"AFRICA FLIGHT"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 24 January 1940, Page 10

"AFRICA FLIGHT"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GEILGUD.

(Author of “Announcer's Holiday,” "Beyond Dover,” Etc.

CHAPTER XII Continued.

“I’ll send Saunders for you if 1 need you.” she said. “He probably only wants to hold my hand. - ’ Janet Manson looked for once a little undecided. The German hastened to reassure her.

“It is only reaction from shock. Mrs Manson. Kerr will get over it." Janet Manson succeeded in forcing a smile.

“He's as likely to get over it as any of the rest of us, I imagine,” she murmured.

Otto Flesch regarded her shrewdly from behind his glasses. “So you are frightened, Mrs Manson? You do not look frightened.” “I may as well admit it. I’m terrified. Or why should my hands be so cold in this heat?”

“You disguise your fears admirably, if I may say so,” said the German with a little bow.

"My dear Herr Flesch, people brought up as I was have not been taught how to express a violent emotion like fear. We look perfectly ordinary—and feel perfectly sick. That is what you foreigners call British imperturbability, isn’t it?”

Otto Flesch's fat face creased with an agreeable smile. “I should like to help you, if 1 could,” he said. “You have all been most kind to me ”

“You are not frightened yourself. Herr Flesch?”

“Not particularly. The War seems a very long time ago, now does it not, Mrs Manson? People have forgotten. But men like your servant, Saunders, and I, we have not forgotten. We were both in the salient at Ypres. in ’17 —on opposite sides, trying our hardest to kill each other. Which now seems a trifle absurd, nicht wahr? For weeks we lived, and slept, and ate in mud up to our knees. We lay out at night on patrol and watched the semi-circle of fire riving the darkness. We found our clothes sticky with our friends’ blood and brains. I was very much afraid then, though I was a young man and strong. That is why I think I am now not afraid —yet.”

Janet Manson looked away through the’' window at the horribly brilliant shifting light flickering over the desert.

“I am ashamed of myself,” she said, briskly. “I feel better already.” Whereupon Otto Flesch surprised her.

“I hoped that might be the result," he said. At which moment Saunders walked in to say that Kerr had calmed down immediately upon Carol's entry into the tent. He was, apparently, now holding one of her hands hard, sleeping, and grinning in his sleep. But this apparently did not amuse Janet Manson. “I’m not at all sure,” she said, “that that young man isn't considerably cleverer than we gave him credit for. If he’s asleep he won’t notice whose hand he’s holding, so he may as well have mine. If he isn't asleep he doesn't deserve a hand to hold at all!"

She left the plane hurriedly, leaving the the two ex-soldiers to exchange amused glances, that held in them a considerable degree of admiration. “And what is your opinion of this trouble we're in, Saunders?” asked Flesch at last in his precise English.

The servant walked to the door of the plane, spat deliberately out on to the sand, turned round, and winked one eye ponderously. “I try not to think." ho said. “I found out in the War the best thing to do. Trust your officer, and do what you're told —pretty quick!”

The German observed that was all right if the officer was a good officer. “Well you can take it from me. this Mr Larrimore’s a good officer,” said Saunders stubbornly. “And what he says goes in this outfit!” “Certainly a fine pilot.” “And that’s not all, Mister Flesch. And if you know what Mr Larrimore isn't just take a look at that Sothern bloke by way of contrast ” He broke off, for Flesch had made a queer violent gesture. Behind Saunders, Antony Sothern was standing at the top of the little flight of steps leading to the door of the plane. His eyes narrowed, and there was a queer flush on his cheeks. “Saunders!” “Yes, sir.”

“Go and ask the Professor and Mr Larrimore if I can have a word with them, please." “Yes, sir."

Saunders went, through into the pilot's cockpit, and Sothern swung round on Flesch. "I don't want to appear fussy." he said, "but I'd be glad if you wouldn't discuss my character with a servant beliind my back."

Flesch spread out his hands apologetically. “Not that 1 care." Sothern went on harshly. "We’ve other things to talk about. It's about time the super-effi-cient Mr Larrimore came to a conclusion or two. Perhaps I haven't learned how to look on that kind of efficiency with patience. I don't mind Larrimore being strong —but Gad! How I loathe his not being silent!" Flesch said nothing. The door into the pilot's cabin opened, and Larrimore peered out.

"What's the trouble?” he asked impatiently.

Sothern did not reply directly to Larrimore’s question, and both Hubert Manson, looking over the latter's shoulder, and Otto Flesch became suddenly and acutely aware of the intense and personal antagonism between the two men. Sothern straightened his

tall figure, stiffening all over. Flesch, with that sensitiveness to atmosphere which is one of the peculiar properties of his race, felt that the younger man was, as it were, tightening every muscle in readiness for a conflict which might, easily take physical form at short notice. But perhaps Sothern altered his mind —perhaps he was daunted by Larrimore’s complete lack of reaction —perhaps he was not yet quite ready . . . "I don’t wan’t anything special,” said Antony Sothern coolly, “except that I feel that we ought to begin to do something active. I'm pretty sure you feel the same thing, Larrimore. So I’m curious —that’s all.” Larrimore smiled with his lips, but not at all with his eyes.

“I was just getting the Professor here to do the necessary preliminary brain work.” he said.

Hubert Manson—like the proverbial Elder Oyster—shook his head, as if implying- that when it came to a matter of practical calculation, he had few advantages over Rupert Larrimore. “Preliminary!” repeated Sothern. “May I ask to what?” “You may,” said Larrimore ironically., “It’s simply this. In my view the betting is heavily against our being found where we are. We’re miles of!' the course we were supposed to be frying. The water we have left is more than limited. And young Kerr’s injury, leaving other things aside, stops us from making a march of it as a party—” “Did you say—march?” Sothern cut in sharply.

"Just that, Sothern. Unless the Professor and I are badly out in our reckoning of position, there Should be a French post within three days’ travelling so long as the marchers are fit. and always supposing that the marchers don’t hit a sandstorm.” Sothern bit his lip. “In short,” added Hubert Manson, “someone must make the march to bring the rest of up help, Antony.” “Precisely,” Larrimore agreed. “Two must go, with just enough to enable the rest to hang on for a week —though they’ll be on very short commons. But it's our only chance.”

Antony Sothern looked out at the sleek glowing beauty of the desert, then jerked his head back to face Larrimore’s steady eyes. “Well,” he said. ‘Who go?”

“That,” said Larrimore calmly, “is the main problem at. this moment. You'll probably agree that that very vital ‘Who’ is something more than a matter of mental arithmetic.”

Sothern moistened his lips with his tongue. They seemed of a sudden dreadfully, almost intolerably, dry and cracked. Antony Sothern. that fine flower of civilisation, was realising one of the primitive elementals of life, and finding' the image quite hideously terrifying. At last he turned abruptly on his heel, and brushing past Otto Flesch, clambered with a certain desperate energy out of the aeroplane. Down on to the hot sand. CHAPTER XIII. It was some hours later. The blue of the sky seemed to have intensified almost to purple. ■ The sand glowed with a deeper gold. The stranded “Star of the East" had been abandoned by its company, save for Rupert Larrimore, still sweating, blaspheming, and tinkering with useless wireless apparatus in the pilot’s cockpit, and the impassive servant Saunders. The latter, with all the typical fatalism of the Cockney and the old soldier, was asleep in the cabin, his feet on a second seat, his mouth open, snoring unmelodiously. The heat had vanquished his instinctive neatness. He was stripped to his shirt-sleeves, and even in his sleep the sweat was trickling down his hairy arms. It needed a triple call from Hubert Manson to wake him. | when the Professor found him. “My dear’ Saunders —really!" The servant blinked, twitched like a dog. and became galvanised into violent wakefulness. 'I beg pardon, sir. I must have been asleep.” “I admit, Saunders, that was my impression.” Saunders scrambled hurriedly and shamefacedly to his feet. “I'm sorry, sir. Somehow there didn’t seem much else to do. if you see what I mean." “I see." said Hubert Manson, and smiled his slow charming smile. “I'm only sorry I hadn't the commonsense to do likewise. Is Mr Larrimore still busy with the wireless?" “That's right, sir. It's no sort of use —but he won’t give up." Hubert Manson sat down and lighted a cigarette. "Well,” said he, "il won't be cool enough for anyone to start marching for an hour or so yet. I expect ho wants something to occupy his mind (ill then. By the way. Saunders, get me a glass of water will you?" Saunders moved a couple of steps, then halted. "Sorry, sir." he muttered awkwardly. “What on earth do you mean. Saunders?’’ The servant had automatically come to the position of “attention." His hands played with the seam of his trousers. "Mr Larrimore’s orders, sir." he said at last. Hubert Manson stared. Then he laughed. "Of course, of course. D'you know. Saunders. I must be getting ab-. sent-minded in my old age. Queer! You know. I don't think I like the look of things when they get to this sort of stage.” "Nor me. sir. Of course, sir. there’s always Mr Larrimore. If anyone can, handle this sort of thing, he can. | (To be Continued.)