Day of Vengeance (8 page)

“I believe that is what they call a close shave, Red Two, but I do declare you have damaged him… he’s turning for home…”
It was Red One on the radio. “
Acorn Leader, if you are still there, may we trouble you for a little assistance
?”

“I couldn’t leave all the fun to you, Red One, second snapper is a confirmed kill.”

“Capital, Acorn Leader.”

Suddenly, Red One appeared close up on their left wing. Then a second fighter appeared on their right wing. Jack assumed that this was ‘Acorn Leader’. Jack could quite clearly see both pilots from their cockpit. Jack noticed that Red One had a yellow scarf wrapped round his neck… just like the motorcyclist who had overtaken them in the taxi.

Acorn leader’s voice came over the radio again.
“You disobeyed orders, Red One…”

“Humblest apologies, Acorn Leader.”

“… but it’s the bravest damned thing I ever saw, Ludwig. You’re forgiven. But don’t do it again. Now let’s pancake before our luck runs out…”

Red One gave a quick thumbs up, then banked sharply and was gone, swiftly followed by Acorn Leader. Jack and Angus were alone once more with only the sound of the Merlin engine pumping in their ears.

“Jack, on the radio just now, Acorn Leader – he called Red One a name. I think he said, ‘Ludwig’.”

“That’s your great grandfather’s name isn’t it?”

“Yes. You don’t think…?”

“Maybe, Angus… maybe you just saved your grandfather’s life.”

Ahead, the German convoy ploughed onwards. Jack looked down. Through breaks in the thickening cloud, he saw a long slither of yellow beach stretching into the distance. They had crossed the English Channel and were now above France: occupied territory.

“Angus, we’re over France. I think we need to turn round.”

“But I can still see them ahead – looks like they’re descending.”

“It’s mad to continue. If we follow them and land we’ll get captured… or, more likely, we’ll get shot down or something. Come to think about it this was a completely bonkers idea in the first place.”

“Might not be as easy as you think. Weather’s closing in. It seems much uglier over here.”

Angus was right. The visibility over England had been patchy,
but good enough. But as they crossed into France it got worse. It was as if they had passed into a cold front or something and in a short while they were flying between two layers of thickening cloud. Occasionally, they caught glimpses of the German convoy a mile or so ahead, but it was descending and soon it had ghosted into the cloud layer beneath.

“We’ve lost sight of them completely now…”

Specks of rain started to dot the canopy.

“Can’t we go down?”

“I can try…”

Angus throttled back and let the Spitfire dip lower and soon they were skimming the top of the cloud layer beneath. He descended some more and suddenly it was if they were inside a ball of wet cotton wool. They were flying completely blind.

“Whoa!” Angus shouted. He immediately pulled up and poked the plane back above the cloud. “I don’t want to do that again – couldn’t see a thing in that cloud.”

“I think it’s getting worse.”

The gap between the two cloud layers was narrowing and the light was diminishing.

“What about the instruments… can we fly on those?”

“It’s not that easy, Jack… we don’t know how low this cloud goes… we could find ourselves down at five hundred feet or something and then slam into the side of a hill…”

Suddenly, Jack felt very frightened. The elation from surviving the dogfight had worn off. He was aching and cramped in the stuffy cockpit. Flying in the cloud, with rain and low visibility and a poorly defined horizon was extremely disorientating. Angus had
proved his worth as a pilot, but flying just on the instruments, with no visibility, took training, experience and confidence – not just a private pilot’s licence and a few hours on a home simulator, however realistic it was. Even if they descended through the cloud base, they had no idea where they were and it wouldn’t be easy to find anywhere to land. They could turn for home; but their airspeed had remained at a good two hundred miles an hour and now they were well over mainland France. They had no idea how far to turn to hit the right direction for home.

Angus was silent. Jack knew that by now he too must realise that their situation was desperate. Despite the cloud and rain, the Spitfire arrowed on, the big Merlin engine up front running strong and smooth with an unwavering hum.

Suddenly Angus said, “If we stay up here, we die; I’m taking us down.”

The aircraft dropped into the thick cloud layer. Instantly the light dimmed and the rain on the canopy intensified.

“We need to watch that altimeter and watch our trim…”

The altimeter whirled round as they dropped through the cloud… three thousand, two thousand five-hundred, two thousand…

“Getting low now…”

“But still can’t see a thing through this stupid cloud…”

One thousand five hundred… one thousand…

“Surely, it can’t be much longer?”

“I’m easing level at nine hundred feet. I just hope there aren’t any hills in this bit of France.”

Jack’s heart was pumping, they were now flying at just over
a hundred miles an hour through cloud that remained as thick as soup. They could only see a few metres in front of them.

“I’m slowing again and going to go down some more…”

Jack felt his stomach rise into his chest as the Spitfire lurched down again.

Angus let out a sudden cry. A second later, Jack saw it. Looming out of the mist only twenty metres ahead there appeared a massive metal structure. Jack felt himself lurch sideways as Angus, with only seconds to react, cut speed and flipped the aircraft to avoid a head-on collision. Too late. There was a horrendous scraping of metal on metal. Then… darkness.

A Tour of Le Tour

Jack tasted blood in his mouth. He opened his eyes. He was lying on his side in the cockpit and his whole body throbbed with pain. Angus was slumped on top of him, unmoving. The canopy of the cockpit had been shattered. Jack blinked and tried to understand where they were. He looked up. They were surrounded by a damp swirling mist, which limited visibility, but he could make out a complex tracery of interlocking iron girders rising high above them, disappearing into the cloud. He twisted his head round and peered down over the edge of the fuselage where it met the canopy at the edge of the cockpit. He felt his chest tighten in fear when he looked down. Below, the same strange structure of metal latticework disappeared down into an endless grey void of swirling mist. Jack could not see the ground. The fuselage of the aircraft seemed to have come to rest on its side, but was firmly wedged between at least two sections of interlocking girders. The wings had been ripped free in the impact. Jack had no idea where they were, but they were suspended in midair and the ground was nowhere to be seen.

The weight of Angus, lying on top of him, crushed him into the side of the cockpit. Was he dead? Jack poked his friend in the back with his free hand. Angus groaned, and Jack felt a wave of relief. But the relief turned to horror as Jack realised that the blood in his mouth was dripping from Angus’s face. Jack could only see
the back of his head – but it was clear that there was a lot of blood and that Angus was in a bad way.

“Angus – are you OK?”

Angus groaned again. Jack rocked himself forward to try and get a proper look at Angus’s injuries. But it was hopeless. He was completely stuck, with Angus unmoving right on top of him. His legs and back were numbing under the pressure. He pushed forward a second time and suddenly there was a groaning and scraping of metal as the whole aircraft moved against the steel struts that held it precariously in place. Jack froze. If he moved – the whole aircraft also moved. It was unstable and if it dislodged, they would plummet earthwards and then there was no way they could possibly survive.

They were trapped.

Jack felt anger welling up inside. Anger at Pendelshape, anger at VIGIL, anger at himself for getting them into this situation. They were utterly helpless and, to his dismay, Jack could feel the breeze was beginning to freshen. That wasn’t good. Wind whistled through the strange structure and its criss-crossing iron beams appeared and then disappeared as the mist churned and eddied all around. Then, off to one side, Jack saw something extraordinary. The mist cleared for a moment and, as it did, a very large piece of red cloth floated down only a few metres away from them. As it dropped to earth, it suddenly unfurled right in front of Jack’s eyes to reveal a large white circle on which was painted a strange black emblem. Jack had seen this particular emblem in scores of books and films and now it appeared in front of him like some ghostly warning. It was a Nazi Swastika. As quickly as the
flag had unfurled before him, it wrapped itself back into a damp ball of red cloth and dropped out of sight into the mist below.

Jack was scared. He was in pain, his best friend was bleeding to death and there was nothing he could do about it, and now Nazi images were appearing, spectre-like, in the mist in front of him. Maybe he had died in the crash and this was hell. Finally, his eyes flickered and he passed out.

Voices. Very close. From his position he couldn’t see anyone, but he could hear them. From out of nowhere a rope flopped onto the side of the fuselage and dangled into the canopy. Jack heard someone shouting at him, urgently,
“Ecoutez moi, on va vous lancer une corde. Mettez–la autour de votre taille. Dépêchez-vous, on n’a pas beaucoup de temps!
”

Jack didn’t understand what they were saying, but he knew the language: French. And he knew enough French to reply.

He mustered his remaining strength and shouted at the top of his voice,
“Anglais! Je ne comprends pas!
”

For a moment there was quiet and then Jack heard a lively exchange somewhere above him. Then he heard another voice speak in good English with a strong French accent.

“OK my friend. We are going to save you. We will throw you a rope. You need to put the loop around you. Try and be quick.”

Jack bellowed back, “There are two of us – I think my friend is badly injured…”

Again, Jack heard talking, and then the voice came again. “Stay calm my friend. We are coming!”

Jack whispered into Angus’s ear – which was only a couple
of centimetres from his mouth, “Don’t worry, Angus, we’re going to get out of this…”

But Jack was not really so sure.

Then, just above him, Jack heard the voice again, suddenly much closer.
“Salut – mon ami…”

Jack craned his head to try and see past Angus’s slumped body. Just above him the face of a black man appeared, looking down through the mangled cockpit. He seemed to be floating in
midair
, somehow suspended from above. The man looked quite young, fit and entirely unconcerned that the ground beneath them was nowhere to be seen.

“I am Jean-Yves, and how do you say it in English? Delighted to meet you, old chap.” He smiled. Something about the smile exuded confidence and it was infectious. Jack sensed hope.

“Thank God you’re here. My friend, I think he is badly hurt, but he’s breathing. Where are we?”

Jean-Yves shifted his eyes to Angus and Jack, a flash of anxiety in his face, but then he shook his head. “Your friend has cuts and bruises – a lot of blood. But he will be fine. Now take this rope…”

Jean-Yves worked the ropes quickly, moving with the speed and precision of a professional climber. He talked quietly to Jack as he worked, all the time speaking clearly, calmly. He could have been talking about the weather.

“You are very lucky to survive… what happened?”

“Er, we flew into cloud and lost our way…” Jack asked the question again. “Where are we?”

But it was as if Jean-Yves were deliberately ignoring the question. “
Incroyable
. Are you Royal Air Force… this is a Spitfire, no?”

“Was a Spitfire. Yes, RAF, we were in a fight over the Channel.”

“But why are there two of you? This is a single-seater? And you, my friend, you look very young…”

Jack didn’t have the energy to explain.

At last, Jean-Yves managed to secure one rope beneath Angus’s arms and around his torso and a second around Jack. The plan was somehow to ease them free from the cockpit and lift them up to safety. Jean-Yves gave a slight exhalation in preparation.

“There… now we lift you up… OK?”

Jack tried a third time, “Where are we?”

Jean-Yves gave a half-smile. When he gave his answer Jack suddenly understood why he had ignored Jack’s question until they were secured by the ropes.

“Le Tour,”
Jean-Yves said.

“What?”

“
Mon ami
, you are two hundred metres up in the air, hanging off
le Tour Eiffel
.” Jack detected a note of admiration in Jean-Yves’s voice. For a second Jack did not quite get the rapid French pronunciation. Then it clicked into place. The Eiffel Tower. They had crashed into the Eiffel Tower – in the middle of Paris.

“Ready?” Jean-Yves asked.

Angus groaned as the rope tightened and he was pulled free from the wreckage. Jean-Yves guided his body as it was hauled upwards by his friends waiting above. Soon Jack could only see Angus’s feet dangling above him.

“Now your turn, my friend. Focus on me. Don’t look down.”

Jack took a deep breath and felt the rope close like a vice around his chest.

“Use your hands to hold on to the rope.”

Slowly, Jack felt himself being levered from the cockpit and hauled up into the air. His body spun slowly on the rope as he was inched upwards. He couldn’t help looking down. As soon as he did, he felt nauseous, but he couldn’t take his eyes away. The Spitfire was wedged between an array of metal struts that formed one edge of the upper section of the mighty Eiffel Tower. The wings had been ripped free and were nowhere to be seen. The rear of the fuselage stuck out slightly from the side of the tower and Jack could clearly see the little tail fin with its red, white and blue RAF insignia.

Jack dangled from the rope, swinging like a pendulum in the breeze. He closed his eyes and, bit by bit, was tugged upwards until, finally, he felt one arm and then a second enfold him and pull him up and over onto a metal platform. Angus was already on the platform and a young girl was leaning over him, dabbing at his face with a piece of cloth. Jack felt an overpowering sense of euphoria. Then, his legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed in a heap.

“Wake up,
mon ami
!
”

Jack was lying on his back. Jean-Yves peered into his eyes whilst he patted the side of Jack’s face with his palm. “You are OK now, yes?”

A bottle of water was thrust into his hand and then some chocolate. “Drink and eat, you will feel better.”

Jack looked around. “Angus – is he…?”

But Angus was sitting up next to him. He had a bloodied
bandage around his head and held another dressing to his face.

“God – you OK?”

Angus’s voice was shaky, “Feel like I’ve gone eighty minutes against the All Blacks. But apparently I’m fine. No breaks. Car, bus and now plane accident… all in one day… that’s got to be a world record.”

“We have to go now…” Jean-Yves said. “Or we will be in trouble. But first,” he gestured to a tall, wiry blonde-haired man who was packing up the ropes, “this is Patrice…”

Patrice stooped and shook Jack by the hand, “Salut…”

“And this is Ours,” Jack’s hand was taken by a huge, swarthy man with short black hair. “Ours means ‘bear’, you can see why, no?” The bear flashed a toothy grin. “And this is Sophie, my daughter.”

Sophie waved a hand in acknowledgement. She held herself with her father’s poise and athleticism. She looked Jack straight in the eye with a challenging self-confidence, though she couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. She had a dark complexion and hypnotic brown eyes, and even though Jack was in a bad state, he stared at her longer than was probably polite. Jack noticed that Sophie had a small camera with her. It hung around her neck. Just then, she put it up to her face and took a picture.

“Sorry – Sophie – she likes to take photos. She is our official photographer.”

Jack tried to smile. “Thank you. I mean, thank you for saving us… I am Jack and my friend is Angus. We’re with the Royal Air Force, er…” Jack thought for a moment, “VIGIL Squadron.”

“Well Jack. We are very pleased to meet you. Very pleased indeed. Now we go…”

“But – how come you are all here?”

“I know – you will have many questions… and we have questions for you… but we must move or the Nazis will come…”

Jean-Yves started to move from the platform to a very narrow spiral staircase. Ours and Patrice helped Angus, who was unsteady on his feet.

“Is this how we get down?”

“Yes Jack – a long way down. The lifts are not working…”

“Why not?”

Jean-Yves flashed him a smile. “We sabotaged them,
mon ami
. Hitler may have conquered France, but he will not conquer the Eiffel Tower. If he wants to get to the top, he will have to walk…”

“Is that why you’re up here – to break the lifts?”

“Not only…”

Jack remembered the strange sight of the Nazi Swastika flag falling to the ground. “You have been to the top and taken down the German flag?”

Jean-Yves stopped on the staircase and looked back at Jack. He smiled. “You have a lot of questions, eh?” he shrugged. “But of course you are right. We took a chance while the weather was bad.”

“So you are French, er, resistance?”

Jean-Yves gave a shrug. “Whatever you like to call us, Jack.”

“And climbers?”

“Sometimes climbing, sometimes other things. We like, er,
les jeux abnormales
– running, climbing, tricks – the Eiffel Tower – it is a good place for it…”

“Like free running…?”

“I do not know what that is Jack…
c’est l’art du deplacement.
We call it Parkour…”

And with that, Jean-Yves jumped over the barrier of the spiral staircase with the grace of a leopard and landed feet first, a good three metres below, on a very narrow steel platform and looked back up with a broad grin.

“Voilá.”

The manoeuvre would have crippled a normal man, but for Jean-Yves it appeared effortless. It looked like Jack and Angus’s new friends might prove useful – very useful indeed.