‘Where we come into the picture is that there are some huge oil installations and fuel oil storage tanks at Amsterdam, and we’re quite sure that they’re one of the main targets of the German advance. Getting their hands on that oil would be a major coup for them, and would free up a lot of the pressure on their supply lines. And make no mistake, Dawson, this is crucial. Their Panzers and Tigers, not to mention the German fighter and bomber aircraft, burn a lot of fuel, and that all has to be transported to the front line by tankers, which are always much slower vehicles. The faster the German advance, the further the supply columns drop behind the front line, until the leading edge of the advance has to either stop or run out of fuel. The same thing applies to food and water and ammunition, but the most vital supply is, and always will be, fuel. Deprive the Jerries of fuel, and their advance will have to stop.
‘So what we’re going to do – and what you’ve been volunteered to help us do because of your knowledge of demolition and explosives – is to blow up all the Dutch tanks so that the Nazis can’t use the oil. If we can do that, we’ll be striking a massively important blow against the Germans, as great as a military victory, in a way. That’s why we were waiting for you at Dunkirk, and why you were sent there, and why we’ve been given the use of this MTB.’
That did make sense, but there was one obvious question, so Dawson asked it.
‘But surely if you two officers and these KFRE soldiers have been sent out to do these demolitions, all you have to do is find the target, plant the explosives and fire them. Why do you need me?’
‘It may not be that straightforward, Dawson. We haven’t actually got that much in the way of explosives, just some gun cotton and not much else. Nobody in England was very sure about the number of tanks, where the vulnerable areas would be, or anything else about the installations. All we were told was that destroying them was essential. So what we’re expecting to have to do is improvise, and that’s why we need you. Hopefully, you’ll be able to identify the weak points and suggest how we can make the best use of what explosives we have got. And maybe you could even come up with ways of using local materials to make up explosive charges, or something like that.’
For a few moments Dawson wondered if he should tell the two officers that most of his experience with explosives involved work inside coalmines, opening up new seams for the miners, not blowing up oil tanks or anything of that sort, although he had been involved in some demolition work as well. But then he realized that he probably knew more about explosives in general than anyone else in the KFRE, purely because of his civilian work before he joined up. So maybe he really was the best man for the job. Or in this case, the only man for the job.
‘I understand,’ he said tightly, feeling his stomach give another unpleasant heave. He looked away from Michaels, focused his attention on the horizon again and lifted the bucket slightly, just in case. But after a few moments the spasm seemed to pass.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes, sir. Just a twinge, I hope. So you’ve only got gun cotton? Is that right?’
Michaels nodded.
‘I think so,’ he said, ‘but we didn’t see exactly what stores the rest of our group took with them on board the destroyer. They may have found or been issued with some additional explosive materials before they embarked in Dover. Our orders were different. We were told to proceed to Calais to collect you, but we ended up in Dunkirk because that’s where the MTB was.’
‘So the first thing we need to do when we get there,’ Dawson suggested, ‘is to find out exactly what we’ve got, so when we get to these storage tanks we don’t have to fanny about prepping charges. With a bit of luck we can do all that in advance. And the other thing, is that we might not need to find any additional explosive, because of what’s in those tanks. Fuel oil burns, but there are ways of making it explode as well.’
‘I wondered about that,’ Barber said, ‘but it’s not really my field and I wasn’t sure if you could do anything with it.’
‘Could I just take a look at that map, sir?’ Dawson asked. ‘So I can see where we’re supposed to be going.’
Barber nodded and turned the map on the table so that Dawson could see it.
‘That’s Amsterdam just there,’ the lieutenant said, pointing, ‘at the southern end of this kind of inlet thing, but we’ll be getting off at IJmuiden, here, on the Atlantic coast of Holland. From there we can get to Amsterdam overland. That’s a much quicker way of reaching the city than going by sea for the whole journey. And it will probably be safer with the Luftwaffe patrolling the coasts. As far as we know, the Jerries haven’t reached the city yet. If they have, that’s pretty much it as far as we’re concerned, because we’re quite certain they’ll be told to secure the oil tanks as their first priority. There aren’t anything like enough of us to attack the tank farms if they’re defended by squads of Jerry troops. Anyway, the plan is that we’ll do the journey on board a special train that we hope somebody there has organized for us. If they haven’t done that, we’ll have to commandeer some lorries or farm vehicles or something to get to Amsterdam.’
‘That does make sense,’ Dawson said. ‘It doesn’t even look as if it’s very—’
Whatever he was going to say was drowned out by the sudden blat-blat-blat sound of the Oerlikon cannon on the foredeck of the MTB opening up, the hull quivering from the recoil of each shot. At the same moment, the boat heeled alarmingly to port, straightened for a bare couple of seconds and then swung equally hard to starboard. The motion flung the three men around the small saloon, Barber falling heavily to the deck. Dawson barely managed to keep his balance, and that was only because he managed to grab a handrail near the open entrance.
Seconds later, the MTB shuddered again, but this time it was nothing to do with the boat’s heavy machine gun. Dawson heard the sounds of another automatic weapon close by, a series of rapid hammering explosions. Two ragged holes suddenly appeared in one corner of the ceiling of the saloon, followed by an agonized cry from somebody somewhere at the stern of the vessel.
Almost without thinking, he dropped the bucket and ran up the staircase to the open deck, bracing himself against the violent motion of the boat as the helmsman erratically spun the wheel to make the MTB as difficult a target as he could.
Above him he heard the howl of an aircraft engine running at full power, and as he looked up, a grey shape – the crosses on the wings identifying it immediately as a German fighter aircraft, though Dawson had no idea what type it was – swept past the MTB. The engine note changed as the fighter headed away from the boat. Then the aircraft started a steep climb, and Dawson guessed the pilot was probably swinging the aircraft round again for another strafing run.
He looked towards the stern of the MTB, which was still manoeuvring in an erratic zigzag pattern, the man at the helm doing his best to keep the boat out of the sights of the German fighter, and saw two of the crew bent over a third man who was moaning in pain.
There was nothing much he could do for the injured man – Dawson just had to hope that he wasn’t too badly hurt and that his shipmates were doing the right things to help him. His more immediate concern was the German fighter, now pulling out of a hard port turn and banking back around towards the MTB, obviously intending to attack again.
Two single Lewis machine guns, their top-mounted pan magazines and bulky cooling shroud around the barrel making them unmistakable, were positioned on swivel mounts just behind the entrance to the saloon. Dawson ran to the one on the port side, the one closest to the three men, but one look at the weapon told him he was wasting his time. One of the bullets from the German aircraft’s cannon must have hit near the breech, wrecking the mechanism and completely blowing the magazine off the weapon, turning it into no more than a piece of useless scrap metal.
He immediately reversed direction, ran to the starboard side of the MTB and grabbed the Lewis gun mounted there. He wasn’t particularly familiar with the weapon, though he had had a couple of sessions w
ith one on the range down near Hythe on the south coast. He checked that it was cocked and loaded, and then swung the barrel around to point at the oncoming aircraft. Dawson had no illusions about how successful he was likely to be firing such a small-calibre weapon – the British version of the Lewis gun fired only the .303 round, the same calibre as the Lee-Enfield rifle – against a fast-moving and highly manoeuvrable target like a German fighter, but he had to do something. He couldn’t just stand there on the stern of the MTB and wait for a bullet from the fighter’s wing-mounted cannons to blow him away.
When he estimated that the oncoming aircraft was about a couple of hundred yards away, he aimed the weapon, squeezed the trigger and directed short bursts of fire directly towards it. At the same moment, he saw the flickering from the wings of the fighter as the pilot unleashed his own, much heavier weaponry.
Bullets from the aircraft’s cannon splashed into the sea around the MTB and at least two hit the vessel somewhere near the bow. But the violent manoeuvring seemed to be working, because the torpedo boat was obviously changing position faster than the pilot could alter his aim. His wing-mounted guns were fixed, and to alter his sight picture he had to manoeuvre the whole aircraft to point at the target – not an easy task at high speed and low level.
The MTB swung hard over to port again. Dawson lost the sight picture and released the trigger. He grabbed the rail in front of him with one hand while he swung the weapon around towards the German fighter. For a brief moment, he acquired it in his sights and sent another stream of .303 bullets towards it at over 500 rounds a minute, the rapid crack-crack-crack of the light machine gun joined moments later by the heavier and deeper bark of the Oerlikon cannon mounted near the bow.
Then Dawson felt the Lewis gun stop as the last round from its 97-round pan magazine was fired. The weapon was fitted with the large magazine rather than the smaller 47-round version, probably because it was mounted rather than being man-portable. He hit the magazine release, dropped it on the deck and reached down below the mount, where two spare magazines were stored in a kind of rack. The fully charged magazine was heavy – the weight was all in the bullets – but he had no trouble snapping it into place and cocking the Lewis.
Then he looked around for a target.
The German aircraft was perhaps a quarter of a mile away. But the German pilot hadn’t finished with them. Moments later he jinked left and started to climb, then reversed direction and turned the fighter into a dive that would bring it back towards the MTB once again.
But as it did so, as the aircraft was straightening out for another strafing run, Dawson saw a sudden eruption of flame from its right wing. He guessed the pilot might have triggered a rocket. Somebody had told him that German aircraft had been fitted with those weapons. But what he didn’t see was the fiery trail that he expected a rocket would have followed.
And then, behind the attacking aircraft, perhaps a hundred yards or so, Dawson saw another fighter following the first, and both were heading directly towards the MTB.
‘Now we’re really in the shit,’ he muttered to himself as he tried to bring the Lewis machine gun to bear. But the angle was wrong. The weapon could swivel to cover the area to the stern and starboard side of the torpedo boat, but he couldn’t swing it far enough forward to engage a target approaching from the bow of the vessel.
The naval rating manning the forward Oerlikon cannon was still firing, but Dawson had no idea whether or not any of his bullets were hitting the oncoming German fighter.
But then something completely unexpected happened.
The leading fighter turned slightly to the right, and instead of straightening up, it continued rolling, and carried on until it was inverted; moments later it smashed into the sea in a massive explosion of water perhaps 150 yards to the left of the MTB. There was clearly no way the pilot could have survived the impact.
‘Bloody hell,’ Captain Michaels muttered, as he stepped up to stand beside Dawson. ‘We must have hit it.’
‘Fucking amazing if we did,’ Dawson replied, then apologized for the language he’d used. ‘Sorry about that, sir. I meant really amazing. But there’s another one coming at us,’ he added, pointing at the second fighter.
That aircraft was clearly on an attacking course, wings level, and travelling very quickly. They were looking straight at the front of the fuselage, and that meant that the MTB had to be right in the pilot’s sights.
Chapter 5
13 May 1940
North Sea
‘Shoot at it, man,’ Michaels ordered, ducking down beside the thin steel of the bridge of the vessel, an illusory shelter at best.
And because of the manoeuvres performed by the MTB, the aircraft was now within the available firing arcs for the weapon, so Dawson was able to do so, aiming the Lewis machine gun over the starboard side of the torpedo boat at the oncoming fighter.
‘Why isn’t he firing?’ Dawson wondered aloud, waiting for the optimum moment to engage the aircraft. And why wasn’t the rating manning the Oerlikon already shooting at the target? In fact, the gunner was shouting something at Dawson, his words lost in the roar of the MTB’s engines. Maybe his cannon had jammed. Perhaps the light machine gun was all they had left.
But the pilot still didn’t open fire. After a couple of seconds Dawson realized why and immediately released his grip on the weapon. At the same moment, he was finally able to make out what the rating on the foredeck was shouting at him.
‘Don’t shoot! It’s one of ours.’
‘That’s a Spitfire,’ Dawson said, the relief in his voice obvious, ‘and I’m betting he shot down that German aircraft, not us.’
The Spitfire howled past the starboard side of the MTB, the pilot waggling his wings in salute, then pulled the aircraft into a steep climb and vanished above the clouds a few moments later.
‘Thank God for that,’ Michaels said. ‘I really thought that was going to be the end of my personal war when I saw that second aircraft.’
Dawson bent down and picked up the empty magazine he had discarded and replaced it in the rack, before the manoeuvring of the MTB could throw it over the side. He had no idea where the spare ammunition was kept on the boat, so he couldn’t reload it.
The MTB settled onto a steady course to the north, and a minute or so later the lieutenant who had ordered Dawson and the two army officers to put on lifejackets walked down the stairs from the bridge and strode aft to check on the wounded man, who had now fallen silent.
Dawson and Michaels looked on, unable to provide any useful assistance, as the naval officer and the two crewmen applied rudimentary first aid. It was obvious that the man had been hit in the leg, and they could see that a tourniquet had already been applied by one of them above his left knee. A few moments later, the lieutenant returned, nodded to Dawson and spoke to Michaels.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks, luckily,’ he said. ‘One of the bullets from that Messerschmitt hit the Lewis gun, and he’s had his calf torn open by the ricochet. But it’s really only a deep and ragged flesh wound. We’ll be able to get him stabilized pretty quickly, I hope.’
And with that, he continued back up the steps towards the open bridge above the saloon.
‘Your seasickness not bothering you now, then, Dawson?’ Michaels asked.
‘Er, no. I suppose I had other things on my mind when that Jerry attacked.’
‘Well, we’ll never know if any of your bullets hit that German fighter, but my guess is that you’re right. I think the Spitfire was following it in and the RAF pilot was the one who should claim the kill. But it doesn’t matter who shot it down. We got away quite lightly in that encounter. Let’s hope we can avoid any other entanglements with the Luftwaffe until we reach Holland.’
Dawson didn’t know if it was the adrenalin released by the attack, or if he had just got used to the motion of the torpedo boat, but from that point onwards he was completely untroubled by any further bouts of seasickness. That meant he could discuss with M
ichaels and Barber the mission he had been volunteered to take part in, though the reality was that none of the three men actually knew precisely what they were getting themselves into. They had been told the approximate location of the targets, the various oil installations near Amsterdam, but had no idea about their composition, the numbers and sizes of the tanks, their configuration, or the distances between the various sites. And without that kind of information, trying to come up with any kind of a coherent plan to carry out the demolitions was clearly little more than a waste of time.
Remembering his recent experiences at the Maginot Line in France and at Fort-Eben-Emael in Belgium, where he and Major Sykes had encountered everything from indifference to outright hostility, Dawson voiced one obvious concern.
‘Just one point, sir. Bearing in mind that we’re being sent into Holland to blow up a whole bunch of oil tanks that presumably belong to the Dutch government or some big Dutch companies, do we know if anyone’s actually told the Cloggies that that’s what we’re going to do? And got their permission, like? I know they’re on our side, but I don’t suppose we’d be too impressed if a bunch of Frog sappers appeared in Portsmouth or Devonport and started blowing up our oil tanks.’
‘That, Dawson, is a very good question,’ Michaels said thoughtfully, ‘and I must admit that I have no idea what the answer is. That may be something we have to negotiate on the ground when we get there.’
‘I hope somebody’s already sorted that,’ Barber interjected. ‘If we have to start from scratch and try to convince some Dutch oil company official that completely destroying his business is a really good idea for the war effort, we’re never going to get anything done.’
Operation XD Page 3