Stracandra Island

by Graham R Swift

  STRACANDRA ISLAND

  by

  Graham R Swift

  STRACANDRA ISLAND

  All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2016 Graham R Swift

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the copyright holder.

  The right of Graham R. Swift to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 sections 77 and 78.

  Published by Diadem Books

  For information, please contact:

  Diadem Books

  8 South Green Drive

  Airth

  Falkirk

  FK2 8JP

  Scotland UK

  www.diadembooks.com

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  This is a work of fiction. In parts of the book references are made to actual people, such as heads of departments like Admiral Wilhelm Canaris and Generalmajor Hans Oster, who were senior officers within Abwehr, the German intelligence service. Also references have been made to actual aircraft designers, such as Griffith, Frank Whittle and Hans von Ohain in Germany. Apart from these, names, characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Graham R Swift

  Dark Secrets

  In Morgan's Wake

  Dedication

  To my wife Kathleen Swift for her help and support

  throughout the writing of my novel.

  Also my late father, James Swift (Wireless Operator)

  for his invaluable knowledge of RAF Bomber

  Command during the Second World War.

  Acknowledgement

  To Ian Biles for his navigation skills

  for which I am greatly indebted.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgement

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ~ 1946 ~

  Chapter One

  WARRANT OFFICER WILL MADDEN looked down at the relentless North Sea from the confines of the bomber’s rear turret. They were low. They would only have to hiccup at this height and they would be in the drink. Removing his oxygen mask he rubbed his face where it had chafed his skin.

  He could make out the tops of the white capped waves in the semi-darkness and shuddered at the thought of ditching in the sea for a second time. It had been a long, bitterly cold fourteen hours in the dinghy until the Air Sea Rescue launch had finally found them and saved them from a certain death. He slowly rotated the turret, his keen eyes quartering the night sky. Crews knew that there was still a strong need to be vigilant at this stage in the war as they came into land: rogue German night fighters were prowling the skies looking for easy prey. It had been only a few nights earlier that a Lanc had been attacked as it was coming into land, sending it cascading on to the runway in a blazing fire ball, with no survivors.

  A thin wisp of black smoke trailed back from the starboard engine, a stark reminder of how close they had come to being shot down as they turned for home after making their bombing run. Will thought back to the aggressive manner in which the German pilot had borne down on them, flying through his own anti-aircraft fire. Twice he had come round, his first attack doing no damage as the Lancaster was put into a ‘Corkscrew’, the standard procedure for all bomber crews to try and evade a fighter attack. His second attack had caught them as they tried to gain height, the fighter’s cannon shells ripping into the bomber’s starboard wing, damaging their fuel tanks and setting the outer engine on fire. But as Bob Roundtree fought to regain control of the damaged aircraft the Luftwaffe pilot found he was up against a formidable adversary with Will Madden who was on his last trip of his second tour, and when it came to air-gunnery he was no push-over. With two confirmed kills under his belt he returned fire with devastating effect. Will felt no remorse as he watched the German fighter go down in flames and hit the ground, just a sense of relief at having achieved what he had been trained to do. It had been an anxious time as the skipper pushed the three remaining engines to maximum power to gain as much height as possible before putting the aircraft into a shallow dive and, with the help of the Graviner engine fire extinguisher, the fire had eventually blown itself out. Then with some clever juggling with the remaining fuel by Wes Heyburn the flight engineer, they had been able to make it within sight of the Lincolnshire coast, but from what Will could hear in his earphones they were getting dangerously low on fuel and they still had to coax Z-Zebra up and over the coastline and down onto the airfield at Thornton Spinney. He knew they would have immediate priority to land having sent out the ‘Darkie’ call sign to say that they were in trouble – if they made it that far – but whatever the outcome they would all have to stay with the aircraft. As there was no chance of bailing out from this height.

  His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of Zebra’s remaining engines being opened up, and he whistled quietly to himself when he saw the ground slip dangerously close under his turret. He had been in this position once before when flying in Halifax’s on 4 group in Yorkshire – badly shot-up and low on fuel they had crash landed a mile short of the main runway. He had been one of the lucky ones, getting away with a few cuts and bruises, while two of the other crew members hadn’t been so lucky. His reminiscing was abruptly curtailed by the deep African drawl of their Rhodesian bomb aimer Jerry Lennox shouting a warning of high tension pylons and telling the skipper to ‘climb’.

  Will listened as the three remaining Merlin engines were once again pushed to capacity as they lifted the huge bomber clear for a second time before settling down to a more rhythmic beat.

  There had still been no order for them to take up crash positions against the main spar in the centre of the aircraft, so the skipper must be fairly confident that he could get Z-Zebra down with what remaining fuel they had left, he thought, as he squared the turret up with the fuselage and locked it. He raised the four Brownings up to maximum elevation, his mind set on a quick exit if things didn’t go according to plan. There was only the slightest of bumps as the main wheels touched terra-firma with their usual squeal followed by a second as the tail wheel came down. Will gave a little sigh of relief as he watched the tyre-scarred runway slip reassuringly behind him. Shutting down the third engine they had only just, on two engines, been able to reach their dispersal before they had coughed and spluttered and slowly windmilled to
a halt, starved of fuel.

  Sliding back the doors Will eased himself out of the turret and down the tunnel, collecting his parachute from its stowage position en-route. There had been the usual congratulating and back slapping as they waited for the transport to arrive. So they had made it, the last one of their tour. Will didn’t know how he felt – relief, sadness, that the seven of them would now be broken up each going their separate ways. He said very little as he walked towards the crew bus and even less as it took them to the operations block for interrogation on the night’s raid. He had learned to say very little at these affairs, unless asked, but he did open up a little as he and the skipper walked to the mess for breakfast. Bob Roundtree was a tall, quietly spoken Devonian who Will had taken to from their first meeting at the Operational Training Unit. He was also the only other member of the crew who had completed a previous tour of duty on Sunderland flying boats. Will watched him top up their cups with tea, after which he crossed his arms and leaned forward on the table and looked at him.

  “Well, I don’t know about you Will but I’m going to get blotto tonight?”

  Will sipped his tea and nodded in agreement. “What time are we meeting the rest of them?” he asked, as he watched Dusty Miller, the navigator of Flight Lieutenant Dutton’s crew, head in their direction, a look on his face that Will recognised immediately. “What’s up?” he asked, knowing full well what the answer was going to be.

  “Looks like Les Mitchell and his crew bought it, their kite was seen to take a direct hit on the run in to the target.”

  “Was anybody seen to get out?” Will asked.

  “No, it blew up straight away – poor sods. Anyway I suppose you lot will be having one hell of a binge tonight having finished your tour; that’s your second Will, and yours as well Bob, isn’t it?”

  Will looked at the two men facing him while gently stroking the rough stubble around his chin as a huge grin spread across his face. “Yes it is – Christ! I thought Bob and I were fighting this bloody war on our own; isn’t it about time you got some time in Miller?” he said, bursting out laughing which brought the retaliatory response he was expecting.

  *

  He lay there half awake, a full five minutes before sitting bolt upright in bed. What the hell had they got up to the previous evening? There was the pub crawl, the bawdy singing at the top of their voices, the climbing of the tree in the church yard, then the gate being lifted off its hinges at the local bus depot and the joy ride around the lanes in one of their coaches. The recollection sent a shudder down his spine as he thought what would happen to them if the local constabulary found out who was responsible. Will desperately tried to remember where they had left the vehicle as he stumbled around the room, falling over discarded items of clothing and shoes, before roughly shaking his drunken room mate who was still half dressed, his head hanging over the foot of the bed, groaning with annoyance at the abrupt way he was being woken.

  “Christ Will, can’t you let a chap die in peace?” he murmured, his eyes flickering as he slowly rolled onto his back in the hope it might give him some respite from the thumping hangover he had.

  “Where did we leave that coach we nicked last night?” Will asked, a sudden feeling of dismay sweeping over him as the previous night’s events slowly started to unfold in his mind.

  “In a field I think. Wes tried to turn it around, but he got the bloody thing stuck, so we abandoned it and we walked the rest of the way back to camp. I vaguely remember climbing through a hole in the hedge (that somebody knew about) on the far side of the airfield and staggering around the perimeter track. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  “Did you say Wes was driving it?”

  “Yes, that’s right – why?”

  “He can’t drive, he hasn’t got a driving licence,” Will answered, watching his skipper raise himself up on his elbows and squint at him as he tried to focus his eyes.

  “Well under the circumstances Will, I think our best bet is to get the hell out of here before the civvie police come sniffing around – what say you?”

  “I couldn’t agree more, have you got all your kit packed?”

  “Yes, what about you?”

  “I did most of mine yesterday. I wonder how the rest of the guys are feeling? I hope they remember what time the transport’s laid on to take us to the station,” he laughed, before nervously attacking his face with a razor.

  The conversation had been one of excitement having survived their tour and now heading for home and loved ones as the motor transport left the Sergeant’s mess after collecting the other five crew members and made its way through the camp. The sight of the civilian police car drawing up outside the station guardroom and its two occupants get out and enter the building did little to diminish their high spirits.

  Chapter Two

  WITH THE LAST ROUNDS of hand shaking and goodbyes, promises of “I’ll keep in touch,” and “I’ll drop you a line,” or “I’ll give you a ring,” were made, promises Will knew would never be kept. They never had at the end of his last tour, so why should this one be any different? Last to leave had been Dave Hamilton, the mid-upper gunner, whom Will had shared a room with in the Sergeant’s quarters. He was a short lean Scotsman and they had become firm friends until he had been promoted to Warrant Officer and had to move to the Officer’s quarters. Fresh out of gunnery school and a little apprehensive, he had talked to Will not just about flying, but about his family and his home on the Western Isles, the trips with his sister on their father’s fishing boat around the islands, and a wealth of other subjects too numerous to mention. After Dave had left he drank down the last of his lukewarm tea and made his way out of the cafeteria and on to the platform he required to catch the train for Kendal. Dropping his kitbag on an empty luggage trolley he sat watching the hustle and bustle of Lincoln Station.

  After surviving a second tour of operations he had the overwhelming feeling that he needed to be on his own for a while. He felt tired and drained of energy: this last tour had taken its toll on his war-weary body. He started off with his usual gusto at taking the fight to the enemy, but that had now gone and he was quite looking forward to his two weeks’ leave. With no immediate family to visit apart from two distant cousins, who he had no interest in looking up, and his only sister now living in Canada with her new husband, he had decided he would like to take in the peace and quiet of the Lake District before joining his new unit.

  The train journey had been a delight as it weaved its way through the Yorkshire countryside, stopping en-route at the market towns of Skipton and Settle to set down and pick up passengers, eventually crossing the boundary into Lancashire and finally his destination, Kendal.

  A local pub was his accommodation for the next two nights while he explored the town and its surrounding area, before boarding the train once more for the short ride to the picturesque area of Windermere. He walked from the station, captivated by its serenity and beauty, the early autumn sunshine reflecting off the mirror glass surface of the lake. Stone cottages, built to withstand harsh winters, bordered the road and the air was filled with the smell of wood smoke as it curled upwards from their chimneys reaching to the topmost branches of the trees, whose leaves were now turning gold in the autumn sun. The old inn suddenly caught his eye with its well-worn vacancy sign hanging at an acute angle in one window. As he made his entrance into the bar’s cosy interior the conversation quickly died – no doubt the local inhabitants didn’t see too many airmen in best blue with an air gunner’s brevet and wearing the Distinguished Flying Medal enter their local hostelry. Will was surprised at the number of people in the bar as he lowered his kitbag to the floor and propped it against the end of the bar and made enquiries about a room; the landlord told him that his other half dealt with that side of things as he quickly disappeared in search of his good lady wife.

  “I’m Doris, and my husband of thirty-five years is Wilf, that’s short for Wilfred,” she told him as she watched him sign the register
book. “So how do you like to be addressed as Mr Madden, or Warrant Officer Madden?” she asked, as she guided him up the narrow stairway to a room at the back of the premises.

  “Please call me Will, everybody else does.”

  “Right! Will it is then. Now you should be nice and quiet here Will, no road noise and you are well away from the bar.”

  “Thanks,” he answered, looking around the tastefully furnished room.

  “You’ll find everybody around here are a friendly bunch,” she told him, as she made her way towards the door. “Oh! is six thirty to seven alright with you for your evening meal, that’s the normal time I serve up?”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” he replied, which earned him a smile and a nod of approval from her as she quietly closed the door behind her. The remainder of the day he spent lazily walking the quaint streets of shops and cottages. Having found a tearoom he sat and watched the local people going about their daily tasks, untouched by the savage air war which was taking place over Europe.

  That evening after a few drinks and a meal in defiance of wartime rationing he retired to his room and once in the confines of the comfortable bed sleep soon overcame him. Days passed quickly amidst the breathtaking scenery of the lakes and mountains – walking lanes and wondering what may suddenly appear around the next curve in the road. During one of his walks he came across an old wooden finger sign ravaged with time and long overdue a coat of paint, half-hidden by leaves and pointing off to his left. Climbing over the stile he had followed the overgrown path through a wooded area alive with bird song as they flew from branch to branch as though announcing his arrival in their perfect world. The path eventually came to the lakeside where he sat for quite some time just revelling in the sheer delight of what the day had to offer.