The Perils and the Prize

by Jim Crossley

  Over the next three weeks the Ospreys practised the arts of close formation flying, an essential discipline in the Blenheims as their weak defensive armament made them easy meat for enemy fighters unless they flew closely grouped together. They made dummy bombing runs, practised air-to-air gunnery and honed their night-flying skills. The most exciting exercises of all were dummy attacks on shipping. Attempts to attack enemy ships using high-level bombing in the early months of the war had shown very clearly the inadequacy of existing bomb sights and bombing technique generally. Most of the missiles had landed too far away from the target to do the slightest damage. The RAF had no purpose-built dive bombers or torpedo carriers, so the only viable way to attack a ship was low-level bombing. For this, a force of several aircraft would attack the quarry from various directions, zooming low over the sea, releasing their bomb at the last minute, virtually hurling it onto the ship’s side, then pull up violently, skim over the enemy at masthead height and escape at full speed. This was a highly risky business and even practising it was dangerous. Two aircraft were lost as a result of pilots getting too low and striking the sea’s surface. William and his crew became quite adept at the technique although it was certainly a hair-raising experience for Willis, lying prone in the nose of the aircraft as it charged straight at the side of the target ship at over two hundred and fifty miles an hour.

  Training completed, the Ospreys were sent, to their disgust, not back to Lydd, in civilised Kent, but up to a remote station in northern Scotland, noted chiefly for its high winds and prodigious rainfall. William, however, was not to accompany them. Just before he was due to fly a new Blenheim Mark IV up to Scotland a telegram summoned him to a meeting in the Air Ministry. Willis and Hopson were also ordered to remain at Upwood; perhaps they would be sticking with their skipper.

  It was June 1940, German forces had stormed through Poland, Holland and Belgium. Norway and Denmark had fallen under Hitler’s yoke. France was on the brink of collapse and German generals were planning for a massive air attack on Britain to be followed by a full-scale invasion. William had not yet seen an enemy or fired a shot in anger. Why was he being diverted from his squadron? What on earth could the Ministry want with him?

  He had taken a stopping train to London and, as it paused at the stations on the way, something odd struck him. He could not fathom what it was but there was something familiar somewhere. On the underground the feeling was even stronger – strong enough to be even disturbing. Changing trains at Leicester Square, it suddenly struck him. It was the handsome face staring at him out of posters and billboards all over England. The face belonged to none other than his old friend from Chelsea days, Jacky. In the poster Jacky was dressed in a black leather jacket and wore a flying helmet with goggles pushed up over his forehead. A silk scarf flew elegantly from his neck. He was helping an impossibly beautiful young blonde into a racy-looking aeroplane. The film was showing in cinemas all over Britain and the United States.

  Chapter 6

  Hans was surprised and annoyed to find out that he did not have an appointment to an operational squadron, but to the Foreign Ministry in Berlin. He was briefly interviewed by a senior diplomat and then the thunderbolt struck: “Lieutenant von Pilsen, you are to take up the appointment as assistant air attaché in London. You are to report to Ambassador von Ribbentrop in London one week from today.” Hans was furious. He suspected his father had had a hand in this, taking him away from his friends and denying him a chance to fly in combat in order to mince about playing the diplomat so as to further his father’s career in some way. He stormed out of the ministry and made for the nearest bar to drown his sorrows. Slumped over a table with a pot of lager, he was struck by a new thought. Angela. Wasn’t she studying at Cambridge? That wasn’t far from London. His mood began to change. He downed his lager, stood up straight, glanced at himself in the mirror on the wall and strode off to prepare for his journey.

  The German Embassy in London in 1937 was not a happy establishment. Joachim von Ribbentrop, the ambassador, was described as a man who one only had to know to dislike intensely. He was routinely rude and discouraging to his inferiors, dishonest and insulting to tradesmen and devious in his dealings with his equals. Only one thing really mattered to him and that was to find new ways of flattering and pleasing Hitler. If the news was bad from the German point of view, he didn’t report it. If things were not as Hitler expected, he would twist the report until they were. Above all he would somehow bend the story so as to emphasise the brilliant insights of the Fuhrer. Ribbentrop also totally misunderstood British society and where power lay within it. He had fawned on King Edward VIII and is even rumoured to have had an affair with the odious Mrs Simpson. He tried to cultivate parliamentarians and peers simply because they were rich or titled. He wormed his way into endless dinners and impressed his fellow diners only with his arrogance and stupidity. All this did not prevent him from being highly influential in Nazi circles; indeed it was widely expected that he would at some point become Minister of Foreign Affairs. It was for this reason that Hans’ father, Albricht, had sought to ingratiate himself with this loathsome being by getting his son, so handsome, so wholesome and so typically German, into the embassy.

  On arrival Hans had a brief and unpleasant meeting with the ambassador, then reported to Major von Stokenbach, the air attaché. The major turned out to be a man much more to his liking. He had distinguished himself as a fighter pilot in1917 on the western front and had become an expert on all aspects of military aviation. His brief to Hans was simple:

  “You have two missions. The first is get to know as many people in the upper ranks of English society as you can so as to understand their thinking, especially about relations with Germany. The second is to find out as much as possible about radio detection systems. We know they have been working on a system of some sort. We have people working in the same sphere, and although I don’t know any details, I am sure that we are ahead in this, but we need to know how far they have got. It is reported that your English is perfect and I can see that you will have no difficulty in establishing yourself in the best circles. Keep your eyes and ears open and ask questions. Something is bound to emerge.”

  The brief suited him fine. Angela could possibly introduce him into society and as for the radar, well, he would just have to see.

  He couldn’t have picked a better time to call Angela. His hasty postcard from Berlin had just arrived and when he telephoned, she was delighted. “Oh, I’m so glad. How wonderful. Look, I know it’s short notice but can you come to a May Ball at Trinity on Saturday as my partner, my wretched brother, can’t make it and we will be such a jolly party. There’s going to be Freddy, the Marquis of Blakeney, young George Alresford and Selina, you know I told you about her, her father owns half of Devonshire? Oh, it would be such fun if you came.”

  What could be a better introduction to British society? And all at the embassy’s expense.

  The May Ball lived up to expectations. Angela was sweet and affectionate but at the same time did not fail to be charming to all the rest of the party. She had been at Cambridge for five years now, first as an undergraduate and then studying for her PhD in history and had an enormous circle of friends. She made a great effort to introduce Hans to as many people as possible so that his poor brain became overloaded trying to remember names, titles and interesting titbits. They danced, dined, danced again and punted dreamily up the Cam for breakfast at Grantchester. Hans thought he had never in his life been happier, or in more civilised company. He just loved the casual yet elegant atmosphere, the magnificent buildings, the odd sort of way in which these strange British people seemed to communicate, almost wordlessly or with forms of words that only they could interpret. On his part he attracted plenty of attention for his good looks, his ready humour and his courteous manner. He made no attempt to pump anyone for their political views, although he got the impression that these people were mostly strongly anti-war, unsurprisingly anti-communist and had a sn
eaking admiration for National Socialism. When asked about German affairs, he never had any difficulty in dodging awkward questions and diverting the conversation by telling stories about flying or about hunting in the forests. This was not an occasion for serious politics.

  The following day was given over to sleeping, Hans in his hotel and Angela in her college, then a wonderful intimate dinner together in the evening in a quiet restaurant. They talked about the people they had met at the ball and what they did, then wandered together down The Backs and then all the way to the gates of Girton College, forbidden to men, kissing discreetly outside the gates as they said goodnight.

  Angela had to work on her thesis the next day, and Hans could spend it alone in Cambridge. Wandering aimlessly around, he arrived at the Pickerel pub just outside Magdalene College and dropped in for a pint. One thing which astonished him about England was the warm, bitter beer and he never managed to develop a taste for it. Listening idly to the chatter at the bar he was suddenly brought out of his reverie by a nearby conversation.

  “Yes,” said one young man to his friend. “I spend a lot of time at Bawdsey now. We’re working on a system to pick up radio frequency echoes. There’s lots of Air Force people involved, but they need physics specialists to do the technical stuff. We go to the site every weekend and in the vac. They pay your expenses of course. Bawdsey Manor is certainly worth the visit. There is the lab work, of course, but there are wonderful tennis courts, and you can swim in the sea or play jolly games of cricket in the afternoon. And I really think we are onto something there. You know we can pick up aircraft miles away out to sea. They are going to start building towers and a proper aerial soon, and the physics is fascinating. You remember Keystone-Watts who was up a couple of years ago? Well, he’s a leading light there now. If you are interested, I’ll have a word and we’ll see if we can get you in.”

  The conversation then drifted off into megacycles and kilowatts which Hans couldn’t understand. But he had heard enough. Bawdsey Manor was going to have a visitor.

  Stokenbach and Hans planned the next move. It was decided that Hans should take a seaside cottage in Suffolk for a month and sniff around to see what he could find out. His chief warned him to be careful. “Remember,” he said, “you are a diplomat not a spy. There must be no question of break-ins or anything like that. Just listen and report back, that is our role, nothing more.”

  Shoreside Cottage nestled at the end of the village of Bawdsey itself, just over a mile from Bawdsey Manor. It belonged to Mrs Smithers, a widow who lived next door and used Shoreside as a nice little source of income during the summer. She looked after the cottage herself and provided a cooked breakfast and evening meal when asked. The perfect spot for a gentle summer holiday. You could walk along the cliffs northwards towards Orford or south to the river Deben which wound through woodland and fields up towards Woodbridge. Everywhere you looked, there was history. Martello Towers had guarded the coast from the supposed danger of attack by the French in the days of Napoleon. In the river, fierce battles had been fought against invading forces of Vikings and Danes. A few miles inland, at Sutton Hoo, a marvellous treasury of ancient jewellery lay waiting to be unearthed and, underfoot, the red cliffs concealed relics of a far far older time in the form of the fossilised remains of terrible prehistoric beasts. You could enjoy seaside or country walks, bathe in the sea, sail in the river, or watch the myriads of sea birds wheeling and calling overhead. The manor was a frequent topic of local conversation. There were all sorts of rumours as to what went on there; the local consensus was that it was being used to train spies. Certainly car loads of strange unmilitary-looking young men went in and out, and could be seen swimming off the private beach, playing cricket, and strolling in the grounds. They seldom visited any local pubs or cafés, and when they did they were remarkably silent about their work.

  Hans liked Shoreside as soon as he saw it. Not only would it suit his official purpose, but it could perhaps be used to further his relationship with Angela. In those days it was unthinkable that an unmarried couple should share a holiday cottage, but if her brother was able to come too…? It went like clockwork. Rory, her younger brother, was a keen sailor and jumped at the possibility of a few weeks on the Deben. Angela herself was still in college, trying to write her thesis, and it was easy to convince her that a change of scene would make the work go better. Hans promised her that he would leave her alone most of the day, either sailing with Rory or – here he invented a new hobby for himself – looking for fossils in the clay cliffs. Mrs Smithers would provide the meals and the German Embassy would be paying most of the bills as the fossil hunt was disguised as an attempt to further cultural relations.

  Hans arrived a week before the other two and started immediately on his work. He tried every trick he could think of to see inside the manor, but every possible access or viewpoint was blocked. Soldiers and police were posted at the only entrance. Wire on the beach made it impossible to approach that way, and even when he hired a rowing boat from near the Felixstowe ferry, he found that a motor boat was on constant patrol offshore to ensure that passing craft kept their distance. Visiting the local pubs, hotels and cafes proved equally fruitless. The manor and its works seemed completely cut off from the outside world. This was disheartening, but towards the end of the week his mind was concentrated on other, non-military affairs.

  The house had to be made fit for Angela. A typical German, Hans had high standards in respect of tidiness, much higher than those of Mrs Smithers. Everything had to be taken down, dusted and polished. Flowers had to be bought and placed in her room. Bath towels and swimming towels had to be procured. A work room had to be designated and suitably furnished, an old writing desk had to be borrowed from the Smithers household. Hans nearly ruptured himself moving the thing into its place in the new study. He even insisted on replacing the bedroom curtains so that they matched the bedspread. There were long consultations as to the content of the welcoming meal. Eventually a freshly caught local sea bass was procured and prepared for the table.

  The first evening was wonderful. A calm, gentle dusk replaced a wet and windy day, and the three sat outside after their meal, enjoying a glass of port provided by Rory and listening to the steady beat of the gentle breakers on the beach. The men enjoyed cigars, and Angela sat relaxed and contented beside them, enjoying the wine and the delightful seaside air. She tried not to think about her thesis, (the subject was the influence of the renaissance scholar Erasmus on the reformation in Scandinavia) which was not going well. Rather, she let herself enjoy to the full the company of her beloved younger brother and this wonderful German man whom she adored. He was no equal to her in education or in intellect, but he had something about him which made her feel complete, secure. His powerful body, strong face and commanding but gentle manner gave him a degree of manliness, of authority, which she had never seen before. For all his seriousness he still had a delightful touch of humour and an ability to laugh at himself as heartily as he laughed at others. What more could a girl ask? Rory and Hans soon found common ground between them. Like Hans, Rory had been thrust into a legal career by his parents (Father was a High Court judge) and found the training inexpressibly boring. He loved the outdoors, sailing, hunting in winter and rock climbing in Wales and in the Alps. He longed for an excuse to escape from the law and do something more suited to his active nature. By bedtime he and his host had formed the basis of a firm friendship.

  The days which followed were blissful for the two men. Rory had arranged to borrow a half-decked sailing boat from an old school friend and there were glorious days spent sailing up to Orford Ness, exploring the Deben and the muddy waters of the Orwell and the Stour. They caught fish, drank beer in most of the local pubs and bathed in the chilly North Sea. In the evenings they would be back to the cottage tired and hungry, but ready to drag Angela away from her books and down for a bathe or a game of tennis on a grass court belonging to a local big house which Mrs Smithers “did for”. The
only shadow over these blissful days was Angela’s mood. She was working hard all day and seemed to be progressing. She was loving and thoughtful with Hans and obviously adored her brother, but something was wrong. She spent an inordinate amount of time poring over the newspapers, and after the others had gone to bed they often heard her moving about in her room, still trying to work or fiddling with the radio. She seemed obsessed with listening to the BBC news bulletins. She was often silent and preoccupied at meals. Increasingly, she looked tired and distraught when the boys came home. What could be the matter?

  Hans had not altogether forgotten the purpose of his mission. He was forcefully reminded of it by the sight of a strange structure being erected in the grounds of the manor. It looked like the beginnings of a tower of some sort; it was certainly too tall to conceal behind the defences of the manor grounds. Making the excuse that he really must do some fossil hunting, he arranged for a couple of days by himself while Rory sailed single-handedly. First of all he went to a little stall on the beach and bought a few fossils and a handbook in case anyone asked him what he had been up to. Next, he found a site near the approach road to the manor where he could see what went in and out. He settled in comfortably, pretending now to be a bird watcher, equipped as he was with powerful binoculars. Several anonymous cars drove up and a couple of RAF wagons, then he noticed a rather battered Bedford lorry with the name of a building contractor painted on the side. A few minutes later another similar vehicle pulled into the gates. It seemed to be loaded with steel girders. Maybe this had something to do with the mysterious new structure. Patiently, Hans watched the road all day. No one seemed to have noticed him and his main difficulty was keeping alert and awake. At about five thirty in the afternoon, both trucks pulled out of the gate. Out of boredom more than anything else, he ran to his car and followed the two Bedfords down the road. To his delight they both pulled into a pub car park a few miles away and the drivers got out and seemed to be waiting for opening time. Noting the name of the company, J Newheart of Lowestoft, Hans thought he had done enough for the day and returned to the cottage. The next evening he made a visit to the same pub at opening time. Sure enough, the two trucks were parked outside with the drivers enjoying a refreshing beer before setting off home.