Chapter 21
Shocks For Smyth
Smyth returned to the cabin after checking that the aircraft was well camouflaged and hidden from any casual passer-by. Not that there seemed to be anybody about, he thought, but it was as well to be careful. He was satisfied that everything was in order and the aircraft would start up at the first attempt should they need to make a quick getaway. It would be the work of a moment to drag the loose branches off the wings and fuselage.
Mrs Meier was sitting on a packing case, hugging her ribs, rocking gently and singing a sad tune quietly to herself.
"Do you fancy a cup of tea?" asked the mechanic kindly. "I'm just thinking of having a brew up."
She looked at him and smiled sadly. "You are very kind, Mr Smyth," she said. "Yes, I will take tea with you."
As Smyth prepared the primus, she asked him why he had decided to come to Austria. "You must have a family back home?" she suggested enquiringly. "Is it not a little dangerous for you to help to try to rescue my husband?"
Smyth filled the kettle and pumped the stove vigorously. "I couldn't let the Major and Captain Lacey down," he said. "They needed a mechanic and I can act as another pilot at a pinch, so they asked me. I used to be one of their ground crew when they were in the RFC – the Royal Flying Corps," he added in case she had not heard of the service. "Between the wars I flew with them when they went off to South America. We had some good times then," he smiled, reminiscing. "We were away for weeks, even months, at a time. Camping out, landing and taking off from rivers, coping with jungles, snakes, natives, pirates …" he sighed nostalgically.
"Besides," he continued in a matter-of-fact tone as he put a match to the paraffin fumes, "married life is all very well, but I missed the good old days, the adventure and the need to keep the kites flying at all costs." He paused while the water came to the boil, then continued self-consciously. "I think my missus could see I was getting a bit restive – she was all for me going when the Major asked me."
"She is very understanding," commented Mrs Meier as Smyth poured the boiling water on the tea leaves.
"Yes, well," muttered the mechanic. "We'll just leave that to brew a bit, shall we?"
Mrs Meier frowned in puzzlement. "The tea, I mean," clarified Smyth. "I can't abide a weak brew."
"Ah, yes, the tea. It seems to me that if there were no tea, the English would not function."
"I think you're about right at that," agreed Smyth as he poured out the dark brown liquid and added a dollop of evaporated milk. "You can't beat a good cup of tea!"
He handed his companion an enamel mug and they sipped the hot beverage in silence. If they had been talking they might have missed the first faint sounds of approaching footsteps rustling through the bushes that warned they were soon to have company.
Smyth signalled Mrs Meier to keep quiet and moved to a window that offered a view of the open space they had landed on. There was nobody in sight, but the sounds were rapidly getting louder. The intruder, whoever it was, was coming closer. Smyth frowned. The noise grew in volume and he realised it was not one person but several. In fact, thought Smyth, it was starting to sound like a body of men marching. At length, a group of youths in a uniform of brown shirts and black shorts with a neckerchief and armband, all carrying rucksacks, filed out into the clearing. A band of boy scouts on a hike, was the mechanic's first impression, but then he saw the swastika symbol on their sleeves and quickly realised they were a far more sinister gathering.
Smyth's mouth set in a grim line as he saw them stop and drop their packs on the ground. It was clear they had reached their destination and were about to settle down. He hoped they were not going to stay there long; if they decided to camp the night they could pose a problem should the others complete their mission easily and come back early. Not knowing about the unwelcome encampment, Biggles' party could easily stumble on them in darkness when they brought the professor back to the aircraft. That, thought Smyth uncomfortably, would put the cat among the pigeons.
In the clearing, the Hitler Youth made themselves comfortable. They spoke to each other loudly as they spread out their kit on the ground, their voices carrying clearly across to the Cormorant. One of them, a tall, bow-legged boy, sporting a fancy lanyard on his shoulder, sniffed the air and made a comment. The others laughed loudly and in the aeroplane, Mrs Meier caught her breath, shuddering.
"What did he say?" whispered Smyth who only understood a few words of German.
"He said it was good to get away from the city and breathe fresh air, free from the stench of the Jews," she breathed.
Smyth grimaced. "Who does he think he is?" he muttered through clenched teeth. "Don't worry," he reassured Mrs Meier. "I won't let them harm you."
"You don't know them," sighed the professor's wife dispiritedly. "They are convinced they are the Ubermensch – the Master Race. They are the future of the Reich and they can do anything they like and get away with it."
"We'll see about that," vowed Smyth incensed. He watched as the young Nazis gathered wood to make a fire and disposed themselves around it. Soon the sound of youthful voices upraised in song drifted across to the hidden observers.
"Well, that's one good thing," opined Smyth. "They're making so much racket nobody is going to stumble across them unawares!"
Mrs Meier shook her head sadly. "If you could understand the songs you would not think it is a good thing," she told him quietly. "It exhorts them to kill the Jews."
Smyth looked shocked. He had only expected trouble if Biggles and the others arrived while the youths were camped in the clearing. Carefully he opened the hidden compartment and took out the remaining pistol. He checked that it was loaded and the safety catch was on. His eyes met Mrs Meier's. "If there's any killing to be done," he vowed quietly, "it won't be of Jews!"
