His last evening was meant to be a sociable drink but had turned into a party with alcohol being consumed in large quantities. As he crawled into his bed well past closing time, his ears still ringing from laughter and song, he knew he would return to the place again and savour its delights in more peaceful times.
Chapter Three
GUNTRAM BAYER, codename ‘Das Rabe’ kept perfectly still among the dense foliage that concealed his position. Focusing the Leica camera, he took a series of photographs of the buildings of the Gloster Aircraft Company’s airfield at Moreton Valence. Intelligence gathering was Bayer’s strong point; having survived for almost two years in England he was one of Abwehr’s most successful agents. Cold, ruthless and with a love for killing, he carried out his work with an air of confidence which made him feel that he was immune from being discovered. He had covered his tracks well since coming ashore from a German submarine on a remote stretch of the Scottish coast, frequently moving between lodgings and quickly eliminating anybody he felt was a danger to his own safety. He had now taken up residence near Moreton Valence where the new Meteor jet now resided, having moved from its former home at Newmarket Heath. He had relentlessly followed the aircraft’s progress from its earliest development to the fifth prototype DG206/G making its first flight in early March at RAF Cranwell. The area along the River Severn had long been kept under close scrutiny by the German military intelligence. Abwehr paid great interest to the south of the region; to the Bristol Aeroplane Company at Filton and its shadow factory at Weston-Super-Mare. To the north, Dowty’s at Staverton near Gloucester, heavily into the design of aircraft propellers and landing gear had also been kept under constant surveillance by the spies of the Third Reich. Bayer’s contact in the area had been Griselda Zweig who lived in an isolated cottage near Coaley and within easy cycling distance of Moreton Valence airfield. Zweig had been recruited in 1936 by Abwehr which was under the command of Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, firstly for her good command of the English language and secondly for her known hatred of the British going back to the First World War. After extensive training she had been assigned to The Central Division “Abteilung Z” where she had come to the notice of Generalmajor Hans Oster, head of that department. After further training in intelligence gathering and radio communication she had travelled to Britain under the name of Lillian Gilbert eighteen months prior to the outbreak of the Second World War. Known within the intelligence service as a ‘sleeper’, she had quietly gone about the task of establishing herself as an upright British citizen. Her office skills and training soon secured her a secretarial position with a law firm in Gloucester where she stayed for a short time. With war clouds looming on the distant horizon she applied to the Bristol Aeroplane Company and was soon strategically placed where she could put her skills into practise.
Posing as her brother Bayer had found Griselda attractive from their first meeting. Slightly taller than himself with an hourglass figure, her soft blue eyes had soon reciprocated his feelings and they quickly became lovers. Smirking to himself over his good fortune he secreted the camera in a pouch on his belt, buttoned up the heavy overcoat and stealthily made his way to where his bicycle lay hidden. Checking to make sure the lane was clear he set off at a steady pace towards Stonehouse. On his arrival back at the cottage he found a black motor car parked in front of the gate and stopping short, he quietly leaned the cycle against a tree, then checking the ammunition clip in his Walther P38 was full, he placed it back in his pocket as he cautiously moved towards the stationary vehicle. The elderly woman knocking on the door never heard his silent approach until he spoke.
“Good afternoon, can I help you?” he asked, smiling at the woman.
“Oh! I’m sorry to disturb you but I seem to be lost, I’m trying to get to the village of Frocester,” she answered, not realising that only inches away a pistol was aimed directly at her.
Satisfied the woman was no threat to his safety he gave her directions to her destination and as he watched her get into her car he returned her wave as she drove off.
*
The train journey north had been a nightmare, with Will sitting on his kitbag most of the way in the corridor amidst several hundred sailors returning to their ship after leave. He had found them a friendly bunch with no animosity towards him because he was the only airman among them; in fact he had got involved in a card game with them and won five bob for his trouble. It was after changing trains at Glasgow for the long slow ride through the Scottish Highlands to the port of Oban that he had been able to relax, with the last part of the journey being made in a compartment on his own. The afternoon boat crossing between Oban and Tiree, most of which was done in daylight, gave him some concern as to what an easy target they made for any lurking U-boat that was looking for a ‘target of opportunity,’ hence he spent most of the passage out on deck and only ventured inside to the cafeteria for refreshments or the amenities.
He had about an hour’s wait until the transport duly arrived to collect him, and the conversation between himself and the bubbly WAAF driver never once lapsed until he was deposited at the entrance to the officer’s quarters. After being shown to a twin-bedded room and told that he was sharing with a Pilot Officer Dennison who was on leave he unpacked, then went off in search of the bar. The room was heavy with cigarette and pipe smoke, with the usual mixture of air and ground officers milling about, some playing billiards and darts, others sat around chatting or reading, most paying him little or no attention as he entered.
Picking up his pint of beer, he found an empty table and settled down in the well-worn easy chair listening to the noisy brigade who were propping up the bar, while trying to chat-up the attractive civilian barmaid with the old-hat ‘line shoots’, the pulling of faces and winking every time she bent down to get a bottle from the bottom shelf. Will had the distinct feeling that the place was a bit cliquey, a far cry from the boisterous goings-on at RAF Thornton Spinney.
Bored with watching the clowning about, he was just deciding whether to have another beer or call it a night when a Warrant Officer flight engineer came in to the bar, his well-worn uniform displaying the DFM ribbon all giving the distinct impression that he had quite a few operations under his belt. After purchasing a pint and taking a drink, Will watched him make a sweep of the room before his eyes settled on the empty chair next to him.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“No. Not at all,” Will answered, gesturing to the chair.
“So how long have you been here?” he asked, taking out a packet of cigarettes and offering him one.
“I arrived today,” holding up his hand to decline the offer.
“Oh! I came yesterday,” he said laughing, his Liverpudlian accent coming to the forefront as he spoke.
“Are you on ops, or a rest period?” Will asked, finishing off the remainder of his beer.
“I’m starting my second tour. I put in for Bomber Command but never expected to get a Met squadron on some bloody remote island off the west coast of Scotland; mind you I don’t suppose the ‘chop’ rate’s so high doing meteorological flights, how about you?”
“I’ve just finished my second, I’ve to report to the armoury in the morning. So what were you flying in?”
“Stirlings, – Oh! I’m Keith Stanbury,” he announced, holding out his hand for Will to shake.
“Will Madden.”
“So what were you flying in, Will?”
“Lancs. – 624 squadron out of Thorton Spinney,” he answered, noticing the three officers who were seated together were watching them with interest.
“Well, I’ll be damned, we landed there back end of forty-two, our drome was socked in with fog so we diverted there; mind you it was a bit of a dicey do landing, with the ground mist being so bad, but the skipper got her down without pranging it.”
“I know the feeling, we’ve had some hairy do’s with fog; the last time it happened they diverted us to Ludford, which is equipped with FIDO.”
; “I can never remember what that stands for, it’s – Fog?”
Will began to laugh, “Investigation and Dispersal Operation, it is a mouthful to remember I must admit, but it’s good, it got us down in one piece.”
“Yes, I’ve heard so, it’s saved a lot of aircraft and lives.”
“So, how did you find the old Stirlings? I’ve never had anything to do with them.”
“Oh! They weren’t a bad kite. Their main problem was they couldn’t get the height. At fourteen or fifteen thousand feet you were running in the flak belt all the time. Even the light stuff could get at you being that low.”
“Christ that is low, we could get up to twenty thousand with the Lancs. Although we weren’t safe at that height from the eighty-eights, they could reach us and bring us down.”
“I know, they are bastards them things,” he said, getting up from the chair. “I’ll go and get us another couple of beers, Will.”
The break in the conversation gave him time to run his eyes over the three wingless wonders sitting opposite. A thought suddenly crossed his mind – was one of them the armaments officer?
They chatted for over an hour, mainly about aircraft and past experiences until time was called, to a series of ‘boos’ from the bar brigade. After bidding his new friend “Goodnight” he made his way to his room and decided to write to his sister in Canada, but soon gave up on the idea through lack of interest and turned-in for a good night’s sleep.
It was the sound of heavy rain beating against the window that woke him; after washing and dressing he made his way to the mess and had breakfast. There was no let-up in the rain as he arrived at the armoury in a rather bedraggled state and was shown in to Flight Lieutenant Nelson’s office. Coming smartly to attention he saluted, his presence provoking no response from the A/O who carried on reading a document before looking up and removing his glasses.
“I have just been reading your service record Madden, very impressive, which makes me wonder why we have been graced with your presence?”
Will didn’t answer straight away, but looked at Nelson and knew it was going to be a love/hate relationship between them. “I go where I’m sent, sir,” he answered, with the emphasis on the sir.
Nelson shot him a quick glance.
The rain seemed to be easing and through the broken cloud the faint signs of the sun began to show. Will watched a Handley Page Halifax climb steadily into the clouds, wishing he was in it as he half-listened to Nelson drone on about their work schedule and how he was a stickler for punctuality and work being carried out and finished by the allotted time and he didn’t want any ‘cock-ups’ that would interfere with his promotion to Squadron Leader. After the meeting was over Will was taken through to the armoury section where he was left in the capable hands of Flight Sergeant Milroyd.
“So how did you get on with our intrepid Armaments Officer?” Milroyd asked, smirking, as he showed him around the section.
“Not too well I’m afraid, he seems as though he has got an inferiority complex about fliers.”
“Yes, especially those that have come up through the ranks like you have,” Milroyd chuckled, as he showed Will the storeroom. “This is where we keep most of the bits and pieces for the turrets, the kites are Mk 5’s but we have heard that there are some Mk 3’s coming, but as you probably know they are both fitted with the standard Boulton Paul turrets; we also have another store around the back where we keep the new stuff if we need one, which I’ll show you shortly.”
Collecting the keys en-route, Will was shown the various buildings that came under the armoury’s domain.
“Well, that’s about it,” Milroyd told him, both men stopping momentarily to watch an aircraft as it slew its way around the perimeter track with sudden bursts of engine power. “Had anything to do with the Halis?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the sun so he could see who the pilot was.
Will watched the rear gunner traverse his turret several times while depressing and elevating the four Browning machine guns before answering. “Yes! But they were the MK1 and 2 series 1 we had on 417 Squadron.”
“Oh! Now you are going back a bit with the MK 1 and 2 series, we had them at East Wickwold back in forty-one,” Milroyd laughed.
“I see that aircraft has had its mid-upper turret removed – is that to reduce its all-up-weight and give it a longer endurance?” Will asked, as he heard the all too familiar sound of brakes squealing as the Halifax was brought to a halt in line with the main runway.
“No! That particular aircraft came from another squadron with the turret already taken out. Fortunately they don’t come into contact with Jerry too often; the main contender up here is the weather, we’ve lost several aircraft since I’ve been here and that’s in just over twelve months.”
They stood in silence as the aircraft waited for permission to take-off from the control tower and started to lumber its way down the runway, picking up speed as the four Merlin engines were pushed to maximum power.
Will felt a touch of envy as he watched it steadily climb into the morning sunshine, its motors giving off a mournful drone which got ever fainter until it disappeared from view.
“Well that’s another one away, let’s hope they have a good trip! I think the weather report for today is quite reasonable,” Milroyd added.
“What do they actually do on these Met flights?” Will asked, as they resumed their walk back to the armoury.
“I don’t know the ins and outs of it, I know they fly a set course like a triangle, you know what I mean, so many nautical miles on the first leg, then on to a new heading for so many miles, then the final leg back to base. The gunners tell me they vary the height throughout the sortie to take accurate temperature measurements which by all accounts takes some very skilful flying. They fly two of these set triangles from here; one is called Mercer and the other Bismuth. That’s the longer of the two.”
“So how often do they go out?” Will enquired, pushing the door open and making his way into the armoury section.
“Four times every twenty-four hours,” Milroyd told him, then started to laugh when he saw Will frowning. “I can see you are suitably impressed. I know it sounds a bit monotonous, but these Met boys take the job very seriously,” he said, handing him a mug of tea, “very seriously indeed.”
Will smiled to himself as he thought back to past operations, ‘too many to remember’, where the Met briefing had been totally different to what they had encountered, going to and returning from the target with one particular sortie to Berlin which was etched firmly in his mind when Bomber Command had lost forty aircraft in one night partially due to the Met forecast being wrong.
Chapter Four
APPROACHING FOOTSTEPS coming along the corridor quickly made Griselda Zweig put the files she had been photographing back into their folder, re-lock the filing cabinet drawer and make it back to her desk just before the burly form of Wendell Priestly, the office cleaner, appeared.
“Hi Wendell, you timed that just right, I’ve just finished,” she announced, switching out the desk light and smiling to herself as his eyes lit up when he saw her skirt ride up, showing off her shapely legs and nylon stockings as they came out from under the desk.
“You’re working late Lillian,” he grinned, the thought of catching her on her own foremost in his mind.
“Oh! You know what it’s like working here, always lots to do and work to be caught up on, that’s the aircraft industry for you,” she replied, making for the stand that held her coat.
“Would you like me to make you a cup of tea before you go?” he suggested, hoping she would take him up on his offer so he could bring the conversation around to asking her out, a desire he’d harboured since their first meeting.
“That’s very kind of you Wendell but maybe some other time. I’ll miss my train if I don’t hurry,” she answered, knowing full well what he had in mind and squeezing his arm in a friendly gesture as she passed him, but lifting her eyes as she compared him with Gunt
ram who was giving her everything she needed in that department. The distance from the aircraft company’s main gate to the railway station was only a short walk but all the same she felt apprehensive being so late and several times turned around to see if she was being followed. The station offered little comfort with only a handful of passengers spread along the length of its platform. Taking a cigarette from the packet in her bag she inadvertently touched the smooth barrel of the P38 Walther which gave her some reassurance as she thought of the secret film she was carrying. After the train left Yate she found herself alone in the compartment. Content with her own company she felt a little easier, so relaxing she leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a few moments only to reopen them as she felt the train come to a halt. Looking at her watch she estimated they must be near the Wickwar tunnel. It was the opening and closing of a door along the corridor followed by footsteps which made her automatically reach for her shoulder bag so its contents were near to hand if she needed it. The man’s features were not discernible in the corridor’s subdued lighting as he stood opposite her compartment, peering through the peephole of the blacked-out window to see what the hold-up was. Griselda’s mind was fully alert… It may be nothing, but the uneasy feeling she’d had earlier when walking to the station still niggled away at the back of her mind – were M15 on to her and this was one of their operatives following her or was she worrying unduly? She had survived over five years without any problems, she thought, but even so caution and vigilance had to be heeded to at whatever cost. The British were no fools when it came to counter intelligence, she knew that by the number of German operatives that had been caught, tried and executed. The compartment suddenly had a sinister feel about it, the stale smell of tobacco smoke adding to its confinement and giving her a feeling of being trapped like an animal in a cage with only one way out, which was blocked by this faceless figure. Sliding her hand inside her bag she tightened her grip on the Walther and took stock of her options. The distance between them wasn’t much but it was enough for her to kill him if necessary and with the train now at a standstill, she could quickly leave by the carriage door one compartment down to her left. Minutes seemed to tick by painfully slow as she watched her adversary for any kind of movement as to what he might do next. The unexpected jolt of the train moving off, followed by “Tickets please” eased the tension as she watched him fumble in his inside pocket for his ticket. Releasing her hold on the pistol and taking out her ticket she did manage to catch a quick glimpse of the man’s dark features from the inspector’s torch before he moved off along the corridor back to his compartment.
Stracandra Island Page 2