******
Soon after midnight we reached Boulogne. An air raid was in progress and the deep drone of Hun bombers could be heard plainly though bombs were falling only at intervals. Probably it was a nuisance raid intended to hamper the evacuation.
We drove slowly through the streets to the harbour. A lot of soldiers were wandering about but the houses had all their shutters closed and looked empty and deserted. Several big fires were raging in the town.
After much searching I ran down a Naval Officer who told me that we should have to wait till the following morning before we embarked so I went back to the lorry to try and get some sleep.
About seven in the morning I walked along the harbour and went into a café to get some food. A number of people were already there, including some R.A.F. pilots who like me were evidently walking home. They all seemed very weary, very dirty and exceedingly cheerful. I managed to get some ham and bread and a large basin of steaming café -au-lait which cheered me up a lot.
A little later there were several big explosions outside. “Air raid,” said somebody, and we went out to see what was happening, but there were no aircraft in sight and we decided it must be shelling. That meant the Hun was getting very close. We walked back towards the quay. Shells were starting to fall fairly regularly in the harbour area and raising great clouds of dust among the buildings.
We came across a small group of soldiers outside a tall building gazing intently upwards. I spotted a British major. “What’s happening?”
“Hun spy,” he said, pointing to the roof. “He’s up there with a signalling lamp spotting for the guns.”
I looked but couldn't see anything. A moment later two French naval officers appeared on the roof and started to walk cautiously across. They disappeared from sight and then there was a lot of excited shouting and scuffling and they re-appeared over the corner of the building holding a man between them. He was bent forward and they had his arms twisted up behind his back.
Now what, I thought. They'll probably shoot him.
They dragged the spy to the edge of the roof and one of them shouted, “Anybody there below?”
“Non,” roared several Frenchmen. Everybody stood very still. They paused for a moment, there was one last brief struggle and then they pitched the spy head first off the roof.
He gave a terrified yelp as he fell and then he disappeared from our sight behind a wall and there was a heavy thud and silence.
“Serve the bastard right,” said the major. “I’ve seen enough of their dirty tricks in the last few days,” and there was a general murmur of agreement. We walked away. I agreed too, but felt slightly sick.
About ten o'clock two destroyers came slowly into the harbour and we struggled on board and wedged ourselves sardine fashion on deck.
I never admired the Navy so much as I did then. Cool, competent, authoritative, they seemed to take it all as a matter of course, and the sight of those destroyers and their officers and men restored my faith in England and made me feel that we would come through all right in the end.
We steamed quickly out of Boulogne, leaving a lot of people still standing on the quay and my last sight of the town showed the shells falling steadily, while a grey pall of dust and smoke hung in the air. Goodbye to France, I thought.
But I was wrong. For me it was only Au revoir.
We reached Dover in less than an hour and after a long delay were shepherded into a train for London. I secured a corner seat, fell asleep and when somebody roused me again we were in Victoria.
London seemed the same as ever and apparently quite regardless of the fact that the German Army was less than a hundred miles away. Only the newspaper placards announcing the fall of Boulogne dispelled the illusion that we were living in normal times.
I had a meal and a shave and then took a taxi round to the Air Ministry where my torn and filthy uniform was regarded somewhat curiously. I gave my name and after a long wait I was taken up to see a squadron leader. He was a large red-faced man wearing the M.C. and 1914-18 ribbons, and he seemed very busy and not too pleased to see me.
I told him the whole story of my forced landing at Abbeville after the fight, the shot I heard and the German officers coming out of the office followed by the French civilian, the Englishman called Stephenson dying on the floor and the curious message he gave me.
The squadron leader seemed interested. “Stephenson, you say his name was,” he said reflectively, “I wonder what he was doing there. And there certainly seems to have been some reason to get those Huns there.” He paused a moment and then opened a drawer and pulled out some foolscap. “Look here, Claydon, I want you to write the whole story out just as you've told it to me. Make it as complete as possible and stick in every detail you can think of, however trifling it may seem.”
I wrote it down, signed it and handed it back. He took it out of the room, and I sat down wearily in a chair. I must have fallen asleep almost immediately because the next thing I knew was the squadron leader shaking me gently by the arm. I scrambled to my feet hastily.
“Don’t apologise,” he said. “You must need a bit of sleep after the last couple of days. Now, about this story of yours. It seems rather more important than I thought at first and I'm going to take you along to see Group Captain Leighton who deals with these Intelligence matters.”
He led me along a corridor, up a lift and along some more corridors, and stopped outside a door and knocked. I saw a card on the door bearing the name “Group Captain C. H. Leighton, D.S.O., A.F.C.” A voice said, “Come in,” and I followed the squadron leader into the office and saluted.
The Group Captain was a smallish man, perhaps forty years old, with pale aquiline features, dark hair getting rather thin on top, and very dark deep set eyes.
“Come in, Claydon,” he said. I noticed he had a quiet rather pleasant voice. “I’ve just been looking into this statement of yours and you seem to have been involved in a matter of some considerable importance. Now, about this man Passy. We are very interested in him. Can you tell me all you remember about his appearance?”
“Yes sir,” I said. “He was tall—quite six foot I should think and well built, though he looked rather fat and out of condition. He was dark and had very bushy black eyebrows and a rather bent nose which looked as though it had been broken.”
“Did you notice anything about his face or complexion?” I pondered. “I seem to remember that it was rather pock marked, sir.”
The Group Captain glanced significantly at the squadron leader. “It seems to be Passy all right,” he said. He turned back to me. “And you think it was this man who fired at you as you were leaving the office. Did he see you go into the room where Stephenson had been shot?”
“No, I don't think so, sir. I looked round and couldn't see anybody. But of course he might have been watching from somewhere.”
“I think that's most likely,” said Leighton. “I think the reason he tried to kill you was because he wanted to stop you getting away with any story about him or the German officers.”
There was a pause for a moment. Leighton kept tapping the desk with a little silver pencil while he read through my statement again. What on earth is all this about, I thought. I wish he'd tell me something instead of being so damned mysterious. It certainly seems rather important though I can't for the life of me see how it all works out.
Leighton looked up. “You probably think all this is very mysterious,” he said, “but I'm afraid I can't say anything more to enlighten you.” I was rather surprised that he should guess exactly what I was thinking. He went on—“You did quite right in telling us about this matter so promptly and your information may prove useful, but that's all I can say at the moment, except that you are not to mention this affair to anybody. If there's anything more we want I shall get hold of you later. And now, I suggest you go and get a good night's sleep and a new uniform. You look as though you need both. Good afternoon.”
I saluted and walked out. Blast it,
I thought. This is a very nice little mystery and I don't know a thing more about it than when I started.
I walked out into the street and hailed a taxi for Piccadilly feeling very tired and rather bad tempered.