by Lee Jackson
“I did.” Paul’s stomach churned with apprehension.
“You studied quantum physics?”
“Just the basics. The deep material was over my head.”
“Do you know what heavy water is?”
“It’s where the hydrogen atoms that combine with oxygen to make up water have an extra neutron in their nuclei. Heavy water weighs significantly more than regular water does, and theoretically, it’s a crucial ingredient in producing an atomic reaction.”
“Correct. The largest and really only plant that produces sufficient quantities of heavy water to initiate a reaction is in the Telemark region of Norway.”
“Norway.” Paul’s forehead furrowed with intense thought. Then he spoke slowly. “Germany occupied that country five months ago.”
Stephenson nodded with satisfaction. “Now you see the depth of the problem. The scientist, Dr. Niels Bohr, is doing his most advanced research on developing atomic power less than five hundred miles away in Copenhagen, Denmark, which the Nazis also control. Bohr is an idealist who believes that scientific discoveries should be shared with everyone. He does not see the danger posed by the country that controls his own.”
“You’re saying that Bohr might be close to unlocking the potential for an atomic explosion, that he needs heavy water, and that Adolf Hitler controls both the production facility and the laboratory where the doctor does his research. So, the war’s just begun and could run for years, Hitler could be close to achieving an atomic bomb, and the critical issue appears to be producing and transporting sufficient quantities of heavy water.”
“You put it succinctly. That’s why Roosevelt willingly cooperates with us and will allow the intelligence setup in New York. Information is our edge.”
“But if Hitler has such advanced technology—”
Once more, Stephenson displayed his enigmatic smile. “Ah, Captain, of what use is an asset if the owner lacks faith in it?”
Paul took a step back, bewildered. “Are you saying that Hitler is close to an atomic bomb but either doesn’t know it or has no faith in the technology?”
“It’s somewhat worse than that. Last year, another physicist in America, Dr. Albert Einstein, wrote a letter to Roosevelt warning of atomic munitions. His statement to the president was that one such bomb could wipe out New York City.”
Watching Paul’s stunned face, he continued, “You might not know this next bit of information. Four places in the world where the most advanced atomic research is being conducted are in London, Oxford, Cambridge, and Liverpool.” He paused for effect. “If Hitler takes England, he takes those facilities.”
Talons seemed to seize Paul’s psyche. He deliberately calmed himself with a deep breath.
“In his letter, Einstein recommended that the president appoint a personal representative to liaise with physicists and other scientists working on this type of research to stay abreast of developments. Our agreement with Roosevelt requires sharing all relevant intelligence that comes our way, and his representative will liaise with us and our scientists. But the agreement goes beyond that.” He took a sip of tea.
“To spell things out more clearly, if Hitler takes England, he will have his grip around the technology he needs to create such a bomb, and the key ingredient coming from Norway. Our saving grace is that the Vemork facility is in an extremely remote area of Norway, at the 60-Megawatt Vemork power station at the Rjukan waterfall. Currently, production levels are insufficient for German purposes, and increasing capacity is difficult. At some point, we’ll have to destroy current production and render the plant inoperable.”
Paul leaned forward with narrowed eyes. “Assuming the worst, what then?”
Stephenson studied him. “You’re taking this calmly enough.”
“What choice do I have? We’re all in this together. I have faith in Mr. Churchill, and by extension, in you. Have you told me the bottom line yet?”
Stephenson smiled slightly. “Good question. I’ll put it this way: if England falls, the world is almost lost, but not quite.” He rested his elbows on the table and pointed both index fingers toward Paul. “Great Britain must not be allowed to fall, no matter the cost. Do you see that?”
“Of course.”
“Good. So does Mr. Churchill, Mr. Roosevelt, and the king. That was a major reason for forming the SOE, or as we call its people, the Baker Street Irregulars”—he chuckled—“with respect to Sherlock Holmes.”
He continued in his quiet, serious tone, “In the PM’s words regarding SOE, the idea is to ‘set Europe ablaze’ with guerilla warfare. If the worst happens and Germany occupies England, the war will continue—as a guerrilla war. It’ll be run out of offices we’ve established at Rockefeller Center in Manhattan, New York. The Home Guard is training squads all over the country to hide in well-prepared positions. If Germany invades, when its forces approach and move past one of these areas, our boys will attack from behind.”
Paul shook his head slowly as the scope of what he had just learned settled in. “Is there any light at the end of this tunnel?”
“We think so, but no effort can be spared. At present, Hitler is more interested in conquering islands and continents, making things go boom in Britain, developing his rocketry, and of course, purifying the Aryan race. He’s shown little personal interest in what’s going on at Dr. Bohr’s facility. That’s not to say that others on his staff are not keenly aware and interested.
“At present, his atomic capabilities are a trinket on his necklace of conquests—and we know it. Intelligence is our edge. But think of the implications of his toying with putting an atomic bomb on those rockets he’s developing. If he manages to build them and make them work, at some point, his attention will turn to the potential warhead.”
Paul stood stock-still as the notion sank in.
Stephenson stood and stretched. “Hitler’s attitude regarding atomic research is intelligence that we possess. We have to keep him thinking the way he currently seems to while we play catch-up in war-fighting capability and plan how to take away his trinket. That’s our main objective.”
He looked at his watch. “Time for me to catch my flight. I hope you pick up good information at the Group 11 bunker tomorrow. Beyond an exercise, the report you wrote carried valuable observations and recommendations. I’ll see you in three days.”
46
September 15, 1940
11 Group Bunker, Uxbridge, northeast of London, England
A woman greeted Paul as he reached the top stair of the gallery overlooking the control room floor. “I see you survived last night’s bombing. I am Flight Officer Northbridge.”
Paul regarded the WAAF in blue uniform standing before him. She had smooth skin, blue eyes, and dark hair pulled in a bun behind her china-doll face. He guessed that she was a year or two younger than he.
He cocked his head with a sardonic smile and shook her hand. “Nine nights in a row. I’m amazed how our people take it, buttoned up at night and leading life during the day like nothing has happened.”
“Keep calm and carry on, right. I’m your escort for today. We received word through Chief Air Marshal Dowding’s office that you were coming. Air Vice-Marshal Park sent down word that Sir Dowding was impressed with your report and that we were to lend all assistance.”
“That’s very kind,” Paul replied, shaking her hand. “Is this your normal duty station?”
“It is. Please follow me.”
Paul had been impressed watching the WAAFs in the Fighter Command bunker at Bentley Priory and in the Poling radar station. They were professional, motivated, and competent in very complex tasks. To his mind, they represented another of Sir Dowding’s innovations that was largely overlooked but without which the war could not be won.
In effect, the chief had taken as a given that women were as intelligent and capable as men. Doing so assumed that they would complete difficult tasks just as well. He had counted on that concept to recruit and fill the thousands of positi
ons across the country that would receive and analyze critical information and communicate conclusions and recommendations to those authorities who needed them. As the air marshal had anticipated, due to military necessity, sufficient numbers of men were not available.
“I’m sorry to say that I’m not familiar with WAAF ranks,” Paul said as he followed her to his designated seat. “Would you clue me in?”
“A flight officer is equivalent to a captain. You may call me Ryan, if you like.” She smiled primly. “I’ve been here since the facility opened, so I understand how the system works. I’ll try to keep you abreast of actions as they occur, and of course I’ll do my best to answer your questions.” She looked at her watch. “You came early. We still have an hour before first light, and that’s usually when things start happening. Would you like some coffee or tea?”
“I’d love some.”
Ryan led off, and Paul followed, trying not to appreciate her trim figure more obviously than he should. When will this war be over?
“I’ll explain the layout as we go, but I believe you’ve been to the bunker at Bentley Priory. Is that correct?”
“I was there last month, on the 18th,” he replied, nodding and looking around. “This layout is a bit different.”
“That was a hard day,” Ryan remarked. “We can’t take too many more like that one.” She scanned around the room. “You’re right about the layout. This was the first of the group headquarters bunkers to be built and it became the prototype for the other three. The one at Fighter Command has a different function, so it’s laid out differently. That one serves an analytical role; the group control rooms are for tactical command of the squadrons. But the basics are the same: a map showing our area of operation and those of adjacent groups, and western France.”
She pointed to the wall opposite the gallery through the plexiglass windows that separated them from the operations room. “Here, we show all the airfields in our group, whereas at Bentley they show only the main airfields that control the others in their sectors. So, we have those status boards for each of 11 Group’s stations.”
She pointed to the rows of lights under the status headings. “Those are the same. Green says the squadrons are ready to go, and red says they’re not. That’s a little simplistic, and there are more colored lights, but I’ll explain further as the day goes by and we see more activity. By the end of the day, you should be able to grasp the situation from reading the indicators around the room.”
They reached a rest area behind the gallery, poured their coffee, and walked back to their seats. “You see those booths in the middle tier of the gallery, to our right?” She pointed them out.
“Ah, yes. They each have one black and one red phone.”
“Exactly. The men who sit there are the controllers. They watch the map below—I’ll explain that in a minute. Our 11 Group chief controller is Lord Willoughby de Broke. He orders squadrons to readiness as he sees where they are positioned relative to the threat, and then leaves it to sector controllers to order them into the fight while he concentrates on the overall battle.”
Paul pointed to a place on the map. “Is that Middle Wallop over there near the edge of 10 Group? My brother flies out of there.”
“That is Middle Wallop. 609 Squadron, I believe. We see them often reinforcing some of our squadrons here.” She gave Paul a concerned look. “I wish the best for your brother.” Her forehead scrunched in a frown. “Isn’t that where that famous American Olympian was? The one who was killed last month?”
Paul shook his head. “You’re speaking of Billy Fiske. Very sad, but he was with 601 Squadron at Tangmere. My brother flew with him there.”
They stood quietly, and then Ryan continued. “I should explain that there is a lag between the time that information is collected at the radar and observation sites and when we receive it here; it amounts to about four minutes. We get only filtered information here.”
“I saw how that works,” Paul interjected. “It’s quite impressive.”
“Status is updated every fifteen minutes,” Ryan went on. “With four minutes taken off at the front end, the controllers don’t have much time to make life-and-death decisions, and when the battles are thickest, there’s a constant flow of information. And by the way, another Dowding innovation was putting radios in our fighters.”
“Pilots mentioned that, but they also say that the radios are unreliable; that as often as not, they’re not of much help.”
“I suppose improvements can be made, but so far we’ve had a good record of putting the pilots at the right place at the right time.” She chuckled. “I’m not sure we could have done that with hand and arm signals.”
She pointed. “Take a look at the map carefully, and you’ll see two lines running along the coast. The red one represents the Chain Home radar system. We have fifty-one of them up now, with both high- and low-altitude capability.”
“Can you explain that?”
“When the towers first went in, we had the ability to see planes only above fifty meters. That would leave the enemy able to fly low, under our radar. We’ve now installed companion radar that lets us see all the way down to the water. The limitation of the lower level is that it’s good out to fifty miles only.”
Ryan redirected Paul’s attention to the control room. “The green line along our coast represents our observer corps. Have they been explained to you?”
“Yes, and in some detail.”
“Good.” Ryan pointed out the WAAF plotters sitting or standing near the map. “You saw their counterparts at Bentley. The major difference between ours here and those there is that, instead of those plastic markers you saw, we use wooden blocks that give more detailed information, which I’ll explain as activity heats up.”
As she guided Paul back to their seats, a thought crossed his mind. “Let me know if I’m crossing a line, but how does your commander, Sir Keith Park, come down on the issue of ‘big wing’ versus Sir Dowding’s strategy of holding squadrons on the ground until a target is pinpointed in the air?”
“He is a firm supporter of Dowding, particularly on that point,” Ryan said without hesitation, “and I hope your report reflects that. We don’t have time, men, fuel, or equipment to waste, and Sir Lee Mallory’s big wing does just that.”
They reached their seats. “See down there to the right, under the status boards? That’s weather information for each airfield. Today will be clear. The Germans will probably come.”
An hour passed, and then another one. Next to the map, the plotters sat as comfortably as they could, playing cards, conversing in small groups, reading books, or just relaxing. Then, at 0802 hours, one of them stood, put indicators on one of the small wooden blocks, and pushed it out onto the map with a croupier.
“We have activity,” Ryan said. They watched the plotter move a single marker westward on the board. “There’s an aircraft coming our way. He’s still over France, about ninety miles from our coast. If I had to guess, it’s probably a reconnaissance plane. If it’s checking the weather, it will try to stay out of range of our fighters.”
Paul glanced across the room to the controllers’ desks. They were now occupied by serious men in air force uniforms who scrutinized the map, their eyes currently glued to the marker showing the lone German aircraft flying toward England.
Ryan pointed out the controllers. “Keep an eye on them. The senior one is the controller of the day, usually Lord Willoughby. That’s him there now. Once he sees which sector is best suited to handle the threat, he’ll inform that sector controller, who’ll call to get aircraft off the ground and vector them toward the enemy formation, in this case, the lone plane. It’ll be closing on our coastline within twenty minutes. I’d expect that we’ll send out a welcome party long before it reaches our shores.”
As they watched, Lord Willoughby spoke to one of the sector controllers, who immediately lifted the phone receiver and placed a call. A few minutes later, one of the plotters picked up a w
ooden block, placed tags on it, and pushed it out onto the map.
Ryan pointed to the dark boards lining the wall. “He just ordered two Hurricanes from Exeter to intercept the intruder. We know that from the status shown on Exeter’s board. We also see that reflected on the indicators on the corresponding block. That little yellow flag pinned into the block tells us which squadron it represents. The Hurricanes take off within two minutes of the order to scramble, but they won’t show up here until they’re seen on radar and the information passes through the filter room. So, these are in the air. We don’t know yet what type of aircraft the Germans sent. When the Hurricanes engage them, they’ll inform Bentley what they are.”
Once again, the board took on a living context. For a fleeting second, Paul saw in his mind not blocks of wood being pushed by croupiers, but aircraft speeding toward each other over choppy waters, manned by flesh-and-blood crews.
The minutes flew by, and the plotters moved the markers closer together, and then next to each other. Paul imagined the action taking place, the racing pulses, the excitement of the chase, the fear of consequences, the rattle of machine gun fire, of roaring engines, of dives and climbs and rolls—and a final reckoning.
Almost at once, Ryan drew his attention to the plotter manipulating the wooden block marking the German aircraft. “It’s over,” she said. “It was a Heinkel He 111 bomber, which carries a five-man crew. It’s in the water, and our Hurricanes are on their way back to the airfield.”
Once again moved by how quickly such an event had started and ended, Paul asked, “Any guess about what happened to the crew?”
Ryan shook her head. “Hitler was supposedly sending rescue flights marked with Red Crosses, but they were flying close to our shores when there was no one to rescue. Churchill concluded that they were conducting reconnaissance and ordered them shot down. This crew was too far out to sea. I’m guessing they’re casualties.”
Paul looked up at the clock. Only forty minutes had passed since the Heinkel had first been spotted. Almost another hour passed uneventfully. “Would you like more coffee? I’ll get it.”