‘How is Fritz, Becher?’
In the nose of the aircraft, Becher grinned. Fritz was the code-name for the missiles suspended under the Dornier’s wings. They were fitted with a special system that piped hot air to them in flight from the aircraft’s engines — an essential precaution, otherwise their complex mechanisms would almost certainly freeze at altitude. Becher decided to say something for the benefit of the general, who was also listening on the intercom.
‘Fine, sir. Warmer than we are, I’ll bet. And with any luck a lot warmer than a great many Tommy sailors will be before long.’
Preuss decided that small talk might not be such a good idea after all. Highly professional military man though he was, he did not relish the prospect of condemning men to death by drowning. That fate had brushed its wing darkly over his own face on more than one occasion, when he had struggled back home in a damaged aircraft following some anti-shipping operation. But this was total war, and at last his group had been given an effective method of waging it — as the previous month’s operation against the convoy off the Bay of Biscay had shown.
They called the new weapon Fritz-z, although its proper designation was PCMOOZ. It was developed from the earlier Fritz-x glider bomb which had been used successfully against Allied warships in 1943. Fritz-z’s liquid-fuel rocket motor boosted it to a speed of over 600 miles per hour, which made it virtually unstoppable. It was guided to its target by radio control, the operator steering it by means of a small joystick mounted on the side wall of the cockpit.
That was Rainer Becher’s job, and he was good at it. During missile trials in the Baltic he had hit the target nine times out of ten, and he was just as good on actual operations. The other operators in the group were not quite up to his standard, but good enough.
The minutes dragged by. At last the navigator, who had been poring over his charts, taking drift sightings and calculating where the enemy ship ought to be if it had not changed its course and speed, called Preuss over the intercom.
‘Maintain heading and airspeed, pilot. Target should be thirty miles ahead in Sector Dora Friedrich 4022.’
Preuss acknowledged briefly and consulted his own map, singling out the reference mentioned by the navigator. DF4022: that would put the ship about one hundred and twenty miles west of Sardinia’s Cap Spartivento. So far they had not sighted any other vessels, which was all to the good; the presence of a lone Dornier, heading southwards across the Mediterranean, was bound to excite suspicion and send the RAF’S long-range Beaufighters scurrying into the air from some Algerian airfield.
So far, Preuss had kept the Dornier at low altitude to avoid detection by the British radar that had recently been installed on Corsica. Now, with the target area coming up, he took the bomber in a climb to 12,000 feet, the optimum height for launching the missiles. The pilot peered ahead, scanning the rather murky horizon; there was quite a lot of haze, but visibility was not too bad. It should not prove difficult to detect a sizeable vessel, assuming that it, and they, were in the right place at the right time.
In the Dornier’s glasshouse nose, Rainer Becher was fussing over his control panel, making last-minute adjustments to the missile guidance system and his high-magnification tracking sight. At length, he reported to the pilot that all was ready. The Dornier droned on, and General von Falkenberg, who had been listening in silence to the crew’s chatter over the intercom, suddenly became impatient. He began to bombard the navigator with questions, demanding to know if the man was sure his calculations were correct. Karl Preuss, inwardly furious but striving to keep his voice calm, intervened on behalf of the navigator before he could reply.
‘Herr General, as captain of this aircraft I must remind you that you are a passenger on an operational mission, and as such I must respectfully ask you not to interfere with my crew members in the performance of their duties.’
There was a highly charged silence, punctuated only by a strangled sound over the intercom, presumably from von Falkenberg. Mercifully, before the general had time to launch into his anticipated tirade, Becher’s excited yell sounded from the nose.
‘Target ahead, two o’clock! On the horizon!’
Sure enough, there it was — or rather there they were, for there were two ships instead of the expected one. They were elongated streaks against the lighter horizon, one larger than the other. Preuss called the crew to action stations, turned the nose of the Dornier to the right until the ships were directly ahead, and settled himself firmly in his seat as he began the run-in. He had already decided to launch from six miles to make doubly certain of a hit, having deduced that the smaller of the two ships was most likely an escorting destroyer and that the aircraft would be well outside the range of its armament.
The sea crept under the bomber’s wings, and the tension in the cockpit increased as the two ships grew larger. In the nose, Becher, his eye already glued to the tracking sight, began the count-down. ‘Number one missile ready and armed. Stand by. Thirty seconds … twenty … fifteen … ten … five … launch!’
Preuss, who was in control of the launch, pressed a switch on his control column and at once throttled back. The Dornier, freed of the missile’s weight, gave a sudden leap and Preuss rapidly re-trimmed the aircraft to compensate for the asymmetric effect of the remaining weapon that hung under the starboard wing.
The released Fritz-z, still travelling at the original speed of the bomber, sped ahead of its parent aircraft. Becher pressed a button on his control panel and there was a vivid flash of flame as the missile’s rocket booster ignited. At the same time, a brilliant flare also lit up in the weapon’s tail. Becher picked this up and centred it in the cross-hairs of his sight, then moved his control stick until the flare was superimposed on the outline of the target — the bigger of the two vessels.
Mentally, he counted off the seconds to the missile’s objective. Fritz was travelling very fast now. The glare of its rocket exhaust was suddenly cut off as the fuel burned itself out, but that did not matter; the weapon had more than sufficient forward speed to carry it over the last few hundred yards. Becher, handling the control stick with sensitive fingers, kept his eye glued to the sight and centred the tracking flare on the grey, magnified hull of the freighter, just above the waterline.
Travelling at more than 600 miles per hour, the missile’s armoured warhead sliced through the freighter’s hull as though it were tissue paper and its thousand-pound charge exploded in the engine room with terrifying force, killing everyone there instantly and rupturing the boilers. From the Dornier, the German crew saw a great column of smoke and steam erupt from the stricken ship, which immediately broke in half and began to sink. General von Falkenberg, who had come up to stand behind the pilot’s seat, slapped Preuss on the shoulder, their earlier exchange of words apparently forgotten, and clapped the pilot on the shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of excitement.
‘Good, Preuss!’ he shouted. ‘Very good indeed! Now for the other ship!’
The destroyer had turned towards the approaching Dornier and was heading towards it at full speed, shrouded in smoke as it opened fire with its forward armament. Shell-bursts spattered the sky ineffectually a long way ahead of the aircraft. Becher completed his second count-down and the other Fritz-z dropped away, spearing towards the warship at the head of a trail of flame and smoke.
This time, Becher kept the flare centred on the destroyer’s bridge. He did not miss. The missile flashed over the ship’s forward four-inch gun turret and blasted the superstructure into a shambles, killing the captain and his executive officers.
The destroyer maintained her speed and her guns kept firing, but she was leaderless now, her nerve-centre destroyed. She might survive to limp back to port, but she would be out of action for months, possibly for the duration of the war.
Preuss swung the Dornier round and pushed the nose down to gain speed, anxious to get clear of the area before Allied fighters showed up. He had no doubt that they would, for the ships must have been signalling
frantically for air cover.
‘That has shown them that the Mediterranean is not yet an Anglo-American pond!’ von Falkenberg cried. ‘You will all be decorated for this — I shall see to it in person!’
And no doubt you’ll be at the top of the awards list, thought Preuss wryly. Nevertheless, he was glad that the general had enjoyed his trip; it would make life a lot easier back at Istres. Maybe von Falkenberg would now go away and leave everybody in peace.
Preuss suddenly felt tired and washed out. He wished fervently that the war was over and that he could go back to his pre-war job as an airline pilot with Lufthansa, the German civil airline. That had been fun, especially the long-range mail flights to America that were just getting started when the war brought a stop to them. The pilot did not think about the lives he and Becher had just ended; he had long ago ceased to give that sort of thing any thought. What grieved him now, in these first weeks of 1944, was that no matter how hard he and his comrades fought on, Germany had lost the war. No matter how many Allied soldiers and sailors they killed, there would be others to take their place. And all Germany had were growing numbers of old men and boys to take the place of the troops who were being massacred and frozen in Russia, the human sacrifices of men such as von Falkenberg and the madman at the helm.
For a wild, impulsive instant, Preuss had an almost uncontrollable urge to send the Dornier plunging into the sea. It passed, but afterwards he found himself trembling slightly and sweating. Now, added to the fear that was a natural reaction to the constant strain of combat flying, was another, even greater fear: the fear of himself.
How long, he asked himself as the Dornier slid down the sky towards Istres, could he go on — how long could any of them go on?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The rain had stopped, but the illusion of warmth it had brought to the Camargue was now dispelled by the breath of the mistral, blowing icily down the valley of the Rhône. It rattled the shuttered windows of the ranch-house where Douglas and his men now sheltered. The ranch stood midway between the village of Albaron and the Rhône, beyond which lay the SAS commandos’ objective: Istres airfield.
Douglas, with the aid of sketch-maps compiled by the rancher, Etienne Barbut, was trying to work out how to carry out a reconnaissance of the target. He saw at once that it was not going to be easy. If they went overland from their present location, they would have to cross the broad, fast-flowing Rhône and then cross two main roads to get near the airfield boundary, and as far as Douglas could make out there was very little in the way of cover; anyone seen prowling around in the vicinity of the field would certainly be arrested, for Istres had recently been placed under heavy guard.
His opinion was challenged by Barbut, who explained that, south of Arles, the river opened out considerably and as a consequence the speed of its flow lessened. However, it was half a mile wide at its narrowest, and although there were no German or Milice patrols on this side — mainly because there were no proper roads running through the Camargue — there were plenty on the other, and it would be difficult to cross the river unseen.
Douglas pondered on this, and frowned as he considered the possible alternatives. His finger traced the course of a railway line that ran from Arles to Miramas and then branched off to Port-de-Bouc, on the coast. The important point was that it appeared to run past the eastern boundary of the target airfield.
‘What about this?’ the SAS officer wanted to know. ‘Wouldn’t it be possible to see most of what is going on at Istres from a train?’
Barbut smiled, and once again spoke through the medium of Colette, who was acting as interpreter. Douglas noticed that the elderly rancher seemed to get on very well with Colette; there was almost a bond of affection between them.
‘That is exactly how some of these sketches were compiled, my friend. The driver of one of the locomotives on this line is sympathetic. But one has to have a special permit to travel as a passenger, and passes are always checked by the Germans and the Milice. You would be spotted immediately.’ Barbut suddenly looked upset. ‘Be assured, my friend, that the sketches are as accurate as we can make them. They show where every aircraft is dispersed, the location of the buildings, the dump where the weapons are stored. We have done our best.’
Douglas smiled at him. ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment,’ he said. ‘What I am looking for is a way in — and, what is just as important, a way out again once the job has been done. Come to that, I haven’t yet worked out how we are going to put a spanner in the works. A lot depends on your Maquisards.’
Between them, they had worked out a tentative plan of action. While the local Maquis launched a strong attack on the airfield perimeter at a point yet to be determined, the SAS men would go in elsewhere. Their main objective would be the weapons dump, but they would also try and destroy as many of KG 100’s aircraft as possible.
There was much groundwork still to be done, and when the action came it would have to be carried out quickly and with accurate timing. When the Allied convoy that was bound for Italy was about to pass through the Strait of Gibraltar, Etienne Barbut, the local Resistance leader, would receive a coded signal from London. After that, the SAS and the Maquis would have about four hours in which to move into position and launch their respective attacks. That, Douglas calculated, was the time it would take the Germans to receive intelligence of the convoy’s movements and to plan their assault on it. In his own mind, he was convinced that the Germans would try to hit the convoy as it passed Gibraltar in order to create maximum confusion, rather than wait until the ships were in the Mediterranean and sailing along the North African coast, where they would probably have fighter protection.
But he did not like second-hand information. He had to see the layout at Istres for himself.
Looking at the sketches again, and comparing them with a map of the local terrain, he was struck by the possibility that it might be possible to approach the airfield from the south. He could follow the Rhône southwards to the coast, cross the mouth of the river somehow and come inland by Port-de-Bouc. That way there would only be one road to cross before he was within sight of Istres.
Through Colette, he told Etienne Barbut of his scheme, mentally calculating the time still available. He alone knew that the convoy was due to enter the Strait of Gibraltar on 19 January, although he did not know the time; it was now the fourteenth. He made up his mind that there was no time to spare for shuttling back and forth across the Rhône; once he and his men were on the east bank of the river they would have to stay there and lie low until it was time to carry out the attack. He asked Barbut if he thought the plan was feasible. The rancher shook his head slowly.
‘It is possible, of course,’ he said, with Colette translating. ‘But it will mean extra organization. For example, you will need a boat to get you across the river mouth, for there is no bridge. Then we shall have to find somewhere safe for you to hide, provide you with food, and arrange for our men to make contact with you there. Then there is the problem of the message from London: how will I be able to get it to you?’
Barbut’s brow furrowed for a moment or two, then he brightened and gave a broad grin.
‘Of course, my friend! What could be simpler? I shall come with you? Your signaller here’ — he waved at Mitchell — ‘has a radio set which is the same type as mine, and works on the same frequencies. I regret that I cannot entrust you with the code, as that would put too many lives at risk if you were to be captured, but if I come with you I can listen out for the message and send the acknowledgement. Besides, I could do with a little excitement! Is it agreed, then?’
Douglas opened his mouth to protest, but Colette placed a warning hand on his arm.
‘I think that would be a very good idea,’ she said. ‘Monsieur Barbut will be a great asset. He knows the area thoroughly. Above all, he is trusted. No one will question him if he is challenged by the Milice,’ She smiled. ‘In fact, I think they are a little afraid of him. The Camargue is a strange, someti
mes eerie place. Those who live outside do not consider it wise to cross the paths of people who belong to these marshes.’ Listening to the mistral moaning its dirge outside, Douglas could well believe some of the superstitions. There were, after all, enough of them among his own Gaelic race. After some hesitation, he agreed to take the rancher along.
They spent some time discussing the equipment they would need. Barbut’s cellar contained a sizeable collection of the necessary tools for espionage and sabotage, air-dropped by the RAF during the past months; as well as the radio transceiver he had mentioned, there were daggers, miniature cameras, a selection of German and British igniters, delayed-action pencil detonators, plastic explosives and silent pistols. Douglas distributed the explosives and detonators among his team, and also some German 9-mm ammunition which the Resistance had ‘liberated’ from the enemy.
Suddenly, as he was completing this task, there came a sharp rapping on the door. Immediately, the SAS men scattered and flattened themselves against the wall on either side, ready for instant action and out of sight of whoever might be outside. Colette remained at the big circular table that was the centre-piece of the kitchen, her hands concealed beneath it. They grasped a Luger pistol, and it was trained on the door.
Etienne Barbut crossed the floor in a few rapid strides and opened the door wide. The next instant he was staggering backwards under the weight of the body that had collapsed against him. Barbut regained his balance and lowered the body to the floor, turning it as he did so. The pain-glazed eyes of Raoul stared up at him, then fastened on Douglas.
‘You must get out, my friend,’ he said weakly. ‘The bastards are on to you.’
Colette hurried forward and placed a cushion under Raoul’s head. As Douglas and Barbut knelt alongside, she deftly unfastened the French-Canadian’s jacket and gently stripped away his blood-caked shirt. There was a gaping hole in his right shoulder; he had been shot from behind. The hole was plugged with mud which he had used in a desperate attempt to staunch the flow of blood.
Attack at Night Page 8