Operation Diver

by Robert Jackson

  It began to rain again. Hardy switched on the windscreen wipers and their steady beat sent the water streaming in rivulets along the sides of the cockpit canopy. Peering ahead through the windscreen, Yeoman asked: ‘What’s that river up ahead, Happy?’

  “It’s the Ems. We’ll cross it about a mile south of a little hamlet called Dalum, and the target is exactly eighteen miles further on. I hope this weather doesn’t get any worse, though. Visibility’s down to about four miles already.’

  The navigator was right: a rainy mist was creeping over the forest that lay beyond the Ems. It would be touch and go whether they would reach the objective in time to make an accurate attack; the light was already beginning to fail and the cloud base seemed to be lowering.

  They roared across the river and drove on down a broad valley, flanked by masses of tall pines. For the first time, Yeoman broke radio silence.

  ‘Target ahead in four minutes. Attack formation. Watch out for high ground on either side of Berge.’

  The village was flanked by two large hills which had given it its name. The largest was 330 feet above sea level at its peak, rising above the tree-tops of the surrounding forest.

  To achieve maximum effect and accuracy Yeoman planned to attack in line astern, the Mosquitos plunging singly through the gap between the hills which, fortuitously, acted as a kind of built-in pointer to the location of the big house that was their target. The attack plan called for the pilots to drop their bombs from low level on to a concrete driveway that led up to the main door of the building; the bombs would then bounce through a short trajectory and impact on the walls of the house, it was hoped, with devastating effect. The ‘skip-bombing’ technique was not new; it had already been used with success in missions against small targets by other Mosquito squadrons of Second TAF, and by the Americans in anti-shipping attacks in the Pacific.

  Yeoman hoped that the first three or four Mosquitos, with himself in the lead, might be able to get through the gap and make their bomb runs before the flak gunners realized what was happening. They could then turn and silence at least some of the flak with their 20-mm cannon while the remainder of the squadron made their attacks. Each Mosquito would attack at a twelve-second interval behind the one ahead to avoid the explosions of the bombs, which were fitted with eight-second delayed-action fuses.

  The next few minutes would tell whether the plan was going to work.

  Yeoman took the Mosquito down to within a few feet of the valley floor and opened the throttles.

  ‘Here goes, Happy. Bomb-doors open.’

  The navigator reached forward and pulled the bomb-doors selector. There was the usual slight buffeting sensation as the doors came down, accompanied by a nose-up change in the trim of the aircraft, which the pilot quickly corrected.

  The Mosquito’s starboard wing-tip was almost brushing a line of pine trees. Hardy tensed involuntarily as they blurred past. This was the worst time for a navigator, who now had nothing to do but sit there and take whatever was coming to him.

  The gap between the two hills leaped towards them. Yeoman could already see the roofs of the village beyond; a moment later he saw the target, the big house situated on a slight rise at the fringe of the woods, just as it had appeared in the photographs. He gave a touch of left rudder, lining up the aircraft carefully as the distance narrowed.

  They were through the gap. As always, in these last few instants of a low-level attack, time seemed frozen. Small details, seen with remarkable clarity, impressed themselves indelibly on Yeoman’s brain. A squad of soldiers, marching up a village street, scattering as though in slow motion; a four-barrelled anti-aircraft gun, mounted on a tower, swinging round to track the hurtling Mosquito; the massive doors of the big house, flanked by french windows.

  He was barely conscious of pressing the bomb-release button. Then, as he pulled back the stick and took the Mosquito plunging over the roof of the house, a sudden violent jolt brought his mind back into proper focus again.

  ‘Christ, skipper,’ Hardy yelled, ‘that was close! You hit some sort of aerial — I think we’ve lost a bit of the starboard wing-tip!’

  Yeoman pulled the Mosquito round in a tight turn over the tree-tops, flying a curve around the village.

  ‘She’s responding okay,’ he told the alarmed navigator. ‘Look out for the flak posts, Happy.’

  He glanced back towards the house in time to see the double explosion of the bombs. Smoke, dust and chunks of flying masonry burst from the far end of the front wall.

  ‘Missed the front door, damn it,’ the pilot muttered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Warrant Officer Laurie’s Mosquito beginning its run, holding a dead straight course through a web of 20-mm flak shells which were now rising from all sides.

  There was no time to observe Laurie’s progress any further, because Yeoman’s attention was now occupied with a flak post on a small knoll by the edge of the woods. Diving down, he gave it a burst from his cannon and saw his shells explode among the gun crew, who collapsed like rag dolls.

  ‘Laurie’s through all right,’ Hardy shouted. ‘He hit it right on the nose!’

  Yeoman, turning in search of another target, suddenly broke hard right to avoid the third attacking Mosquito, flown by Pilot Officer Grinton. In the fraction of a second it remained in view, he saw a flak shell carry away its complete port wing outboard of the engine. Hardy, looking back, saw Grinton and his navigator die as the remains of their Mosquito veered to one side and crashed into a row of houses, disintegrating in a pillar of flame. A few moments later Pilot Officer Wallace, the fourth pilot in Yeoman’s section and a close friend of Grinton’s sped through the smoke of the latter’s funeral pyre; he released his bombs and jinked away over the trees, turning to join Yeoman and Laurie in their attacks on the gun positions.

  The corridor between the dark canopy of the pine forest and the lowering clouds was growing narrower with every passing minute, and was ablaze with glaring light as the four-barrelled ‘Vierling’ 20-mm flak guns threw their deadly umbrella over the village.

  Yves Romilly, leading the second section of Mosquitos, came through the storm and dropped his bombs on target despite being thrown temporarily off course by a shell that punched a big hole in his rudder. The Mosquito behind him, flown by Pilot Officer Crombie, was not so lucky; with both engines streaming flame, it rolled uncontrollably to the left and crashed in the forest, where it was obliterated by the explosion of its own bombs. Crombie’s sacrifice, however, probably saved Flight Sergeant Martinsen; the flak gunners, concentrating on Crombie’s flaming aircraft, completely ignored the Norwegian and he made his run unmolested, bouncing his bombs squarely into the pulverized ruin of the house.

  Five Mosquitos were now hammering at the flak batteries, working their way steadily in towards the village from the outer perimeter of gun posts and drawing fire away from the last section of Mosquitos, led by Tim Sloane. Both he and Flight Sergeant Lorrimer successfully ran the gauntlet and unloaded their bombs into the pall of smoke that now completely obscured the target, but Sergeant Hudson, bringing up the rear, never even reached the village.

  No one ever knew what happened. As it sped through the gap between the hills on the final run towards the target, Hudson’s Mosquito suddenly hit the ground and bounced high into the air. Yves Romilly, who saw it all, said later that it seemed as though Hudson was trying to regain control and make a forced landing, but the Mosquito ploughed into a line of trees and exploded.

  Yeoman used up the last of his cannon shells and turned steeply, his wing-tip almost brushing the tops of the pine trees, to make a low run over the target. Through the drifting smoke he saw that the house was a crumbled ruin, collapsed on itself. He was certain that nothing inside could have survived.

  He called up the other pilots and told them to climb up through the cloud, making rendezvous on top of it. They would fly back to Le Culot on a direct course, staying above cloud all the way and diving back into its shelter if they were attacked.
It was all they could do, for most of the Mosquitos were out of ammunition.

  They broke out of the cloud at eight thousand feet, the Mosquitos popping up one by one into the blinding glare of the setting sun. In formation once more, they flew low over the fleecy white peaks and valleys, like a school of flying fish skimming from wavecrest to wavecrest.

  Somewhere in the vicinity of Eindhoven, Yeoman called up base and learned that the cloud base was two thousand feet, giving them plenty of room for manoeuvre after descending through the murk. A ‘fix’ passed to them by Flying Control confirmed that they were right on course.

  Yeoman’s thumb hovered over the R/T button, ready to tell his pilots to begin their descent through the cloud and to spread out to reduce the risk of collision, but the words never came.

  At that moment, the fighters hit them.

  The first indication Yeoman had of impending danger came when the fuel tanks of Arthur Laurie’s Mosquito, a hundred yards away on the right, exploded in a splash of orange flame. An instant later, his own aircraft shook with a terrific concussion as something exploded on the starboard side of the fuselage. Splinters rattled against the armour plating of his seat, like stones on a tin roof.

  Frantically, he pulled the Mosquito round in the direction of the threat, just in time to see the three fighters before they plunged down into the cloud layer. There was just time, too, to see that they bore the black-and-white stripes of the Allied Expeditionary Air Force.

  They were American P-51 Mustangs…

  They had mistaken the Mosquitos for Messerschmitt 410s. It was the only possible explanation. Yet the attack had been inexcusable — as inexcusable as Yeoman’s own failure to keep a proper lookout.

  There was no time for self-recrimination now. Without further delay, he led the surviving Mosquitos down through the cloud, following the heading given to him by Hardy.

  The navigator was white-faced and shaking. Yeoman looked at him anxiously and asked if he was all right.

  Hardy smiled weakly. ‘Fine, skipper. Just fine. A bit shaken, that’s all. Just stop wandering off course, will you?’

  It was the first time Yeoman had ever seen Hardy smile.

  The six Mosquitos landed at Le Culot a few minutes later, in driving rain. Yeoman taxied to his dispersal and shut down the engines. He glanced over at the now silent Hardy, who was staring out of the side window of the cockpit.

  ‘Come on, Happy,’ the pilot said. ‘Open the hatch, will you? Let’s get some fresh air.’

  There was no answer. Yeoman reached out and shook the navigator by the shoulder, Hardy’s head rolled round towards him.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Yeoman said. ‘Oh, Jesus, no!’

  The navigator’s eyes were wide open, but there was no light in them. And it was only then that Yeoman saw the rent in Hardy’s flying jacket, and the congealed blood.

  Epilogue

  Yeoman sat in the darkness, staring disconsolately through the window of the little apartment in Earl’s Court into the greater darkness of wartime London, noting abstractly that the blackout was not as perfect as it might have been, for here and there a glimmer of light shone.

  His fingers played with the key Julia had given him at their last meeting, and he wondered yet again what could have happened to her. The apartment had been cold and miserable, as though no one had lived in it for weeks; that in itself was not strange, because he knew that Julia’s work as a correspondent often entailed lengthy absences.

  But this was 7 October, her birthday and the day they had arranged to meet, come hell or high water. As time went by he became more and more anxious, more apprehensive that something bad might have happened to her.

  There had been no message in the apartment; nothing to explain her absence. None of the neighbours had seen her for some time.

  He stared at the telephone, willing it to ring. It remained obstinately silent.

  After a while, he told himself that he was being a fool, that soon she would come in through the door, or at least give him a call. He got up, drew the curtains and lit the fire, for the October evening was chilly. Then he made himself a cup of tea and resumed his lonely vigil.

  *

  Two miles across London from the apartment, three men sat in a shabby, sparsely furnished room in Whitehall and listened to the sonorous boom of Big Ben. Automatically, they looked at their watches; it was 2000.

  Air Commodore Sampson was the first to speak. ‘In God’s name,’ he said quietly, ‘why 380 Squadron? And why Yeoman?’

  The man who answered him was silver-haired, with a fierce moustache. He spoke in clipped, precise tones.

  ‘Because we knew they could do the job better than anyone else, with his leadership. We had to be certain, you see, of utterly destroying the house and the people in it. I’m sorry about the losses the squadron suffered; I know that you hold it, and Yeoman, in high esteem. But the job had to be done.’

  ‘It just doesn’t seem right, somehow,’ Sampson muttered, ‘sending those chaps out to kill our own people. Especially in view of Yeoman’s involvement —’ He left the sentence unfinished, waving his hand instead over an open folder that lay on the table in front of him. It contained a photograph and some typewritten sheets of paper.

  ‘It was necessary,’ the silver-haired man said firmly. ‘Sooner or later, those SOE agents held captive in that house would have talked. We couldn’t take the risk.’

  The third man in the room spoke suddenly, in the soft drawl of the American south.

  ‘I think we owe the Air Commodore a little more explanation than that, Bernard,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’m laying my neck on the line by saying anything at all, but here goes anyway.’

  He looked hard at Sampson for a moment, then said:

  ‘The SOE operatives in question had been involved for some time in establishing contact with a small group of German scientists engaged in secret weapons research, Air Commodore. They were bitterly disillusioned with the Nazis, and as long ago as the autumn of 1943 had become convinced that Germany must lose the war, for humanity’s sake.’

  He leaned forward slightly in his chair, ‘They had already smuggled certain vital information out to us concerning new jet-and rocket-powered weapons,’ he continued. Then, a few months ago, we got a hint of something really big, a weapon so devastating that it will make the biggest bombs we’ve got seem like firecrackers. Air Commodore, have you ever heard of an atomic bomb?’

  ‘Well, I know the theory, of course,’ Sampson replied, ‘but I don’t see —’

  ‘The Germans are working hard to build one,’ the American interrupted.

  ‘The scientists I’m talking about are involved in the project. That’s why we’ve got to win the war soon, Sampson. Can you imagine the possible consequences if we don’t?’

  The Air Commodore nodded soberly.

  ‘Well,’ the American continued, ‘our German scientists realize the consequences too, and that’s why they decided to help us. We set up an SOE escape line for them, Sampson. but something went badly wrong and, as you know, some of our top operatives were captured.’

  He tightened his lips and drummed his fingertips on the table.

  ‘We had to kill them, Sampson. There was no alternative. You know the Germans’ interrogation methods. If they had learned the identities of the scientists who are helping us they would have executed them immediately — and we need those men. We need them because we must know about the German atomic project, and because their knowledge will be vital to us in other ways. Somehow, we’ll get them out.’

  ‘I see,’ the Air Commodore said slowly. ‘But…how can you be sure that your operatives hadn’t talked already — or that they were killed in the attack?’

  ‘They didn’t talk,’ the American said. ‘We’d have known. And nothing could have survived the attack. We’ve had a report from Berge.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Sampson said, half to himself. He looked down at the photograph in the folder.

  ‘Yeoman must never k
now the truth, of course.’

  ‘No,’ agreed the silver-haired man. ‘He must never know the truth.’

  He reached out and took the folder from in front of Sampson, stared at it for a moment, then rose and locked it away in the bottom drawer of a steel cabinet.

  The file on Madeleine Lefevre was closed.

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