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‘I’m not prepared to give that kind of information to strangers,’ said the farm worker. ‘Don’t you know? There’s a war on.’

Chapter 13

DISBELIEF

‘YES, WE KNOW there’s a war on,’ Tommy said patiently. ‘But we’d still like to know where we are.’

‘I can’t tell you,’ replied the farm laborer, eyeing the new arrivals suspiciously.

Partly because the Danish pilots were so happy to be alive after all they had been through, they weren’t slow to see the funny side of this exchange.

Pedersen tried his luck. ‘Please just tell us if we’re in England or Scotland,’ he asked gently.

There was a moment’s silence, as though the laborer were searching for a path between treason and rudeness. ‘England,’ came the resentful answer at last. ‘That’s all I’m saying. You’ll make me late for work.’

As the local hurried away, Tommy and Kjeld couldn’t help but share a smile. And they were no less amused by the sight of an elderly Home Guard officer, a rifle on his back, racing towards them on a bicycle. He saluted, dismounted, looked more closely at their uniforms—and promptly pointed his rifle at them. ‘Where the bloody hell have you two come from?’ he demanded.

‘Denmark,’ said Pedersen.

‘Rubbish! Don’t give me that,’ replied the Home Guard officer, and quickly called for reinforcements on his field telephone.

No one seemed to know quite what to do while they all waited for more men to arrive; so for a few strangely silent minutes, Sneum and Pedersen played along with the idea that they had been captured single-handedly by their grey-haired adversary.

Tommy had landed in a cornfield belonging to Bullock Hall Farm, which wasn’t far from RAF Acklington. Two Land Rovers appeared from the air base, an RAF officer and his driver in each one. Sneum thought it better to keep his pistol concealed under his jacket, just in case relations took a sudden turn for the worse.

‘Identify yourselves,’ demanded the first officer to reach them. It was as though they had landed from another planet.

‘Flight Lieutenants Sneum and Pedersen, Danish Fleet Air Arm, at your service,’ said Tommy, offering his hand. ‘We’re here to help you fight Hitler. We’ve just flown across the North Sea.’

‘In that?’ The second officer looked incredulous as he studied the flimsy-looking Hornet Moth. ‘Not a chance.’ He had already drawn his pistol.

Tommy and Kjeld weren’t smiling any more, though they managed to remain composed. ‘That’s exactly what we did,’ explained Sneum patiently. ‘We’ve come all the way from Denmark, and we’ve brought some important film of German installations in our country.’ He waited for the British officer’s expression to change. It didn’t.

‘Are you armed?’ The first English officer had clearly decided to treat the intruders as enemy spies until they proved otherwise.

Reluctantly, Tommy handed over his weapon. ‘Look, if you don’t want us, we’ll carry on to America and to hell with you,’ he said.

Later, Sneum revealed: ‘I was bloody angry and disgusted with their attitude. Christ Almighty, we had just risked our lives in so many different ways to get there, and now we were being treated like Nazis.’

Tommy pointed the British officers in the direction of the precious undeveloped film and the intelligence files, which were still tucked away in the cockpit. Everything was loaded into the Land Rovers before the crestfallen pilots were driven away. They didn’t know it, but neither man would ever see their precious Hornet Moth again. Within half an hour they were in the mess at RAF Acklington, facing a full English breakfast and plenty of pointing and staring from groups of intrigued local pilots. Some spoke in an uneasy whisper, and Tommy thought he heard at least one refer to them as ‘German bastards.’ But he couldn’t fully trust his ears after a night of being pounded by the elements and deafened by the Hornet’s tiny but noisy engine.

Finally a tall, dashing pilot marched confidently over to their table. He said he was Canadian, and had flown one of the Spitfires which had intercepted them. He had been nominated