Sherlock's Squadron

by Steve Holmes

  ‘I understand how you feel men but there are very good reasons why an op is recalled. You chaps who were on your way to France on 10th June were recalled because the French Resistance were massacred on the ground. After the war is over you will read about a village called Oradour-sur-Glane.’

  The name of the village rang a bell with John. It came to him. They’d dropped supplies near the village several times; the French Resistance were very active in the area.

  ‘The Boche will get what’s coming to them, don’t you worry about that. They are animals, fucking animals.’

  There was almost a collective reverberation of shock. Wing Commander Baker had never uttered that word during any of the briefings before and John wondered what had happened in the French village to make him so angry. He turned to face Mark.

  ‘You might have a handful of missions to France in the coming weeks, Warrant Officer, but I’m pleased to tell you that the Hun is almost defeated over there. Intelligence suggests that Paris will be liberated within two weeks. Then it’s all but over in France.’

  Wing Commander Baker had composed himself once again. He strode slowly but purposely back and forward in front of the huge map of Europe.

  ‘196 will be needed further afield.’ He pointed to the map with a gold-tipped cane. ‘Here in Norway, and here in Holland.’ He took in a deep breath and stuck out his chest. ‘We have them on the back foot in France but they are still a bloody nuisance elsewhere. We must hit them on every front. The Russians have the situation well under control in the east and as we speak are preparing to march on Berlin.’

  ‘It’s true,’ whispered John Holmes under his breath. ‘It really is true… this damned war will be over by Christmas.’

  The end of August 1944 was a good one for the Allies. John lay on his bunk with a copy of the Sunday Express. He called over to Lofty as he read the reports.

  ‘It’s all good news Lofty, if these newspaper reports are anything to go by.’

  Lofty lay with a book, killing time.

  ‘Don’t be believing everything in those bloody Brit papers Sherlock. I bet they don’t even mention the Canadians in there, anyone reading that would think that the Brits were winning the war single handed.’

  John studied the paper, focused on a particular paragraph.

  ‘Listen up Lofty, that’s where you’re wrong. It says here the Japanese are now in total retreat from India, the Canadians have been making inroads but then the 6th British Airborne Division flew in to show them how it’s done.’

  The words took a little while to sink in and then Lofty realised John had made the whole paragraph up.

  ‘It doesn’t say that at all, you little northern country bumpkin.’

  Lofty leapt over to John’s bed and upended the mattress onto the floor. John lay in a heap with Patch, who wondered what had happened. John was holding his stomach, laughing harder than he’d laughed in weeks.

  ‘And touchy too,’ he managed to say before Lofty snatched the paper off him.

  John picked Patch up and gave him a hug.

  ‘Poor Canadian’s a bully isn’t he Patch, my little lad.’

  Lofty studied the headlines and then turned to the inside cover.

  ‘Bloody hell Sherlock, you weren’t kidding were you? Paris has been liberated. There’s a picture of De Gaulle and the Free French Parade marching down the Champs-Élysées. They’re even suggesting here that the German military disobeyed Hitler’s orders to burn the city.’

  John spoke as he rearranged the sheets and blankets on the bed.

  ‘Yes… he’s in the shit now if his own men are disobeying orders. If you read further down the page you’ll see that we’ve captured most of the south of France, as far up as Grenoble and Avignon.

  Lofty whistled as he read. ‘And they’ve surrendered at Toulon and Marseilles as well.’

  He turned to page three.

  ‘Patton’s tanks have crossed the Marne and there’s an anti-German uprising in Czechoslovakia.’ Lofty gave a little cheer. ‘There you go; we do get a mention after all! Here, look.’ Lofty pointed to a paragraph half way down the page. ‘American and Canadian forces turn over the government of France to Free French troops.’ Lofty grinned.

  Sherlock’s Squadron flew three operations to France in early September and two more to Norway where they dropped spies into German occupied land. They were all successful.

  John set off on the morning of 16th September 1944 to walk around the airfield with Patch. It had become a regular occurrence on mornings when he didn’t need to attend briefings or wasn’t away on an operation. It all seemed quiet as they set out at first light. As they approached the far end of the airfield John walked over to the perimeter fence. He spotted the guards positioned every 20 yards. As he approached one of them he spoke to a young man a couple of years younger than himself.

  ‘Morning soldier boy, what’s going on?’

  The young man looked a little nervous and looked for the rank of the man he was about to address.

  ‘I thought you’d be used to this by now, Sergeant; I was here the last time they sealed off your base for D Day. I dare say you were too.’

  ‘They’ve sealed off the camp again?’

  ‘They have Sergeant. No one’s allowed in or out, including your little dog there.’

  John whistled for Patch who was sniffing at the wire fence.

  ‘Do you know why’

  The private pulled at his chin strap holding his tin helmet in place.

  ‘I think you are likely to know more than me, Sergeant.’

  John shook his head and held up his hands.

  ‘Not me my friend, as usual I know bugger all.’

  John bid the young man goodbye and decided to check on the postings over by the notice board by the Sergeants’ Mess.

  Sure enough a prominent notice announced a twelve noon briefing. As John headed back towards the billet the first of the buses swept into the camp. Bus after bus drove in quietly, the men of the British 1st Airborne Division sitting patiently looking forward to a hearty breakfast and news of their next engagement.

  It was déjà vu for John, another huge operation – and looking at the numerous buses pouring into RAF Keevil, every bit as big as D Day had been three months earlier. Perhaps this was it, he thought, as he found a spring in his step, the last big push before Christmas… the end of the war…

  Wing Commander Baker was a familiar sight, as was the converted gym and the faces of the men he had flown into action with so many times now. John sat between George Tickner and Lofty.

  The map was different this time, though, even if the Wing Commander did still hold the same gold-tipped stick. His tone was bullish, his manner calm and confident.

  He said he was about to deliver some news that would make the squadron proud. Mark visibly shrank into his seat.

  ‘You chaps weren’t to know but our very own Warrant Officer Azouz flew out over the Brest Peninsula on Operation Horace a few days ago. His crew were on the run-in to the target when their aircraft was hit by anti-aircraft fire.’

  Baker pushed his hands behind his back as he took a deep breath.

  ‘Their propeller and reduction gear of the starboard outer engine were shot away. Anyone else would have turned tail for home but not our man.’

  The focus of attention was now on Mark as several of the men turned to face him.

  ‘The old Stirling was pretty well buggered up but he took the decision to push on to the target. The flak continued and other parts of the aircraft were struck by fragments of shell. Despite all this, Warrant Officer Azouz successfully completed his mission and returned safely to base. He has set a fine example of gallantry to us all.’

  A ripple of applause circulated around the room as Baker announced Azouz had been nominated for the DFC, the Distinguished Flying Cross, and Baker asked the men for three cheers. It was the perfect introduction to what was to follow.

  Wing Commander Baker walked over to Azouz and patted
him on the shoulder like a son would a father. He returned to his position at the front of the room and almost immediately changed his face to match the message he was about to deliver.

  ‘Operation Market Garden chaps, Operation Market being the air assault and the Garden part of the operation the land assault. We are poised to enter Holland. France and Belgium are under our control. Our American chums, the United States First Army, have already crossed the Rhine near Cologne and Bonn and the United States Third Army have crossed it here and here.’ The Wing Commander paused for a second, as he guided the stick along the River Rhine hovering along the points where the Allies had breached the biggest river in Germany.

  ‘The problem with the bloody Hun,’ he continued, ‘is that he keeps blowing the bloody bridges up when he’s on the retreat and we can’t catch up with him to give his big fat square arse the kicking it deserves.’

  He spoke well, allowing a pause for the men of 196 Squadron to have a little laugh at the German’s expense. Then he turned serious once more.

  Wing Commander Baker pointed up at the huge map.

  ‘We need to secure these three bridges here, here and here which will allow our boys from the west to cross them and push the Hun deeper into Holland. In a nutshell we need to have full command of the countryside surrounding Arnhem here, Oosterbeek here and Wolfheze and Driel here and here.’

  John looked at the map that hung on the wall. It may have been no accident that the map was on a small scale which enabled the surrounding countries to be viewed. France and Belgium were emblazoned with small Union Jack and Stars and Stripes stickers and the Russian flags were prominent in Poland and Czechoslovakia. As Wing Commander Baker spoke he placed more American and British stickers on the continent.

  Lofty nudged John and whispered. ‘See what I mean buddy, not a fucking Maple Leaf in sight.’

  Nevertheless the map was of great comfort to Lofty and the men of 196 Squadron. It was clear that the Germans were losing their grip on a continent they’d terrorised for nearly five years.

  ‘Our squadron will be pushing the airborne divisions in on Horsas and they’ll secure bridges across the Nederrijn within two to three days. From there in we’ll have the perfect position for an assault on Germany. We’ll advance rapidly northwards and turn right into the lowlands of Germany. The plan is to avoid the Siegfried line which as you are all aware is the primary German defence line.’

  Then Wing Commander Baker uttered the final sentence, one that every man in the room wanted to hear.

  ‘If everything goes to plan, gentlemen, the war should be over by Christmas.’

  Wing Commander Baker smiled as he finished the briefing.

  What could be simpler than that? A group of quietly confident men walked the short distance to the mess hall for an early lunch. Chalky sounded off to John.

  ‘Bloody Horsas, what’s the bloody point of those damned gliders; they’re neither use nor ornament. Why can’t we just take the lads over in the Stirlings?’ Mark Azouz walked alongside.

  ‘More room Chalky, as simple as that. The Horsas can take a jeep on board, something we can’t get in a Stirling. And anyway we’ll be dropping the boys in from quite high up; it’s an easy op for us. It’s the boys landing them things who are going to take the shit that the Bosch throw at them.’

  The comment wasn’t lost on John. It was bad enough flying in and dropping paratroopers at 1,500 feet but the lower the aircraft went, the more chance of a direct hit. The poor souls in the Horsa Gliders had to land in enemy territory… it seemed crazy. The Horsas were flimsy. They offered no protection and it seemed that half of them broke up on impact with the ground. They were badly designed, God help the poor wretches that flew in them.

  The paratroopers weren’t much better off. If the Germans knew where they were flying into they had a good chance of picking them off. In day light the huge chutes were easy to spot. And what exactly went through the men’s mind as they floated down into enemy territory as bullets flew around their ears? It wasn’t exactly risk free taking a Stirling over hostile terrain but John would take his chances. It was the men he now talked to as they stood and queued for lunch that he felt sorry for.

  The Horsas were hooked up to the Stirlings just before dawn on the morning of 17th September 1944.

  It was a five-hour round trip; they’d leave in formation at 1130 hours, 25 Stirlings headed by Wing Commander Baker and his crew. Of the 25 planes that took off from RAF Keevil 21 missions were successful. Four tow ropes broke but three of the Horsa Gliders made successful landings; one glider had to ditch in the English Channel but the crew were safely picked up by Air Sea Rescue.

  The mood back at RAF Keevil was one of euphoria; the operation couldn’t have gone any better, could it? What no one knew at that particular time was that the 1st Airborne Division had met with fierce and unexpected resistance from the 9th SS and 10th SS Panzer divisions. Only a small force was able to reach the Arnhem road bridge, with the rest of the division pinned back on the outskirts of the city.

  Back in RAF Keevil on 18th September the squadron were told they were going up later that day and again the day after.

  ‘Three nights in a row,’ whispered Len Jones to John. ‘Doesn’t look so happy today, old Winco, does he, Sherlock?’

  It was a sound observation, John had noticed it too. Wing Commander Baker definitely looked a little ruffled, not as supremely confident as he had been the day before. Outside the briefing room Lofty ribbed Len and John.

  ‘We’ve a day off on the nineteenth so we’re planning a big night in town.’ He ruffled John’s hair. ‘Wish you could come with us, Sherlock old mate, but you lot have Jerry to fight.’

  Len looked at John.

  ‘Don’t worry mate we’ll get a day off too. I don’t think they’ll send us up three in a row.’

  22 crews went up on 18th September 1944. It was another successful sortie with only one Horsa failing to make it to the drop zone. As Vanrenen let loose the glider he banked and turned for home. John was aware of a little light flak that was exploding below them but it was well out of range of the Stirlings climbing ever higher. John feared for the men and the gliders below, the Germans’ anti-aircraft guns concentrating their fire on them.

  On the ground the British XXX Corps were unable to advance northwards as quickly as planned and were unable to relieve the airborne troops at the bridge. Unknown to Vanrenen, John and the other air crews in 196 Squadron, thousands of Allied paratroopers had been massacred as they floated to the ground.

  It meant only a small British force made it to the bridge as the rest of the division became trapped in a small pocket north of the river.

  The order from the ground to Bomber Command was simple. They wanted more reinforcements and they wanted them quickly. Most of the Horsa Gliders dropped by 196 Squadron were shot up before they landed; the paratroopers dropped by other squadrons of the RAF were butchered like lambs to the slaughter, the Allied generals severely underestimating the axis troops on the ground.

  Back at RAF Keevil on 19th September the mood in the converted gym was sombre and tense. Although the powers at the top hadn’t told the pilots and air crew of the devastation on the ground at Arnhem it was impossible not to read their faces. Wing Commander Baker was a shadow of his former self, pale, haggard looking, a million miles away from the rosy-cheeked confident man who had addressed his troops just a few days before.

  John looked across the room and was a little surprised to see Lofty, Keith and the other members of their crew. He shrugged it off; probably just want to know what’s going on, he thought to himself.

  The briefing was quick. Same map, same towns, same drop zone and yet more troops of the British 1st Airborne Division dropped in on Horsa Gliders.

  John caught up with Lofty half way across the parade ground.

  ‘Hey mate, what are you up to? Off out on the town later on are you?

  Lofty forced a smile.

  ‘Not us mate, we’re comin
g with you to Arnhem. They’ve decided they need some Canadians up there to show you lot what to do.’

  John Holmes punched him playfully on the shoulder.

  ‘C’mon… seriously, you’re not coming with us are you? I thought you’d been stood down.’

  Matthews shook his head.

  ‘No. It seems they need as many gliders as they can in there and there’s something wrong with another plane. We’re coming with you. Now let’s go and get a bite to eat and catch a few hours’ rest before we get the call.

  John looked out over the starboard wing. The two Stirlings were a little closer than he would have wished but nevertheless he could clearly see the face of Lofty waving as he caught his stare. John gave a little wave back. As always he hoped with all of his heart that they’d all be back home soon and sharing a pint at the Queen Victoria in Trowbridge. He looked to the cockpit and could just make out the shape of Keith; he couldn’t see his face but instinctively knew it would be a picture of concentration.

  Reg announced they would be flying over German-occupied Arnhem very soon. By now the crew knew that that meant they had to be extra vigilant. Within minutes of the navigator’s announcement the anti-aircraft flak started.

  John couldn’t prevent the adrenalin surging through his body, he was used to it by now and it was an involuntary reaction that happened every time the explosions started. A direct hit could bring the aircraft down and they’d be staring death in the face or at the very least carted off to a German prisoner of war camp. He thought briefly about Cliff Shaw, wondered how he was bearing up in the Japanese camp on the other side of the world. The Stirling shuddered as a shell exploded only metres from them. The Germans had found their range.

  ‘We’re hit!’

  It was an all too familiar cry and as always for a horrifying split second he wondered if the cry had come from his own aircraft. He recognised the voice; it was a good friend of his.

  ‘Who’s hit?’ screamed Vanrenen into the radio.

  John Holmes could barely speak, taking in the full horror on the starboard side of his own aircraft.