made it a best-of-breed fighter-bomber. With heavy armament of four
20 mm cannon in the belly of the fuselage and an additional four .303
caliber machineguns in the nose, it was a fearsome fighting machine
capable of smashing enemy tanks and locomotives in ground-attack and
close support capacity. Variants of it served as light bombers, night
fighters, and in infantry support duties. It was the bomber of choice
for long-range special missions.
It was bitterly cold that early morning on the last day of January in the Year of Our Lord 1943. Decisive victories at Alamein and Stalingrad had seemingly halted the Axis steamroller dead in its tracks, but thus far the Nazi killing machine had shown no sign of rolling over and playing dead. On the contrary, the torrent of shrill propaganda out of Berlin took on even more bloodcurdling stridency as the rulers of the Master Race spouted dire threats and hinted darkly at assorted mayhem and frightful secret weapons.
"Dave! Dave! Answer! Answer me!"
"Sorry, my mind must have been wandering. Whaddya want, Freddy?"
"Are you all right, Dave? We took quite a jolt there. Right after swatting that Messerschmitt on our tail, we ran into heavy flak. Bounced us around good, it did. I thought for a moment that you'd caught a bump on the head, or worse."
"I'm fine, Freddy, tiptop. If the Nazis want to nail me, they'll have to use a bigger hammer. What's our status?"
"We should be coming up on target directly. That was the Havel Canal we just passed over, down below. Say another minute or so if your navigation is spot on."
"Right. Let me take another fix. Very good. Correct your heading two degrees east northeast."
"Done. And look, there it is, Dave, up ahead, the flaming Flakturm, Hitler's fulminating fountain of flak. What say we scramble them a couple of our eggs and pepper the lot with a sprinkle of Hispano 20 mm cannon shot for flavor."
"Your mission, Leftenant Farmer, Arnold had continued, "shall be to neutralize the central Flakturm -- the flak tower, in the common parlance -- which might otherwise pose a bit of a nuisance for the remainder of the squadron. For this purpose, your aircraft shall carry four specially modified TH-3I thermit-payload incendiary rockets as well as one of the experimental bunker buster devices that have so impressed the boffins. You will be expected to photograph the effects of the bombing and to submit a detailed report forthwith following your return. Questions?"
"Colonel, those blooming behemoths of flaming flak are monolithic mounds of rigid rebar-reinforced concrete, or so we were given to understand. How could we ought but scratch them with our puny little darts and rockets?"
"Your concern is understandable, if somewhat misplaced. If you would kindly examine the recon photographs . . ." He handed Freddy a bulky hand-held magnifier. ". . . You can discern radar antennas cleverly concealed beneath an armor-reinforced cupola. Aforesaid radar installations function as the eyes and ears of multiple 128-mm rapid-fire anti-aircraft cannon. And that, my dear fellow, just happens to be the Achilles heel of these flak towers."
"And these thermit rockets can penetrate the armored cupola, sir?"
"Indeed. Due to chemical augmentation with sulphur and barium nitrate, they burn at sufficient heat to melt through hardened steel plate as easily as a heated blade would through paraffin wax. Assuming a direct hit on the cupola, of course. Near-misses would unfortunately have little or no effect."
The flak towers, or Flaktuuml;rme, were massive antiaircraft
blockhouses constructed of reinforced concrete. Hitler diverted
significant resources for building eight of these towers, and while
they represented a real danger to aircraft flying within range of
their rapid-fire cannon, there were not enough of these towers built to
constitute an effective shield against the Allied bomber streams. While
many bombers were shot down by flak, it failed to prevent cumulative
and ultimately crippling damage to German industry and urban areas. The
general consensus is that the drain on German resources caused by the
building of the flak towers far outweighed their benefits as a defense.
CHAPTER 2: Begging Your Pardon For Showing Up On Your Doorstep Unannounced
"Yonder's the target -- Friedrichshain Flakturm. Those ominous black puffs at four o'clock give me cause to speculate that the flak gunners haven't fallen asleep, more's the pity."
"Right-o, Dave. Ride getting a bit choppy, wot? Tally ho!"
The Mosquito had heeled over into a near-vertical dive. Their 20 mm Hispano cannons were thumping away rhythmically, if only to remind the plane spotters atop the flak tower to keep their bloody Nazi swine heads down. The airstream shrieked past the bomber and the horizon expanded alarmingly as the altimeter wound down with sickening rapidity. Straining against the seat straps, Dave squinted through the concentric rings on the targeting sight, then slowly clenched fist on the release button. He must have been holding his breath because the tension in his chest released like an overtightened spring. "Bombs away! Rockets away! Let's drive this old rattletrap home."
Blinding flashes smeared across the top of the Flakturm, and the flak abruptly died down. But, now there was a jagged chunk missing from the port wing of the Mosquito and the plane was shuddering. Freddy struggled to hold on to the yoke. "Caught a nasty one there. Must have cut a control cable, the blighters. Hold on to your hat, Dave!"
Inside a little church in Jena, a hundred and twenty miles further
south, eight-year-old Ulrike Meinhof hears the distant thud of
explosions. The long, droning morning sermon is finally dragging to
an end and she has several times suppressed yawns. She wishes she had
her rag doll with her. No, those noises couldn't be bombs dropping,
the people in neighboring pews were whispering. Fat Hermann would
never permit Englische Flugzeuge to penetrate this far into
the Fatherland. Ulrike wasn't concerned. Her Stiefmutti would never
allow bombs or nasty Engländer to harm her. All must be
fine and in Ordnung with the world, and if it wasn't, why then
you couldn't very well trust anything or anyone, now could you?
In the Baltic seacoast village of Peenemünde a young scientist
idly twiddles the tuning knob of the big shortwave radio console in
his office. Perplexed, because the scheduled broadcast of Goering's
speech seems somehow to have been delayed, Wernher scratches his head
and considers yet again whether his Wonder Weapons will be enough to
knock out the British and prevent the hordes of Russian barbarians from
overrunning the Fatherland. If aim at the stars, he wonders,
will I sometimes hit London?
In a prison cell somewhere in Berlin, an American-born woman sits
hunched over and awaits the verdict of the court. She hears aircraft
engines overhead, but they are of no concern to her. Born 41 years
earlier in Milwaukee, Mildred Fish had met Arvid Harnack, a German
exchange student from a prominent family, and subsequently married
him. She and her husband were patriots. Together, they had actively
participated in the Red Orchestra spy ring. They had been instrumental
in feeding strategic information to the Soviet Union because Nazi
Germany had become a criminal regime. Her husband has been executed
late last year and a court has sentenced her to six years. Hitler has
rejected the court's sentence as too lenient and demanded the death
penalty. It is likely that she will soon face the guillotine.
Oberleutnant Franz Strauss slowly rises from the hard wooden Second
Class bench seat as the train sits halted on the tracks leading into
Anhalter
Bahnhof, in the center of Berlin. This is apparently an
air raid warning, an all too frequent occurrence lately. Sitting and
waiting is difficult because frostbite injuries are still bothering
him, though they seem finally to be responding to treatment. In any
case they have resulted in at least a temporary reprieve from the
Russian Front. He stands, then fretfully paces the narrow aisle between
two rows of murmuring passengers. He is as patriotic as anyone else
in his unit, but it is becoming increasingly obvious that the war
could not be won and he is grateful for the temporary reprieve from
dodging shellbursts and snipers' bullets. Perhaps, he thinks, perhaps
he should begin considering what to do after the hostilities came
to an end, assuming he survives, of course. Teaching sounds good --
an educated German could always find work as a teacher -- but on the
other hand there is the lure of politics. Though only the son of a
butcher, he is well-liked in his native Munich and seems to have an
inborn talent for leadership. And whatever the outcome of the war,
there will be plentiful opportunities for an ambitious man with his
skills for persuasion and hard-headed politics.
Somewhere in an obscure corner of the far suburb of Lichtenrade,
a scant 45 minute excursion on the S-Bahn from Berlin's fashionable
Kurfürstendamm, there squats a dilapidated cement mushroom that
happens to be an asylum for the criminally insane. Inside, confined in
a bleak, securely locked cell, Rudy Ditzen stares blankly at the meager
breakfast portion slowly congealing on a battered tin plate. He startles
to the anguished scream of tortured aircraft engines overhead. Secretly
writing a novel in code to confound his jailers demands every iota
of his concentration, and he can't let himself be distracted by the
tumult up above. Resist, he thinks, always resist! Whatever
else my tormentors do to me, I am still and always Hans Fallada.
The plane was shaking itself apart, and they were rapidly losing altitude. There was a muffled boom and the port engine began trailing dense black smoke. "That tears it!" Freddy yelled. "We can't stay with this bus any longer, blast it! Prepare to abandon ship!"
Dave tightened the parachute harness and reached for the Sten machine pistol that he had, in blatant violation of squadron regulations, smuggled aboard. After too many previous stints as a prisoner of war, he had sworn that the Nazis would never take him alive again. Never! And this time it was doubly true . . . because he knew too much.
"And as for you, Captain Dawson, you shall accompany Leftenant Farmer
in the multiple roles of observer, navigator, and gunner. Have you
recovered sufficiently from your injuries to carry out this
assignment?"
"Yes, sir!"
"You have been informed that this is a particularly hazardous mission,
and that no one would hold it against you if you declined to take
part."
"Perish the thought, sir! Whatever else I am, I'm certainly no coward.
My record speaks for itself, and it's likewise a question of
reputation and honor. Not to mention that my family and friends
would expect no less of me."
"Can you think of any other reason why you should not be sent on this
mission? For example, are you by chance in possession of confidential
information that could be compromised if you are captured?"
"Uh, no . . . no, sir!"
"All right then, that's that. Of course there remains the question
of how competent you Americans are going to be at this bombing
business. I understand that was a bit of a dust-up your people got
into over Rouen."
"That was the first American bombing mission under combat conditions,
sir, and it went remarkably well, considering our lack of experience."
"Quite so. Well then, carry on."
The nose hatch abruptly popped open and Freddy had to shout to make himself heard above the blast of wind. "After you, Dave! Easy! Easy does it."
Dave froze up momentarily, then lost his grip on the edge of the hatch. The slipstream tumbled him backwards, and he gyrated out of control through the air, barely missing a fatal collision with the tailfin. Falling downward, somersaulting head over heels, he strained to spreadeagle arms and legs. This finally stabilized him, and he plunged toward earth feet first and groped blindly for the ripcord. The brutal shock of the parachute canopy jerking open was like being slammed over the head with a baseball bat. He looked back over his shoulder and saw Freddy floating down majestically under his own canopy.
Altitude about 50 feet and still no one in sight down below. Good. He landed hard, fell onto his side and bruised some ribs, then rolled sideways several times. The bullet wound in his thigh was throbbing, but no longer as painful. Sten gun still strapped tight to his left leg and three clips of ammo in the bosom pocket of his coveralls. He loaded a clip into the Sten. He must not be taken prisoner. Must not!
Gather up the parachute. Quickly! Now to bundle it up and bury it. Not enough time! Rapidly approaching footsteps! Coming this way! Shouts! Halt! Halt, oder wir schiessen!
Lying behind a low dirt mound, Dave watched the uniformed troopers deploy. Must be at least a squad, possibly an entire platoon. No chance to evade! What to do?
Have to take a crazy risk. No other choice! None!
There were three soldiers on the extreme right flank. They had split off from the rest. Good. Got to try it!
Dave took the silencer out of a snap-pocket on his Sam Browne belt. He thanked whatever crazy urge had impelled him to take it along. Carefully, carefully thread it onto the end of the barrel of the Sten. It would compromise the accuracy of his shooting, but might just give him an outside chance at staying free.
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Dave crabbed his way forward on his belly toward the three soldiers. They were momentarily distracted by the wild yells of their mates, who had apparently located Freddy. Now! Muffled pops as he sprayed short bursts at the three soldiers. They collapsed in slow motion without any fuss. He dragged the nearest of the bodies behind a grove of trees and hurriedly stripped it.
The uniform hung a bit loose on him and there were a few barely noticeable bloodstains on the fabric. Best to dump the Sten. It had done its job, and done it well, but the deceased soldier's Mauser carbine would complete the disguise. Just one more thing. Maybe unscrew the detonator caps on a couple of potato masher grenades. Just in case.
His luck was holding. There was a Kübelwagen, a German military "bucket-wagon," parked a couple of hundred yards back. Two troopers were sitting in the front, one of them talking into a radio mike. All right, bluff it out.
"Hören Sie mal, sie haben meinen Kumpel erschossen . . . they shot my mate, Corporal Mittwoch. Yes, the englische Flieger. Da drüben!. Over in that direction. Hurry!"
"Also, einsteigen! Hop in, soldier!"
The bucket-wagon zoomed off in a cloud of dust, with Dave hanging on for dear life in the back seat as they careened along the bumpy gravel road between sparse stands of leafless trees and bleak fields of stubble. He raised the Mauser, then slowly lowered it. It was just too darned risky. If he took out the driver, the car could well overturn, with highly uncertain results. Best to wait.
What? What was this? Another bucket-wagon was rapidly overtaking them. Its horn was blaring non-stop. Now they were slowing to a halt. What was going on? Was this about to turn sour?
"Du! Aussteigen! Aber schnell! You! Get out of the car! Now!"
There were two German MPs, accompanied by a rather saturnine individual sporting a ragged, sinister-looking scar down his face that di
storted his coarse features into a caricature of the sort of demon face one might expect to see in a Hieronymus Bosch painting. He wore a dead-black uniform with gleaming lightning-flash insignia. SS? Gestapo? It was beginning to look bad, quite bad indeed.
The situation was rapidly deteriorating. Dave sat beside the SS man. His arms were handcuffed tightly behind him and he was in a great deal of discomfort. His bruised ribs sent rhythmic spasms of agony through him, and the wound in his thigh had begun to seep blood. They were jolting along much too fast on a potholed cobblestone street and he had to clench his teeth to keep from biting his tongue. One of the soldiers in front turned around and leered at him. "Englischer spion, nie?" English spy! They had him dead to rights. Nailed! It had been madness, sending him on this mission, madness!
CHAPTER 3: Could This Be This the End?
The interrogator fastidiously removed the monocle from his eye and in a droning monotone repeated the question. "And what exactly do you know about the so-called Tube Alloys project?" Freddy groaned inwardly. He had unwittingly unearthed a Most Secret feasibility study on Britain's atom splitting project while rifling a locked filing cabinet in the Air Ministry. Dave had dared him to discover what their next assignment might be, and in a silly-drunk and inexcusably foolish moment he had used an improvised pick to spring the lock and . . .
Dave Dawson Over Berlin Page 2