Tempest Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  He caressed its cold metal with his fingertips, then gave a deep sigh and laid it carefully back in the desk drawer. It would survive Germany’s defeat; he would not. Vaguely, he wondered who would own the Luger one day. An English officer, maybe. He hoped that whoever it was would take care of it, and not leave it to rust in some attic, a forgotten souvenir.

  He shrugged and rose abruptly, putting the thoughts from his mind. There was still work to be done, and very little time in which to do it.

  *

  After celebrating his return Yeoman sat in 505 Squadron’s dispersal hut, warming his outstretched hands against a red-hot stove. Tim Phelan and a few other pilots were also present, reading, playing cards or just dozing in armchairs. It was 1600 hours in the afternoon of the last day of 1944; outside it was snowing, and in less than half an hour it would be pitch black.

  ‘I don’t know why you bother to hang around,’ Phelan said suddenly. ‘You’ve been grounded since you got back, and you’re going on leave tomorrow; if I were you, I’d be in my nice, comfortable bed, catching up on some sleep.’

  The mere mention of sleep made Yeoman yawn involuntarily. He put a hand over his mouth and smiled.

  ‘I suppose it’s as comfortable here as anywhere else, Tim,’ he said. ‘At least it’s warm.’ He paused and, as he always did when in an uncertain mood, took out his pipe and began to fill it methodically.

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ he went on, ‘I’m uneasy. I can’t shake off this strange feeling that something’s about to happen. Something quite disastrous. Call it a sixth sense if you like, but ... ’

  Phelan laughed, interrupting him. ‘Only we Irish are allowed to have a sixth sense,’ he said, ‘and I haven’t heard any banshees wailing lately. No, George, I have a feeling that you’re suffering from reaction. You’re very lucky to be with us, you know.’

  Yeoman nodded. ‘I know. I don’t think it’s anything to do with that, though.’ Abruptly, he changed the subject. ‘Where were you last New Year’s Eve, Tim?’

  ‘On leave, in Ireland. I cut it short, though. Felt a bit guilty, being out of uniform and tucking into masses of ham and eggs and drinking stout until it was running out of my ears.’

  He paused for a moment, looking a little embarrassed. Then he said:

  ‘No, that wasn’t the real reason. A lot of people over there hate the British, George. I was asked more than once why I was fighting somebody else’s war. I tried to explain that it was because I love flying more than anything else, not to mention a bit of excitement, but they didn’t seem to understand.’

  Phelan’s brow furrowed in perplexity for a moment, then he went on:

  ‘Oddly enough, the only people who did understand were the fellers who’d fought against the British in the 1920s, back in the time of the Troubles. They don’t hate the British, George, at least most of them don’t. But there are an awful lot of pro-German bastards in Ireland just at the moment, make no mistake about it. Anyway, I had a pretty lousy Christmas and New Year, to cut a long story short. What about you?’

  ‘I was commanding 380 Squadron then,’ Yeoman answered, ‘flying Mosquitos. We’d just clobbered a Jerry airfield where they were testing rocket fighters — you know, these Messerschmitt 163s we’ve been hearing about lately — so the whole squadron, or what was left of it, was stood down for a couple of weeks.’

  He opened the door of the stove with a long piece of metal, picked up a log of wood and dropped it inside. Sparks scattered up the flue.

  ‘I don’t think any of us went home,’ he said, ‘except for one or two who had wives and families. Instead, we went to London and got thoroughly pissed. Never saw daylight for a fortnight; we’d go to some booze-up or other, get back to our hotel in the small hours, sleep all day and get up again after dark. I don’t really remember much about it at all. I suppose it did us all the world of good,’ he added dubiously.

  There was a blast of cold air, a flurry of snow, and Simon Wynne-Williams burst into the hut, quickly closing the door behind him. Reverently, he deposited two bottles of whisky on the trestle table in the middle of the room.

  ‘I didn’t think there was much chance of any flying,’ he said, ‘so I thought we’d splice the mainbrace, as the Navy says.’ He looked at Yeoman and raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Senior officer’s permission to open the bar?’

  ‘Too true,’ Yeoman said enthusiastically. Tin mugs appeared as if by magic and the pilots clustered round the table as Wynne-Williams doled out the golden liquid.

  ‘I’ve given a couple of bottles to the ground crews as well,’ he said. ‘Poor sods are just about frozen stiff. Anyway, as duty pilot I took it upon myself to order them to picket the aircraft for the night and get into the warm.’

  Yeoman nodded. ‘That was good thinking.’ He looked appreciatively at the liquid in his mug and swallowed some, feeling its warm glow beginning to spread through him. ‘To think,’ he said, ‘that I used to hate this stuff.’

  Phelan drank also. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘here’s to the next New Year’s Eve spent anywhere else than in Holland!’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ someone moaned in mock dismay, ‘don’t say that — we’ll probably end up in Japan!’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ the Irishman chuckled. He turned to Yeoman and said:

  ‘Do you think it might be an idea to invite a few Dutch civilians back to the mess tonight for some drinks? You know, the people who’ve been especially good to us.’

  Yeoman shook his head firmly. ‘No, I don’t think that would be a good idea at all. We can’t invite all of them, and those we miss out would be bound to be jealous — it could well create friction among the population of Eindhoven, and we don’t want that. What we’ll do, instead, is dish out some goodies tomorrow for the kids — as much chocolate as we can spare, and so on. I think that would be more to the point.’

  The others nodded in agreement. The pinched, hungry look of the Dutch children was something none of them had got used to.

  The door opened again, admitting another freezing blast, and a flight sergeant came into the room, muffled up in a greatcoat, scarf and balaclava helmet. He came over to the stove and addressed Yeoman. Snow fell off him and melted in little pools at his feet.

  ‘Got ’em all bedded down for the night, sir,’ he said, referring to the aircraft. ‘Only two unserviceable, 519 and 636.’

  Yeoman nodded. ‘Thanks, Chief. Are your lads okay?’

  ‘A bit cold, sir, but they’re all indoors now and they’ll soon thaw out. They’re looking forward to celebrating the New Year, sir. Let’s hope it’s better than the last one.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Yeoman grinned. ‘Have a drop of whisky, Chief?’

  ‘Thanks, sir. Don’t mind if I do.’

  The flight sergeant took the proffered bottle and poured a liberal measure into a mug someone handed to him. He stood close to the stove, warming himself, and said to the wing commander:

  ‘You know that there’s an invitation for the officers to come over to the sergeants’ mess tonight, sir?’

  Yeoman nodded. ‘We’ll be there, Chief,’ he promised. ‘About nine o’clock, if that’s all right. We’ll stay for an hour or so.’

  ‘Fine, sir.’ The flight sergeant finished his whisky and set down the mug. ‘I’ll be on my way, then. We’ll see you later, gentlemen.’

  He turned towards the door, and as he did so the telephone shrilled. The watchkeeper, a corporal, who had been sitting unobtrusively in a corner reading a book, lifted the receiver.

  ‘Hold on a minute, Chief,’ Yeoman said to the flight sergeant. ‘I’ve a feeling this might be something that concerns you, too.’

  ‘It’s GCC for you, sir,’ the corporal said, holding out the instrument. Yeoman took it and listened for a couple of minutes, then said in an angry tone: ‘Why us, for Christ’s sake?’

  There was utter silence in the dispersal hut, except for the crackle of the wood in the stove. Everyone could hear the metallic whisper of
the voice on the other end of the line.

  Quietly, Yeoman said, ‘I see’, and replaced the receiver. The others looked at him expectantly. They knew from his expression what was coming.

  ‘I’m afraid our New Year party has had it, chaps,’ he said. ‘GCC wants us to carry out a maximum-strength sweep in the Cologne area at dawn tomorrow; primarily, we’ll be shooting up trains. So two pints, no more, and to bed by ten o’clock. I’m afraid we’re going to have to give the sergeants’ mess a miss, Chief. Briefing at 0600. Life’s a bastard, isn’t it?’

  Chapter Ten

  THE LUFTWAFFE WING COMMANDER WAS BURNING WITH fury. For days now, his unit had been hopping from one airfield to another; the last move had come two days after Christmas, and his pilots had barely started to settle down in their new home when, at 1600 hours on New Year’s Eve-just as they had all been looking forward to a pleasantly drunken evening — the order had come for them to move off again.

  Any fool, just by looking out of the window, could tell that flying was out of the question. Visibility was appalling, with low cloud and snow showers, and there was a strong, gusty wind. The wing commander telephoned headquarters, located a staff officer and proceeded to tell him exactly what he thought of chairbound idiots who had no idea what it was like to fly single-seat fighters in conditions such as these.

  The staff officer was adamant. He sympathized with the wing commander, but no, he could do nothing to change the orders, which came from the very highest authority. And no, he could not tell the wing commander where they were going; his pilots would receive instructions over the radio as soon as they were airborne.

  Sixty Focke-Wulf 190s took off from their base near Emden into the grey twilight, circling for a long time in driving snow until they were in reasonable formation. The wing commander had received orders to switch to the divisional fighter control frequency, and now, over the radio, a curt voice told him to set course 180 degrees. There was nothing else.

  The formation turned southwards, the three squadrons flying in line astern in the narrow corridor between the lowering cloud base and the mist-shrouded hilltops of the Teutoburger Forest. It grew steadily darker and the snow whirled down in great flakes, clinging to the perspex of the windscreens so that, despite the constant swishing of the wipers, it was almost impossible to see ahead.

  To make matters worse, the low altitude at which the fighters were flying meant that all radio contact with the outside world had been lost. The formation groped its way blindly on through the cloud, mist and snow, the pilot of each aircraft clinging desperately to the navigation lights of the one ahead and the two or three he was able to see in the murk on either side of him.

  The inevitable happened with terrifying speed. There was a sudden vivid flash, a rolling ball of flame in the semi-darkness as one of the fighters in the lowest group hit the ground and exploded.

  The wing commander pounded his fist against the instrument panel in impotent rage, venting his fury against those who had ordered this nightmare journey in a string of obscene oaths.

  To hell with it! He was going to bring his men down to land, no matter where. Over his radio, he instructed his squadron leaders to keep their eyes open for an airfield.

  A few minutes later, more by good luck than anything else, they sighted Rheine-Hopsten airfield. The wing commander ordered his squadrons to land one after the other, the pilots circling the airfield slowly as they awaited their turn.

  Fifty out of the original sixty fighters got down, although some of these were damaged when they ground-looped on the icy runways. Of the ten machines that were missing, the wing commander knew that one had definitely crashed; the remainder, it was later learned, had lost contact with the formation and had flown on, hopelessly lost, until they ran out of fuel. Too low to bale out, the pilots had tried to crash-land as best they could. Five of them were dead or seriously injured.

  Such was the story the wing commander from Emden, ashen-faced and trembling as he drank glass after glass of schnaps in the officers’ mess, told Oberstleutnant Joachim Richter, commander of Jagdgeschwader 66. Gently, Richter restrained him from taking any more of the fiery spirit.

  ‘You mean you really have no idea why you were ordered down here?’ he asked in surprise. The other shook his head.

  ‘None whatsoever. They just ordered us to take off virtually at a moment’s notice, the murdering bastards, and fly south. I want to use the telephone! Somebody’s head is going to roll because of what my boys have just been through!’

  Richter laid his hand on the irate man’s arm. ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question, old chap. There are to be no outgoing or incoming calls of any kind until further notice. Those are our orders. And no drinking after 1800 hours, either,’ he added, looking meaningfully at the wing commander’s glass.

  The wing commander placed it carefully on the bar, then said:

  ‘Look, just what the devil is going on? I’d appreciate it if somebody would put me in the picture.’

  Richter knew that for security reasons, only the commanders of the airfields where the attack aircraft were to be temporarily based, such as himself, had received any kind of briefing at all. No one else was to be given any kind of information until the main briefing, which was to take place at 0300 in the morning. This was as much as he was permitted to tell the new arrivals, who, considerably disgruntled, went off to snatch a few hours’ sleep.

  Three hours into New Year’s Day 1945 the briefing-room at Rheine — which, in common with much else, had been moved underground for comparative safety from Allied bombing-was packed to capacity. The assembled pilots literally sat on the edges of their seats, all their grievances forgotten, as Richter gave them the details of the great air attack in which they would soon take part.

  The 250 fighters based on Rheine-Hopsten and its satellite airfields were to attack several RAF airfields in Holland, the most important of which was Eindhoven. The whole mission was to be flown at less than six hundred feet, and strict radio silence was to be maintained until the target area was reached. The fast Junkers 188 pathfinder aircraft would lead the massive formation to within a few miles of the target area, by which time it would be light enough for the fighter pilots to carry out their own visual navigation.

  The pilots were issued with maps which had the courses and various pin-points already marked on them. They were also given a set of printed instructions on a card, which reduced their forthcoming task to its bare essentials:

  1. Everything counts. 2. At start point, switch on radio. Switch on weapons. Switch on navigation lights. 3. Maintain discipline when attacking. 4. Pay particular attention to damaged and burning aircraft. Count them in your score. 5. Do not forget to test your weapons before every strafing run. 6. Keep a sharp lookout for airfields during your approach and return flights and make a note of their location.

  The briefing over, the pilots made for their messes to try and force down some food, although few of them had any appetite. There was hardly any talking, and the mess waiters in their white jackets moved on tiptoe between the tables. When one of them accidentally dropped a fork with a clatter, a hundred pairs of eyes turned towards him accusingly. The man blushed bright red and scurried away — and then, suddenly, the tension was broken.

  ‘You’d think the poor sod had farted in church,’ grinned Johnny Schumacher, who sat in his accustomed place opposite Richter. The latter smiled and pushed his plate aside, half the food on it untouched.

  ‘I’ll be glad when this show’s over,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘and we can all go back to bed again. I’m so tired I can hardly stand up. If you’ve finished eating, we’ll go and take a look at the weather.’

  All over north-west Germany, the same scenes were being enacted. From airfield after airfield, in the pre-dawn darkness, the squadrons of Focke-Wulfs and Messerschmitts were taking off with a roar of engines that rattled the roof-tops of nearby towns and villages and brought their inhabitants startled from their sleep. O
ne by one the great formations joined up over their airfields, and when all were in position the leaders took station behind the twinkling navigation lights of the pathfinder aircraft.

  The first formation to set course, because it had the farthest to fly, was that scheduled to attack the complex of airfields around Brussels. The three hundred aircraft in this wave sped low over the sea; then, as dawn was beginning to streak the sky, it curved southwards over the Dutch coast.

  It was here that flak claimed its first victims. Not Allied flak, but German. Either because it had been overlooked in the planning, or because of security reasons, the High Command had failed to alert the coastal anti-aircraft defences. Frantically, the fighter pilots fired off the recognition flares of the day, and the barrage tailed off — but not before three fighters had fallen burning from the winter sky ...

  *

  At Eindhoven, twenty Tempests taxied cautiously out towards the end of the runway, their pilots using their brakes gingerly on the icy surface. Yeoman, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his greatcoat, chin tucked in against the biting wind, watched them as they made their ungainly way and wished heartily that he was going with them. But the group commander had been quite adamant; Yeoman was under direct orders not to fly, and was to proceed on leave as soon as he could obtain a seat on one of the England-bound communications aircraft.

  The first Tempests turned on to the runway and the throbbing, vibrating roar of their Sabre engines cut across the airfield as the pilots opened the throttles. Their dark shapes began to move, flitting past the lights of the flarepath.

  Two by two, the powerful fighters lifted off the tarmac and climbed away to circle the field, joining up into their sections. The sky overhead was a beehive of navigation lights. Suddenly, the whole swarm wheeled away and set an eastward course towards where, on the horizon, a long grey line told of the approaching dawn. Yeoman watched them for a long time, until the thunder of their engines dwindled to a muted murmur, then went back into the operations trailer to join Wynne-Williams, who today was one of the two pilots detailed to remain at Eindhoven on readiness.