A Good Clean Fight

by Derek Robinson

  “Ja, ja,” one of the guards said.

  Lampard reached out and gave him a rucksack. “Heil Hitler!” he said, and drove away. His presence had lasted seven seconds.

  The NCO emerged and wanted to know what was going on. The guards told him it was a delivery for Major Schramm. The NCO squatted on his heels and tried to open the rucksack, but its drawstring had been tightly knotted. The bombs inside were on a one-minute fuse. He was still worrying at the knot when they exploded. The three bodies got hurled away with their arms outstretched in a caricatured gesture of surprise.

  Lampard’s jeeps rushed the gate as soon as the flash lit up the night, but when they reached it the gate and the wooden guardhouse had gone, were in small pieces, many of them still tumbling from the sky. As he passed, Dunn pointed to another small building and his gunner gave it a four-second blast that knocked it flat. Perhaps it contained more guards, perhaps not. Either way, it was no longer a threat. For the first time all night, Dunn felt good.

  Lampard knew this road. He had driven it before. The three jeeps enjoyed the luxury of a perfect surface; quite quickly they were up to fifty, sixty miles an hour and still gaining. Lampard saw lights coming at them, head-on. “Don’t slow down!” he shouted. A flashing red was added. A siren wailed. The headlights blazed. It was a fire truck, ten times as big as a jeep and not about to give way. Lampard’s driver knew this and he acted fast. The jeep left the road and was fishtailing violently through a stretch of gravel as the fire truck thundered by. Lampard looked back at the cloud of dust and screwed up his face, waiting for a crash that never came. The other two jeeps appeared, they all found the road, they picked up speed.

  The road swung sharp left. “Straight on,” Lampard ordered. Now they were on the actual airfield. Somewhere behind them a giant klaxon was letting off angry blasts. The other jeeps pulled up and drove alongside Lampard, all their headlights full on, searching for aircraft. They found patches of mist, a stack of oil drums, a small broken glider, more mist, but no aircraft.

  The patrol changed direction, and their beams swept over another barren area. Lampard was furiously trying to remember the layout at Barce. They changed direction again, and again the night was empty. The place was so bloody big. What if they’d parked their planes in a far corner? What if Barce was another Maghrun? Two searchlights came on, brilliant sticks of light, prodding the sky. Once again the three jeeps swung and searched a fresh, dead spot. Flak began to be pumped up one searchlight beam: bombs meant bombers. In the jeep on Lampard’s left, Sergeant Davis fired a brief burst and his driver steered, making his headlights follow the tracer. Lampard saw a row of fighters, 109s, a dozen at least. He shouted with delight.

  That burst finally convinced somebody in airfield defense. A light machine gun opened up, then another. Lampard’s driver switched his headlights off. The others copied him. Now that they knew where the target was they could drive blind.

  Paul Schramm was a spectator to all this. He stood on the narrow balcony outside his bedroom, listened to the rise and fall of jeep engines, saw the sweep of headlights and the pulse of tracer. He felt detached, almost remote. There was nothing he could do.

  Benno Hoffmann joined him. “How did they get in?” he asked.

  “Through the main gate. They just blasted their way in. I’ve sent for help. The army’s on its way.”

  “Can’t we hit them with something? Mortars, or . . .”

  “Too late, Benno. We’d be just as likely to hit our own aircraft now.”

  “Yes, of course.” Hoffmann made himself comfortable in a chair. “Might as well enjoy the show, I suppose.”

  Lampard guessed the distance, reached across and hit the horn, and all the headlights came on. For a glorious second or two he was entranced by the spectacle of rows and rows of bright, clean Messerschmitt 109s, yellow at nose and wingtip, their canopies gleaming, perched on their undercarriages like well-trained hounds. Then the jeeps changed formation from line abreast to single file and the gunners swung the barrels to the flank and opened up.

  The effect was cruel in its savagery: even Lampard was taken aback by the sheer intensity of this devastation. Each jeep carried four Vickers K machine guns, mounted in pairs: two at the front, two at the back. Each Vickers K fired a thousand rounds a minute. The three jeeps cruised parallel to the German airplanes and blasted twelve thousand rounds a minute into them. Some burst into flames at once: headlights were no longer needed. The noise was frightening: the night seemed to be battered to bits. The bullet-streams scythed through the undercarriages and the fighters crashed on their bellies. Petrol tanks ignited, blew machines apart, sprayed blazing fuel over other fighters. The jeeps reached the end of the row and one German squadron lay wrecked. Their flames lit up a second row and the jeeps turned on it. The gunners hosed bullets up and down these fresh targets, and as they too exploded it was inevitable that flying debris would fall through the infrared beams and trigger Schramm’s defensive system. His fixed machine guns blazed loyally at the empty air, their voice drowned in the huge roar of the Vickers Ks. It was a scene of mechanized and professional madness. Dunn’s mouth was open so long that it dried inside and he could not swallow or salivate. He blinked as one of the searchlights came down and added its beam to the bonfire. Sergeant Davis swung his Vickers. His eyes were squeezed shut but the blinding glare penetrated them. He aimed where the glare was worst and kept firing until it went out. For a long time after that, luminous blossoms of changing color swamped his vision.

  The raid had lasted four minutes and now it was over. The jeeps raced for the empty end of the airfield. The time was five-forty.

  The infantry regiment performed miracles: it got two truckloads of troops on the road to Barce only seven minutes after Schramm had asked for help. Halfway there, the commanders saw bombs begin to explode on the road ahead of them, many bombs, a seemingly endless string of bombs, all terrifyingly accurate. They stopped and waited until this air raid had passed. Getting killed wouldn’t help Barce. By the time the trucks charged past the airfield’s shattered gates, dawn was starting to outline the eastern Jebel.

  Schramm’s telephone rang.

  “You asked to be kept informed,” the regimental duty officer said, “and I have some more information. Our patrol has found another body. This one is quite definitely a British soldier. Probably SAS. So we got at least one. How many did they get?”

  “They got . . .” Schramm began, and had to stop because he heard himself sound so unconcerned. “They got twenty-four Me 109s and they also got clean away.”

  “Ah.”

  “Never mind. The sun is up. They’ve had their fun. Now we’ll have ours.”

  * * *

  It was broad daylight when the jeeps climbed into the Jebel.

  This was the greenest part of the Green Mountain, the northern slopes where most of the rain fell and the trees grew thickly. The patrol had not seen such lushness since they left Cairo; the oasis at Kufra was a thin and dusty affair by contrast. Here, crops grew in tiny fields of red earth, and flocks of sheep or herds of goats were usually in sight. There was a bouncy sense of exhilaration. The night had been a triumph; now the day was a delight. They waved at Arab children, who put down their loads of firewood or goatskin water-bags to wave back. At the same time the patrol watched the sky. Delight died at six thirty-eight a.m. when the first enemy aircraft appeared from the west.

  Six Italian CR42 biplanes cruised along the Jebel in a wide formation, only five hundred feet up, obviously searching. The jeeps immediately drove under the nearest cover and stopped.

  “I was hoping they’d send 109s,” Sergeant Davis said. “These buggers are too slow for my liking.”

  “109s have got cannon,” Dunn said. “These haven’t.”

  “Yeah, but your 109 can’t fly slow, can it? Also your 109 pilot’s got a lousy view looking down.”

  They watched the biplanes growl overhead and fly on.

  “They’ll be back,” Dunn said. �
��They’re going to be a pain in the ass all day.” He didn’t care. He was still drunk on havoc.

  “That’s why I was hoping for 109s. Not that it makes a lot of difference. If they find us this place is going to be like Gandhi’s Inferno anyway.”

  They drove on but only made half a mile. The CR42s had split into pairs and were flying lower, searching more carefully. Again the jeeps had to find cover. They sat under it for a long time. Steadily, Dunn’s sense of intoxication wore off, until he felt flat, used-up, weary. He had no wish to look back on the raid. Nor to look forward. He knew it would be a hard slog back to the camp and the only way to do it was a bit at a time.

  * * *

  No time for breakfast. Schramm ate a fried-egg sandwich in the back of the yellow Lysander as Benno Hoffmann flew him to Berka Main, the biggest Luftwaffe base at Benghazi. Hoffmann landed prettily—he was getting to like this machine—and taxied behind a small truck in which an airman held up a board reading FOLLOW ME, until they got to a Heinkel 111 whose propellers were already spinning. Schramm scrambled down, hurrying as fast as his shrunken leg would let him, and was helped aboard the bomber. It was moving before the hatch was banged shut. “Sit down,” Captain di Marco told him. “Fasten your straps.” He had to shout because the engines were working up to takeoff power.

  Schramm waited until the Heinkel was airborne and on course, and the pilot had throttled back to a steady thunder. “When did all this start?” he asked.

  “About six o’clock. Just after von Mansdorf told General Schaefer about the raid on Barce. That was when the general decided it was time to retaliate.”

  Schramm shoved back the sleeve of his flying-suit and found his watch. Five to seven. “It’s all rush-rush-rush nowadays,” he said. “Never time to sit and enjoy the paper.”

  “Since it was originally your idea, I suggested it might be a courtesy to invite you to accompany us.”

  “Many thanks.” Schramm looked out at the desert, flat and brown. He looked at the inside of the airplane, hard and gray and functional. “What now?” he said.

  “First we fly to the advanced landing-ground at Defa. I must navigate.” He handed Schramm a newspaper. “Relax,” he said.

  “I bet you haven’t got any coffee.”

  Di Marco gave him a vacuum flask. Schramm shook his hand. He suddenly wished Dr. Grandinetti could see him. He’d get ten out of ten for enjoyment.

  * * *

  The Italian CR42s failed to find any of the jeeps. When they finally droned away, Lampard hustled his patrol out of cover and took some chances, sprinting the vehicles across open spaces. The biplanes landed at Barce, refueled, and heard of the discovery of fresh wheel-tracks across the plain below the Jebel, probably made by the raiding party. Coming out or going in? Nobody knew. But clearly, that part of the Jebel was worth a closer search.

  They caught the jeeps on the very top, where the tree line faded out and the hills had been polished by time to smooth domes with fringes of scrub around the edges. But the great thing about the Jebel was there was always a wadi if you looked hard enough. The Italian pilots chased the jeeps, swooping and machine-gunning. Lampard’s drivers weaved and dodged, scattered and spread, while their gunners fired snap bursts. It was amazingly difficult to hit a jeep from the air when it was being danced expertly about. And in the end a wadi appeared, a narrow, twisting gap that could protect them. Sergeant Davis’s jeep bolted into it. Lampard’s jeep zigged and zagged and then dashed into the black shadow. Mike Dunn’s jeep had the longest race and it lost. The pilot of a CR42 saw where it was heading and he dived. His bullet-stream pecked at the ground, kicking up little fountains of dust. He eased back the stick and the nose came up and the jeep slid into his gunsight. He fired, and every man in it was knocked over. The impact clubbed the driver, made him drag the wheel down and attempt a sudden right-angled turn, an impossible maneuver at that speed, and the jeep somersaulted, shedding bodies. The next CR42 hammered the wreck. It burst into flames.

  * * *

  The Bombay flew in with food, fuel and Baggy Bletchley.

  He asked Barton to assemble everyone, the officers and the other ranks. While this was being done he said, “The party’s over, Fanny. My orders are to evacuate LG 250 immediately.”

  “The Kittyhawks won’t fly before this afternoon, sir. They took a bit of a beating last night.”

  “So I see.” The wreckage of Pip’s machine had been dragged to the edge of the runway. “Well, semi-immediately, then.”

  The men formed a half-circle. Barton introduced the air commodore, and stepped back.

  “I’m here to tell you this operation is complete and you’re pulling out,” he said. “This has been another bright page in the squadron’s annals. You might not think so, to look about you. Only two kites on the strength, and both a bit shop-soiled. But think of the havoc you have wrought amongst the enemy. As it says in the Bible, “Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands.” England is proud of you. This has been a vital step on the long road to victory.”

  While they were loading Patterson into the Bombay, Skull murmured to Bletchley, “I must say I liked that line about Saul and David, sir.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “It raised the whole tone of the occasion.”

  “Let’s say it helped. Frankly, there’s not a hell of a lot one can say at times like this. Ah . . . many thanks.” Bletchley smiled and accepted a mug of tea from an airman. “Who was Saul?” he asked.

  “First king of Israel. Fought the Philistines, quarreled with the high priest, went off his head, killed himself.”

  “Doolally, I expect. The desert doesn’t change much, does it?”

  The Bombay flew out with Bletchley, Kellaway, the doctor and all but a very few ground crew. That left Barton, Hooper, Skull and the signals officer, Prescott. Prescott asked Skull why he stayed. “For the sake of the children, of course,” Skull said. Prescott stared.

  Bletchley had brought a new gramophone record: Geraldo and his orchestra, with Sam Brown singing “A Foggy Day in London Town.” They all stood around and listened. “Crap,” Barton said. He took the disc and sent it spinning into the desert. “Play Bowlly,” he ordered. “Play ‘Empty Saddles.’ That’s real music.”

  * * *

  Defa’s oasis came over the horizon exactly where di Marco had promised it would be. There was no need for the Heinkel pilot to alter course; he simply let the nose sink and eventually he flew the bomber onto the airstrip and made a perfect three-point landing. One piece of professionalism deserved another.

  The oasis was just a fistful of dusty palms and a well, with a couple of camels sneering at the new arrival. The camels had already seen two Junkers Tri-Motor transport planes come in, so they were not impressed by a Heinkel 111.

  Everyone got out of the Heinkel and stretched their legs. “Nice piece of navigation,” Schramm said to di Marco.

  “That was the easy bit,” the pilot said. “That was like taking a tram across Hamburg.”

  Already, crewmen from the transports were refueling the Heinkel from jerricans. The stink of petrol drifted with the breeze and Schramm took a stroll to escape it. Not far. After the coolness of cruising at eight thousand feet, Defa was a swamp of heat. He sat under the wing of the nearest Junkers and did his sweating privately. The flies soon got wind of it and arrived to taste a new vintage.

  The pilot and di Marco came and joined him.

  “She doesn’t look big enough,” Schramm said. The Heinkel 111 had two engines and a fuselage like an expensive cigar, curved and streamlined from end to end. “How big is she?”

  “Not big enough,” the pilot said. “But you don’t want to worry about that because she’s actually bigger inside than she is outside.”

  “That’s clever.”

  “It’s brilliant.”

  “All right, it’s brilliant. How did Dr. Heinkel do it?”

  “He didn’t. We did. We dumped all the junk the Luftwaffe keeps stu
ffing into these poor beasts. We threw out all the guns and ammo, all the armor-plating, the oxygen bottles, the heater.”

  “Also the parachutes,” di Marco said.

  “You threw out the parachutes?”

  “Certainly,” the pilot said. “You know how much a parachute weighs? Ten kilograms. We lost the navigator’s table, the gunners’ seats, several black boxes and the aviator’s thunderbox, so if you haven’t moved your bowels today you’d better do it now. We also cut the crusts off the sandwiches and took the pips out of the oranges.”

  “Amazing,” Schramm said. “So how far will she fly now?”

  “God knows. Normal loaded weight is twelve thousand kilograms. When they’ve finished topping up all the extra tanks she’ll be well over the maximum permissible overloaded weight, which is fourteen thousand kilograms. About two thousand kilograms of that is bombs.”

  “Maybe she won’t fly at all. I mean, if she’s heavier than the maximum permissible overloaded weight then how do you—”

  “You’re right, I don’t.” He helped Schramm to his feet. The ground crew were screwing on the fuel caps.

  “I’m surprised you agreed to take me,” Schramm said. “I’m just useless weight.”

  “Well, the general insisted on an observer and you can fly her for a bit. It’s going to be a long day. Besides, you’re fairly thin and you’ve had a haircut.”

  They stopped by the starboard wheel. He unzipped his flying overalls. “This is the place recommended by the manufacturer’s manual,” he said. Schramm unzipped and they pissed on the wheel. “Every little helps,” the pilot said.

  He taxied to the very end of the airstrip and ran up the engines until the bomber was shaking and the props were screaming. Even so, when he waved the chocks away the Heinkel seemed to waddle forward and there was no eagerness in the way it worked itself up to a fast trundle. Halfway down the strip the tail came up, grudgingly, like a nagged husband, and now the wings were slicing the air with some efficiency. Yet for all the lift they created, they were dragging a load that the Heinkel had never been designed to carry. The throttles were wide open. The exhaust stubs were pumping smoke. It was not the greatest airstrip in Libya and the pilot’s teeth clenched every time his wheels thumped a ridge. It wasn’t the longest airstrip either. As the Heinkel ate up the final few yards the pilot said silently Goodbye Mama and eased the control column back. Maybe the wheels bounced her off a bigger ridge than usual, or maybe she was ready to fly, or maybe God reached down and changed the laws of science. The pilot didn’t know and he didn’t care. The bomber flirted with the desert for a mile or two as he retracted the wheels. After that she climbed like a pregnant duck. It was thirty minutes before he told himself he could relax and an hour before his jaws completely unclenched.