back of a car and all tangled up in a blanket. And it hurts when you're
tied up with rope. Anyway I couldn't do it, so I just had to sit and wait. It
got awfully cold but a policeman came along eventually and saw me in the car.
And, Dad, he had to break a window with his truncheon to get in."

"It's all right; we'll get it mended," Mr Philpott assured his daughter.

"The policeman cut my ropes and my gag with his pocket knife, wrapped me up in
the blanket again and carried me to the railway station so he could use a
telephone. I was taken to the police station in a police car and they got a
doctor to look at me. He said there was nothing wrong with me except for a few
bruises and being cold and frightened. A nice police lady got me some cocoa to
drink and found me some extra clothes then she brought me home in another
police car."

Becky paused for a moment then added with a grin, "And here I am."

ACW Newman closed her notebook and put it away in her tunic pocket.

"Thank you, Becky," Squadron Leader Barclay told her. "That was very clear and
I'm sure it will help us. It must have been very frightening for you."

"I was mostly frightened for Mum."

Now that everyone was safe, my mother suggested that it was time she and I
went home. Everyone else concurred and after farewell hugs all round, we made
use of the RAF staff car once more as Betty Newman drove us to our front door.

Chapter 11

Adulation

It must have been 3 o'clock in the morning or later that my mother and I were
dropped at our own front door. I was so exhausted that I couldn't summon up
the energy to undress properly for bed. I settled for taking off my shoes,
jodhpurs and jacket and one of my sweaters and diving into bed still wearing
all the rest.

Curiously, I woke slightly earlier than I usually would on a Sunday, fully
alert and feeling surprisingly refreshed. In retrospect, I think I was still
so keyed up by the previous night's events that I was simply unable to sleep
for long. I quickly dressed, choosing a warm but sober sweater and skirt,
suitable for church, then went down to the kitchen.

My mother was still in her dressing gown and surprised to see me up so
promptly. I would normally greet my mother with a kiss and a brief embrace,
but our long hug that morning showed just how frightened we had both been the
night before. I prepared breakfast while my mother got dressed and after we
had eaten, we set out for church.

It was another cold day, but the clear blue skies of the previous few days
were replaced by a leaden overcast with a promise of snow in the air. I pulled
my woollen tam o'shanter down over my ears and snuggled my chin into my scarf
as we walked the hundred yards or so to the old Norman church.

My mother didn't particularly need to be in church early, but as I sang in the
choir, I had to be there well before the service. She chose a pew and sat down
while I went to the choir vestry to prepare. With fuel rationing in force, it
would have been a gross luxury to heat a church building, so it was left
freezing cold all winter. Fortunately a chorister's cassock of the style
favoured by the Church of England is a warm garment in itself and often roomy
enough for several sweaters underneath.

The service was nothing unusual, just what would be expected from the Book of
Common Prayer for the second Sunday in Advent, as familiar and comfortable as
an old cardigan. I was surprised to see Squadron Leader Barclay and his WAAF
driver in the congregation. I thought that everything to do with Manor Farm
had been wrapped up the previous night and wondered what brought them back to
Tillingbourne.

After the service had ended and I had shed my cassock and surplice and put my
outdoor clothes back on, I met up with Mary-Jane, Becky and their parents just
inside the church door. I exchanged slightly awkward greetings with Mr and Mrs
Philpott, still feeling very guilty about Mary-Jane's and my behaviour of the
previous night. Becky was surprisingly animated considering what she had been
through the previous night. I was amused to note that Becky had her scarf
pulled almost all the way up to her nose. "Surely it's not thatcold in
church?" I teased. She said nothing in reply, but pulled her scarf down to
reveal the bruises on her face, which had now spread into a large yellow and
purple path each side of her mouth. I winced sympathetically as she pulled her
scarf back up and felt rotten at what had happened to her.

We all left church together, bidding good morning to the vicar, who was
standing in the porch. Suddenly we were surrounded by news reporters and
photographers who had apparently all been waiting for us in the churchyard. We
all stopped walking and instinctively huddled together, utterly bewildered by
this development. Squadron Leader Barclay came to our aid. "Ladies and
gentlemen, there will be a news conference in the village hall in fifteen
minutes. You will all have ample opportunity to ask questions and take
pictures. In the mean time, please have the courtesy to allow these brave
young ladies some peace. Thank you." That final 'thank you' was firm enough to
make it abundantly clear that the squadron leader would tolerate no
disagreement.

"What's all this about?" Mr Philpott demanded testily.

The squadron leader explained that the Ministry of Information (Britain's
wartime propaganda ministry) had felt that Mary-Jane's and my activities
offered an opportunity for some news to cheer up the British public by showing
them that ordinary English Girl Guides could outsmart a wily German agent.

We were in no position to refuse to cooperate, so, reluctantly we consented to
the news conference.

The vicar had been listening to all this and kindly offered us refreshments in
the vicarage before facing the ladies and gentlemen of the press. We
gratefully accepted.

Over a cup of tea, I spoke anxiously to Squadron Leader Barclay. "I can't tell
them all the things that went on last night!"

"Don't worry, Bill," he assured me. "This is the press release that the
Ministry issued this morning." He handed out copies of a typewritten sheet.

I read the release quickly. It actually said very little, just that two Girl
Guides from Tillingham, both loyal fire-watch volunteers, had bravely raised
the alarm when they detected the work of an enemy agent. Despite personal
danger, including being captured by enemy sympathisers and subsequently
escaping, they successfully foiled the escape of the enemy agent by air by
destroying his aeroplane.

The squadron leader quickly briefed us on what we could and shouldn't say and
reassured us that he would be sitting between us and would tell us what to say
if we weren't sure.

In the event, the news conference wasn't the ordeal I feared it might be. The
journalists were all well-behaved now that they knew that they would each get
their opportunity to ask questions. They accepted the written account in the
press release and asked few searching questions about its contents, possibly
because they already knew that was all they would be told. Most of the
questions were to do with Mary-Jane's and my personal details: what age we
were, where we went to school, what we hoped to do when we grew up, and so on.

My debt of tiredness caught up with me about the middle of the afternoon and I
had to go to bed. I slept right through until about 7 o'clock the next
morning, when I would normally get up on a Monday anyway. I was a little more
sleepy and disorganised than usual but still managed to get to the bus stop in
time, where Mary-Jane, Becky and I stood in the freezing darkness stamping our
feet to keep warm until the bus arrived.

By the time we arrived at school in Maidstone, we were minor celebrities. The
big news of the morning was the previous day's victory by the British Army's
13 Corps over the Italians at Sidi Barrani in Libya but Mary-Jane and I were
there too on the front page of several newspapers. PLUCKY GIRL GUIDES FOIL
NAZI AGENT. GERMAN SPY OUTWITTED BY ENGLISH SCHOOLGIRLS. TIED UP IN CELLAR BUT
STILL WIN THROUGH. The press seemed to have wholeheartedly accepted the
official version of the story.

After officially congratulating us during school assembly, our headmistress
made it clear that it was business as usual and the presence of minor heroines
in our midst was no reason not to have a perfectly normal hard-working school
day. I for one was relieved; normality seemed like a very attractive
proposition.

Normality was short-lived. As we returned to Tillingbourne on the bus,
Mary-Jane noticed her father's car and an RAF staff car parked outside my
house. Accordingly, she and Becky accompanied me home to see what was
happening.

As we anticipated, Squadron Leader Barclay was there, his uniform tunic
unbuttoned in the warmth of the kitchen, and deep in conversation with my
mother and Mr Philpott.

"You're going to meet the king," my mother blurted out as soon as she saw us.

I said nothing, but could feel my jaw hanging slackly.

The squadron leader was honest enough to say that there was an element of
propaganda in this, but that he understood that the king had been personally
impressed with our story and had warmly agreed to meeting us.

The next morning, Mary-Jane and I dressed in our Girl Guide uniforms, brushed
spotless and freshly pressed for the occasion. Shoes were polished to gleaming
perfection and stocking seams checked for straightness with a ruler. My mother
tutted over the state of my school uniform overcoat, but, apart from my duffel
coat, it was all I had and I didn't think the king would see it.

An official black Humber collected us from my house and we were driven up to
London with Squadron Leader Barclay and one of the queen's ladies in waiting
for company. The king was very kind and from his questions had indeed taken a
personal interest in our story. We also met Princess Elizabeth, who was 21,
the same age as us, and we immediately took to her. She was thrilled by our
story and clearly had a taste for adventure. As we talked with her, it was
hard to remember that this girl was destined to become our queen one day.

Normality returned and the usual routine reasserted itself during the
remainder of the week. We went to school and we endured a bitterly cold night
of fire-watch in falling snow on the Thursday night.

I was still feeling acutely uncomfortable with Mary-Jane's parents and, to a
lesser extent, with my mother about the events of the previous Saturday night.
Squadron Leader Barclay had been very clear in his summing-up of the situation
that he believed there was unfinished business between Mary-Jane and me and
our parents. It was equally clear from Mr Philpott's and my mother's reaction
at the time that they thought so too. The squadron leader had assured me that
Becky's abduction was not Mary-Jane's or my fault, but I felt responsible all
the same.

Chapter 12

Reckoning

Since our adventure on Saturday night, nothing had been said, far less any
words of reprimand spoken about Mary-Jane's and my conduct. I raised it with
my mother on Friday morning and she told me firmly that she and Mr Philpott
were still discussing the situation and would tell us what they planned to do
when they were good and ready. That left me even more uneasy as it suggested
that we were possibly in even worse trouble than I had imagined.

It had snowed all Thursday night and was still snowing steadily when the
Philpott girls and I were waiting at the bus stop. Inevitably, the bus was
late, so our school hats were white by the time it arrived. As we travelled to
Maidstone, I had a whispered conference with Mary-Jane. It seemed that she had
had a conversation with her parents similar to the unsettling one I had had
with my mother.

The snow continued all day, and in the afternoon, the bus was forced to drop
us outside the village and we had to wade through snowdrifts to get home. We
laid extensive and excited plans for snowball fights and sledging to fill our
Saturday.

On Saturday morning, the snow had stopped. The sky was still overcast with the
threat of more snow, so there was no risk of sudden sunshine to disrupt the
perfect white blanket that covered everything.

I finished breakfast and helped my mother with the washing up, frustrated all
the while by her slowness. I wanted to get away to spend the day with
Mary-Jane and didn't want to waste a minute.

I braided my hair into a tight plait to keep it under control then bundled
myself up in jodhpurs, sweaters and my zip-up jacket. Over my jodhpurs, I
pulled on the striped socks that I usually wore on the hockey field so that I
could fold the tops of them down over my wellingtons to keep the snow out. I
expected to get seriously snowy, so I decided to borrow my brother's balaclava
again; it covered my head down to my eyebrows and my neck up to my chin. I
also borrowed my brother's scarf as it was quite short, so there was no risk
of getting it tangled in sledge runners or anything like that. I wrapped it
across my mouth and nose and knotted it behind my head then pushed it down
below my chin, so that I could easily pull it up again if I got cold later.
Lastly I put on a thin pair of gloves and pulled my mittens on over them.

I was just about to go out when my mother called out to me, "Wait a minute,
Susan, I'm coming too!" She hated the cold so I was surprised that she was
going out at all, let alone braving the long walk to Mary-Jane's house.

The fresh snow squeaked and crunched under the soles of my wellingtons as we
walked. It was quite hard work trudging through the soft snowdrifts, towing my
little sledge behind me, so we didn't say much to each other as we made our
way up through the village.

As we reached the Philpotts' back door, walking across the snowy wilderness
that was usually their back yard, we met Becky coming out to play in the snow,
barely recognisable with only bright eyes visible between her striped scarf
and her woolly hat.

I kicked the snow off my boots at the back door then kicked off the boots
themselves in the porch before opening the inner door into the kitchen, my
mother following immediately behind me.

Mary-Jane was waiting for me. She was already wearing her leggings and a
sweater and had the rest of her outdoor clothes ready in a pile next to her on
the sofa where she sat.

"Ready in two ticks," Mary-Jane assured me.

"Don't bother getting dressed up just yet," Mrs Philpott advised her daughter.

"And you'd better take your outdoor things off too, Susan," my mother told me,
as she unwound her own scarf from around her face.

"But we're just going out," I protested.

"No, you're not," my mother told me firmly. "Mr and Mrs Philpott and I had a
long talk about the way you behaved last Saturday." It was clear that 'your'
also included Mary-Jane. "We are very unhappy about it. You lied about what
you were doing. You went out in the middle of the night without permission and
without anyone knowing where you were going. Then when you thought Becky might
tell on you, you tied her to her bed and probably meant to leave her like that
all night."

"We didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," I pleaded in my defence.

"I'm sure you didn't, but you must have known that it was a foolhardy romp and
that it might be dangerous. You nearly got yourselves both killed and because
of you, Mrs Philpott was tied up at gunpoint and Becky was kidnapped. I know
Mr Barclay said the things that the Jackson woman did weren't your fault, but
we all know they wouldn't have happened but for your actions."

"We decided that we really needed to make an impression on you two, and make
it quite clear that you don't do anything like this again," Mr Philpott added.

I could sense that Mary-Jane's tension was as great as mine as we waited to
hear the dreadful punishment that would be meted out to us.

My mother revealed our fate. "When it was obvious today would be snowy and you
were making big plans to go out in it, we decided that it would be appropriate
to deprive you of that."

I was puzzled. Simply being kept indoors seemed like something of an
anticlimax after the build-up that had gone before.

"Please go into the front parlour," Mrs Philpott instructed, speaking for the
first time.

Mary-Jane stood up and I followed her and her mother into the Philpotts'
parlour. My mother and Mr Philpott followed. The little-used room looked out
onto the lane at the front of the Philpotts' house, but the curtains had been
drawn across the windows. In the middle of the floor were two of the upright
wooden chairs from the kitchen. On the seat of each chair was a bundle of rope
and some old stockings from the rag-bag. It took me a moment to realise that
our punishment was to be tied up instead of enjoying the snow. I was genuinely
shocked at this, but also recognised that shocking behaviour might well merit
a shocking punishment.

Mrs Philpott spoke again. "With the number of times you've tied each other up
for fun, we knew that wouldn't be much of a hardship to you to be tied up
today, but it's a way of punishing you together and still depriving you of
each other's company."

"We're not going to give you any claptrap about giving you an opportunity to
reflect on your crimes," Mr Philpott explained. "This is simply an expression
of our displeasure at disobeying us, sneaking off without permission, putting
your lives, not to mention Sarah's and Becky's, recklessly and needlessly at
risk and putting us through hell worrying about you."

"Just think of it as being what happens to secret agents when they get
caught," my mother said, lightening the mood a little. "Also, consider this a
milder outcome than the shallow grave in the woods you both so nearly ended up
in," she added grimly, bringing it right to the point.

At her mother's instigation, Mary-Jane went to the bathroom as a precautionary
measure. I followed as soon as she had finished. When I came back downstairs,
Mary-Jane was sitting on one of the chairs, already gagged and blindfolded and
in the process of being tied up by my mother.

Mrs Philpott was ready for me as I entered the parlour. She indicated that I
should sit on the vacant chair. I had to pick up the bundle of ropes and hand
it to her in order to do so. She produced a large white handkerchief,
presumably one of her husband's, rolled it into a ball and held it in front of
my face. I understood what it was for and opened my mouth. She pushed it into
place gently but firmly then took one of the discarded black stockings. She
pulled it between my teeth to hold the handkerchief in place then wrapped it
around my head a second time, carefully easing it between my lips. She knotted
the gag securely at the nape of my neck. My blindfold was a second stocking,
folded into a narrow band across my eyes. It was tied just firmly enough to
prevent my eyelids from opening and was very effective; I couldn't see even a
chink of light.

"Put your gloves back on," Mrs Philpott advised me. "You'll probably get quite
cold sitting here otherwise."

I fumbled blindly with the gloves that had been placed in my lap, Pulling them
over my hands and tucking the cuffs up into the sleeves of my sweater.

I heard my mother's voice comment, "That's Mary-Jane done." Then, addressing
me, "Hold your hands out, Susan dear."

I did as instructed, stretching my hands out in front of me. I felt a cord
being looped around my wrists and then between them, forming what felt like a
pair of rope handcuffs.

"Hands down." I rested them on my lap.

Eight or more turns of rope were then wound around my upper arms and chest and
the back of the chair on which I was sitting. My legs were manoeuvred so that
my ankles were against the inside faces of the chair legs, then tied in
position with rope at ankle level and just below my knees. My bound hands were
lifted a little so that a coil of rope could be passed across my lap and under
the chair seat. Lastly, my wrist binding was secured to the rope over my lap,
preventing my hands from being raised.

"We'll let you go when we think you've had enough," my mother informed me,
then I heard the parlour door close.

As soon as I was sure that we were alone, I tried speaking to Mary-Jane, but
all I could produce through my gag was an unintelligible mumble. She mumbled
back at me, but I couldn't make out the words.

As a punishment, it was exquisitely well thought out. We were both keyed up
ready to have a day's fun in the snow and here we were trussed up together but
unable to communicate or even see each other, frustrated and bored to
distraction. Worse that that, as we were at the front of the house, we could
clearly hear our friends as they ran up and down the lane outside and the
occasional shrieks of joy mingled with terror as they hurtled past on sledges.
I was just glad that the curtains were closed so that our humiliation was kept
private.

We were not tied in a particularly uncomfortable position but I still felt my
body stiffening as time passed. Time itself became hard to track. There was a
clock in the room rhythmically ticking away our term of imprisonment but
giving us no other clue as it didn't chime.

After what seemed like an eternity of boredom, I heard the parlour door open.
No words were spoken, but I could feel my blindfold loosening and then being
removed. I blinked in the light, even though it wasn't very bright, and saw
that my mother was leaning over me, now removing my gag. Across the room
Mary-Jane's mother was doing the same for her. I was startled to see how
comprehensively Mary-Jane was bound, as presumably I was myself.

As she worked on releasing me, I asked my mother how she had become so expert
at tying people up. She explained that some of her service as a nurse in the
Great War was with the Royal Army Dental Corps and that owing to wartime
shortages, it was sometimes necessary to carry out dental work without
anaesthetic. Accordingly, she had become quite adept at binding patients to
their chairs preparatory to treatment.

Once we were freed, Mary-Jane and I were allowed to return to the kitchen,
walking a little unsteadily at first, where a lunch of soup and fresh warm
bread was waiting for us. I was surprised to see from the kitchen clock that
it was not yet 1 o'clock. We had been tied up for less than two hours, but I
was so thoroughly confused about the time that it could have been tea-time for
all I knew.

Mr and Mrs Philpott and my mother informed us that as far as they were
concerned that was now the end of the matter and that they hoped we had
learned a lesson. We assured them we had indeed learned a lesson, promised
that we would tell them about any covert activities we took part in in the
future then apologised for our behaviour one last time. With parental wrath
expressed and endured we both felt our consciences were now clear.

As we sat down to eat, a snow-covered Becky came in from outside. She reported
that it was snowing hard again. She shed various snow-caked garments and
enthusiastically tucked into her soup. As she ate, she added that she was keen
to go out again if we were. She had been fully aware of our punishment, but
was apparently now content to regard it as past history.

Once we had eaten, Mary-Jane and I decided that we would celebrate our freedom
by going out and joining Becky in the snow as we had planned, despite our
recent ordeal and despite the near blizzard conditions outside. Such is the
resilience of youth.

Chapter 13

Aftermath

One bleak day in February 1941, Mary-Jane and I made another trip to London.
This time we were witnesses in the trial of the Manor Farm conspirators at the
Old Bailey. As it concerned national security, the trial was held behind
closed doors. The evidence was all quite conclusive and the proceedings
therefore brief.

Mrs Jackson had still not been traced, but all the other employees at Manor
Farm were sentenced to varying periods of imprisonment, with Perks receiving
the longest term. Colonel Smith-Bensted was subjected to the full wrath of the
Treachery Act and, after the statutory three clear Sundays had passed, died as
a traitor at the hands of the official hangman. The German we had seen turned
out to be an Abwehr agent and was taken to the Tower of London and shot as a
spy. The Luftwaffe pilot was in uniform and was therefore not the subject of
any legal proceedings, but was simply interned as a prisoner of war.

Decades later, when the secret work of the codebreakers at Bletchley Park
became public knowledge, a woman named Maria Wiszniewska became known as one
of a small group of Poles who had done the initial work on the German Enigma
cipher machines, escaping to France and then Britain with their knowledge. It
was she whose abduction Mary-Jane and I foiled all those years before.

The End