Chapter 6: Insertion: Sussex, November 1941

It was dark, Clegg stood in the lee of the hangar with Elly. Clegg was clutching the battered suitcases that contained all he would take with him on his trip into occupied France. Clegg preferred flying but he preferred doing it from the pilot's seat. He wasn't by nature a passenger.

Strangways appeared from inside the hangar, accompanied by Angela. That's convenient, thought, Clegg. He'd been going to get Elly to take a look at her; just in case there was any need, you understand. It wasn't that he held a grudge, she'd only been doing her job and he'd enjoyed himself anyway but business was business ... Maybe she'd be good for the General. He'd be looking for a substitute now that he'd had to give up Louise Barchant and Annette Coursonne.

Two aircraftmen were manhandling the large hangar doors, opening up the cavernous building. "What chariot of delight have you got for me, Strangways?" Clegg called. The last time he had flown to France he'd been piloting his own racing seaplane. He'd missed flying since war broke out but even he couldn't get fuel for private flying and given the choice between dodging Messerschmitt's in RAF Fighter Command or the German night fighters and ack-ack in Bomber Command, he'd decided to avoid both.

There was the cough of an aero engine starting up inside the hangar. The cough and splutter was followed by a sullen throbbing sound. As soon as he heard it, Clegg knew that what awaited him was no sleek, streamlined, high performance machine. "That's a Bristol Mercury," he called. "I'm not going over in a bloody Lysander, am I?"

Strangways didn't need to answer. The ungainly looking, high winged mono-plane, taxied slowly out like a pelican in search of its lunch. Elly looked across at Clegg. She knew he wouldn't be pleased. Clegg watched as the 'plane almost waddled towards them. It stopped. Strangways stepped up to it and slid back the rear half of the canopy. Grabbing his hat to keep it in place as he stepped into the wash of the Lysander's propeller, Clegg stepped up to the short ladder. Strangways shook his hand and wished him good luck. "Piccolo," he said. Clegg looked puzzled. "Your code name," he said with exasperation. Clegg had been told about it many times. "Your contact will use it to identify themselves, use it if you need to contact us; when you're ready to come back." Clegg nodded. He understood perfectly but it was hard to resist upsetting Strangways. The Wren could see Freddie was teasing Strangways, she hid her grin behind her hand and a cough. Strangways scowled at her. Freddie could see Elly was studying her carefully with an experienced eye. That was the good thing about working with Elly, Freddie thought, she always had an eye for opportunities.

Clegg climbed into the cabin. The great expanse of perspex left him feeling very exposed. Elly gave a nod. He nodded back. They didn't much go in for fond farewells. Strangways slid the canopy shut and the aircraft taxied out onto the pitch black field.

There was no exchange of radio messages with the tower, just a single flash of a green light. With a further cough the Lysander's engine was coaxed into progressively higher revolutions and the aircraft began to bounce, almost loping across the field. Elly looked across at the aircraft. Clegg was peering out. He didn't look happy.

The pilot didn't bother climbing to any great height. As Clegg looked around the battered interior of the plane he felt he understood why. Somehow the whole thing seemed safer as long as it was closer to the ground.

It was a moonless night and cloudy as well. At least thought Clegg, there would be little risk of fighters spotting them. The RAF's night time operations were mainly directed at Germany itself and the fighters would be up over Holland and Belgium as Bomber Command headed off to Frankfurt or Cologne. From what Clegg had heard Bomber Command couldn't hit anything in daylight, so they had bugger all chance of getting within miles of the target at night. It did mean that the Germans had little real night fighter activity over this part of the continent, though.

The Lysander was slow but even so it wasn't long before Clegg saw the coast of France approaching. Heaven only knew how the pilot could find a landing ground in the dark like this. The pilot pointed out of the cabin towards the ground. Clegg followed his gesture. For one brief moment a car's headlights came on and then, almost at once, flicked off again.

It wasn't much but it was obviously enough for the pilot who started his approach.

The Lysander slid closer to the ground and seemed to slow to a walking pace as the great barn-door like flaps came down from the back of its wings. It skated over the hedge surrounding the edge of the field, sliding between two tall trees that were closer than Clegg would have liked. The plane dropped with a thump and a rumble onto the ground. They were still going too quickly towards the line of trees on the far side of the field for Clegg's taste but the pilot hauled the tail down onto the field and then applied the Lysander's powerful brakes. The plane shuddered to a stop.