by C. T. Wells
He checked the compass. He couldn’t miss England if he flew north, but he wondered where the Lysander had flown from. Tangmere? Biggin Hill? He knew of several English airfields but the thought of actually landing at one was rather daunting.
Then he saw a chart taped to the side of the instrument panel. It was a map of southern England, cut into a strip that showed the flight path and around eighty kilometres each side. By the glow of the instruments he could see a boldly drawn red line extending north–west from the Normandy field they had just departed. The line jutted towards Cornwall and then doglegged north into Devon. A compass bearing was scrawled alongside each section of the line and the words A–A Window 0430–0530 were written where the flight path intersected the coast.
A–A. Anti–Aircraft.
It suddenly occurred to him that even an English plane flying over the coast may not be safe from English anti–aircraft defences. Evidently the RAF pilot had to cross the coast in a certain location during the pre–arranged period or risk getting blown apart by gunners.
Josef’s eyes flicked between the cockpit glass, the instruments and the map. The bearing intersected the coast east of Plymouth, traced the edge of Dartmoor and terminated near Tavistock. Josef knew exactly where the destination was. He had even seen this plane land there once before. The Lysander was supposed to fly Giselle straight to Lucas. He was her contact, her superior. Lucas was The Cardinal.
***
In the wreck of the Mercedes, Reile got his hand on the field radio. He moved fast, pulling it out from the buckled and dented vehicle, fitting the whip antenna, powering up the device. The torches that lit the makeshift airstrip were still flickering around him. There were soldiers crashing through the woods nearby.
He knew there was one fugitive still on the loose, and he hoped the SS would run him to ground quickly. He took the morse key and rapidly sent a message that would be relayed to the staffelkapitan at JG27. He wanted them airborne. He wanted them chasing down one of their own.
***
Josef gritted his teeth. Lucas and The Cardinal were one and the same. His mind raced ahead of the little plane, calculating times, speeds, distances … and calculating the consequences of arriving at the estate near Dartmoor. Should he stick to the flight path? Or try for any field he could find to land the plane?
He could expect no mercy from Lucas. The man had deceived him. Ordered Giselle to kill him. And yet maybe there was something to be gained by going there. He was trying to form a plan that would guarantee the safety of both of them, but it was as elusive as an eel in a murky dam.
Lucas had set this whole thing in motion and Josef knew he had to face him. At length he spoke to Giselle. ‘We’re not going to London.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’re going straight to The Cardinal.’
***
Jurgen Brandt led the way as pilots sprinted for their planes. JG27 had just received news by radio, a British plane had just taken off from a nearby field, carrying a French agent north to England. The night–fighter squadron had been scrambled to intercept it.
But one detail of the message had stunned them all. Josef Schafer, presumed missing in action only hours ago, was now piloting that plane. His own wingman was a traitor to the Reich! Brandt cursed as he ran. He had defended Shaka during the Gestapo enquiries. Now he looked stupid for not knowing there was a traitor in their midst. Shaka would pay for it with his life.
The staffelkapitan leaped up on the wing of his Messerschmitt and swung his legs into the cockpit. Inside a minute he was roaring down the runway with Wolfe Schiller in line behind him—his new wingman. Schiller had his nose taped up, but he was just as ready to fly. Together they would hunt Shaka.
The staffel roared into the air and Brandt gave his orders over the radio. With a top speed of well over six hundred kilometres an hour, they could chase down anything short of a Spitfire or Hurricane. Brandt’s tactic was to fly the staffel out from Cherbourg in a radial search pattern that covered a one hundred and twenty degree arc to the north. He told them to stay low. The night sky was moonlit and Shaka would not want to be silhouetted. He would be flying at a low altitude, camouflaged against the dark expanse of water between France and England.
***
Giselle’s voice came through the headset. ‘I have never flown before.’
Josef said nothing. He was preoccupied with getting away from German–controlled airspace.
‘I’m glad my first time is with you, Josef. I trust you.’
For a brief moment, Josef considered how wonderful it would be to take this girl for a joyflight over the beach on a summer’s day … but there was little joy to be found in a night flight out of occupied Normandy. ‘Listen, Giselle. We’re not safe yet. I want you to watch the sky behind us. Look to the port side. Five seconds. Then to the starboard side. Five seconds. You must be like a machine, Giselle. Don’t stop watching. Tell me if you see anything else in the sky.’
‘Do you think someone is following us?’
‘They saw us take off. Night–fighters are probably already in the air. They are much faster than we are.’ He glanced over his shoulder to check if she was watching. She twisted in her seat and studied the sky. ‘Good. Tell me if you see something. Anything.’
He returned to the map and the instruments. Checked the compass. Checked the airspeed. Scanned the dark ocean ahead, seeing the gently rolling swell. There was no shipping in sight. He looked up through the cockpit glass and saw a thousand stars glimmering.
He longed for cloud cover, mist or rain. Anything to reduce visibility, but there was nothing but moonlight and waves. He willed the Lysander on. It was a responsive little plane—sturdy, but not fast. He looked at the map again, and estimated they were more than half–way. Still, his pilot training made him tend to pessimism in the air. He wouldn’t feel safe until they were on the ground and he had struck a deal with Lucas.
‘Josef.’
‘What?’
‘I think I saw something.’
‘A plane?’
‘Something.’
‘Where?’
‘On the left. Up high.’
Josef banked slightly and looked up. It was a long way back, but there was the unmistakable profile of a fighter some kilometres to the south. He swore under his breath. They were still a long way from the English coast. If there was anything to hearten him, it was the fact the fighter was on a different heading to their own, bearing further to the west. They hadn’t been spotted yet.
Josef pushed the control column forward and the Lysander dropped to just ten metres above the channel—a dark plane against dark water skimming the humps of swell.
‘Josef.’
‘It’s fine, Giselle. We haven’t been seen yet. Only a few more minutes …’
‘Josef! There’s another one. On the other side.’
Josef twisted in the seat and glanced over his right shoulder. He saw it immediately. A Messerschmitt, and coming straight at them, closing fast.
A radial search pattern. He knew the tactic. Josef changed course to try and get between the oncoming fighters, hoping they would miss him in the gap between their bearings. But it was like being a fish trying to find a better position in a barrel.
The English coast was visible. A white scar of foamy water against dark cliffs. But it was not coming up quickly enough. ‘Giselle. Throw open the rear canopy.’
Josef heard her slide back the aft section of the cockpit canopy. Cold air swirled through the cabin, but now she could operate the Lysander’s main defensive weapon. He yelled to her: ‘The machine gun in the rear cockpit—do you know how to use it?’
‘Ah ... no.’
‘Is there a drum on the side. For ammunition?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. There’s a cocking handle on the right. Pull it back towards you.’
‘Done.’
‘If they see us. Start shooting. ‘
‘I think they’ve seen us!’
A stream of tracer shot past overhead.
‘Fire!’
Josef heard Giselle start firing the Vickers. The gun’s recoil vibrated the plane as Josef wrenched it into a turn to avoid another burst from the Messerschmitt. He hoped Giselle wouldn’t shoot their own tail off.
‘Shoot in front of them.’ There was no time to explain the finer points of deflection firing. He just hoped the Lysander’s machine gun might deter the German fighters for another minute.
He banked right and looked back. The two Messerschmitts had taken up the standard rotte position, with a wingman above and behind the leader. But Josef saw them change tactics as Giselle kept up bursts of fire from the Vickers.
The Messerschmitts fanned out and came in lower on either side. They were now beneath the machine gun’s field of fire. He couldn’t go left or right without crossing the German gunsights. The sea was beneath him and to climb away would leave the belly of the Lysander exposed. His next move would be his last. Unless …
Josef played a desperate gambit. He dropped the flaps and pulled back hard. The Lysander reared up, almost coming to a standstill—the plane was close to stalling, with no altitude to recover.
But the 109s overshot their target, surging ahead with airspeed they couldn’t lose. Josef glimpsed a flash of aircraft rush past him and in that instant saw the chevrons on the side of the Messerschmitt. He was being hunted by Jurgen Brandt.
XXXVIII
Josef felt the Lysander drop. The sea rushed up at them. Hold your nerve! Get some air flow over those leading edges. He pulled out just before the wheel spats clipped the water; the Lysander didn’t stall. Beneath them was the glowing white of surf crashing on a rocky shoreline.
They were over land. England. Surely the German pilots would think twice about following them. This whole coast was lined with air defences.
Josef aimed north and twisted his head to see the enemy fighters.
He saw them wheeling around in a giant arc to come back into attack. They would not fall for that trick twice. One hit from a 20mm shell would certainly down the Lysander.
A road rushed by beneath him and the 109s came in for the kill. Giselle kept firing the Vickers until it ran out of ammunition.
Searchlights snapped on from below and Josef saw the flashes of anti–aircraft gunfire from the ground. He braced for a hit, but the British gunners had seen the chase and their fire was aimed at the German fighters.
Thank God they knew a Lysander from a 109. They found their mark and one of the Messerschmitts plunged in a flaming arc. One down.
He had a feeling Brandt was back there, still on him, like a doberman snapping at his heels. Josef jinked left and right, skimming hedges and hopping over rooftops. A chimney rushed past just beneath the undercarriage.
Nothing would shake the 109, though, and by rights it should close in at any moment and blow them out of the sky. It was only his desperate low–level manoeuvres that defied the Messerschmitt.
Josef dipped a wingtip and slid down into a river valley, still barely above the tree–tops. He banked hard, slipping deeper into the twisting terrain, hoping the fast Messerschmitt would struggle to stay with him through the tight contours of the landscape. They were kilometres inland now, but the 109 wasn’t giving up.
Josef knew that if the staffelkapitan had set his mind on destroying the Lysander, there would be no deterring him. Full of Pervitin, full of pride, Brandt would stop at nothing.
The river valley wound through the landscape, scored out by centuries of erosion. It was sharply defined—and suddenly Josef knew exactly where he was. He had studied the maps and had the contour lines of this region imprinted in his memory. And he had traversed this country on foot before his capture—he had tried to outrun the British right here. Josef knew these curves of the river and folds of the land.
Up ahead was the railway viaduct with enormous granite arches supporting the bridge that spanned the river. He had been captured in this very place. The river valley, the terrain, the arches of the railway bridge were burned in his memory. And in that instant he knew they had a chance to escape Brandt’s 109. Could the Lysander’s lack of speed be an advantage?
Josef banked hard right into a river bend, only metres above the trees. The 109 tried to stay with him through the turn, spewing cannon fire as it came in around and closed in.
But Josef kept pulling into the bend, turning even tighter, slowing, and staring up at the massive stone columns that reared abruptly from the valley. Vast arches revealed the starlit sky between the mighty columns that could hold locomotives far above the riverbed.
Josef held his nerve, kept low and rolled the Lysander onto a wingtip as they raced through the void of an arch, seeing the stonework flash by outside the cockpit. The tilted wingspan of the Lysander slipped through the arch like a thread through the eye of the needle.
The 109 was coming in fast behind them—impossibly fast to make the turn, straying wider and wider from the tight radius of the Lysander’s path. No pilot, not even Brandt, could haul the plane away from the stone column at more than two hundred kilometres an hour.
Giselle screamed as the 109 exploded on impact with the granite. A fireball lit up the valley and silhouetted the stone arches. Flaming debris from the 109 rained down into the stream. Brandt was vaporised.
Josef levelled the Lysander and climbed up out of the valley. He took in a deep breath. He had just outflown his own staffelkapitan in a life and death duel. He flew a slow circuit of the viaduct to convince himself Brandt was finished. There was smouldering wreckage at the base of the stone column that had claimed the 109. White Leader was no more, and he had no pity for Brandt. It just felt good to be alive.
Josef spoke to Giselle through the headset. ‘We made it. Now it’s time to meet The Cardinal.’
Banishing the chase from his mind, Josef got on with the job. He navigated to the grass airstrip on the estate. The moonlight showed him all the features he needed. He lined up, flicked on the landing lights and settled the Lysander on the grass strip. He let it roll out and taxied right up to the gate in the hedge that led to the gardens around the large house.
Josef killed the lights and engine and for a moment, he and Giselle sat in near silence. Only the ticking of the cooling engine filled the air. Then he twisted around in the pilot’s seat. ‘Are you all right back there?’
‘I don’t think I like flying.’ Her voice was a little shaky.
‘That truly was your first flight?’
‘Oui.’
‘It’s not always like that.’
She nodded, obviously relieved to be back on the ground. ‘What will you do now? Are you going to ask for amnesty? I will vouch for you.’
The smile fell from Josef’s face. ‘It’s time to meet Lucas on my terms. We have to settle a few matters.’
Josef opened the cockpit door and stepped down to the ground. He helped Giselle out of the passenger seat and together they walked through the gate in the hedge and made for the conservatory at the rear of the house. She said, ‘I hope they will understand you are one of us now.’
‘Shhh,’ Josef whispered. ‘I know what I have to do.’ He undid the holster where the Walther sat on his right hip.
The house loomed up ahead of them, a black notch in the moonlit sky. Some chinks of light showed between the curtains, but otherwise it was a tower of shadows. Anyone inside must have heard the Lysander arrive and surely someone would come to meet them.
As expected, a door was thrown open and a long swathe of light made a bright path across the terrace. Two figures stepped out through the door. The first was Lucas. He was dressed in his oriental smoking jacket and pyjama pants; bohemian and yet somehow regal.
The taciturn
man known as Hood came two steps behind—a drab Praetorian guard in tweed and one leather glove. Josef kept out of the shaft of light. In his hastily formed plans, he had not factored in an armed henchman. But Giselle, sensing no danger, continued to walk towards the men at the house.
‘Mademoiselle!’ gushed Lucas. ‘Welcome to England. Come into the light. I believe you are more beautiful than your photograph.’
Giselle stepped forward and extended her hand. Lucas took it. ‘Enchanté …’ He bent to kiss it. In that moment he glanced up and his face froze as he took in the Luftwaffe uniform.
Then bleary eyes widened. Josef Schafer was supposed to be dead, and Lucas had ordered it.
‘Hood!’ yelled Lucas. The bodyguard had seen Josef too and, reacting to Lucas’ voice, he reached inside his jacket.
Josef moved instinctively. He whipped the Walther from the holster and had it levelled at Hood in a two–handed grip before the bodyguard’s revolver was clear of the coat.
If the final act had to be played out at gunpoint, so be it. Lucas could not be trusted, and it was more than likely he would order Hood to simply shoot him here on the terrace and fertilise the roses with him.
‘Hold it!’ ordered Josef. ‘Put the gun down slowly.’
Hood was smart enough to realise he had been outdrawn. He moved as instructed, and placed the revolver at his feet while Josef held the pistol on him. Situation control. Walther could be very persuasive.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Lucas directed the question at Giselle.
Josef interjected. ‘You ordered her to kill me.’
Lucas didn’t so much as blink. ‘You were a disposable asset. Not worth a tart’s kiss to anyone. You’re supposed to be dead.’
‘But I’m back to haunt you now, so put your hands in the air. Both of you. Giselle, pick up that revolver. I don’t want Mr. Hood getting any ideas while I speak to his boss.’
Everyone did as instructed. Giselle moved to Josef’s side, holding Hood’s revolver in one hand and her clarinet in the other. She looked uncertainly at Josef. She had been expecting a defection, not a stand-off. Her nervousness affected Josef, and he almost wavered in his resolve. But she had to trust him for a few more minutes while he bargained ...