Stracandra Island

by Graham R Swift

  His alarm ringing roused him from his slumbers. After washing and shaving he dressed warmly for the long flight ahead, which brought a smile to his face as he remembered the look on Nelson’s face after being told by the Commanding Officer that he had to release him for flying duty as the Met flights took priority over everything else. “Do I make myself clear Nelson?” the CO had said sharply, the confrontation arising after the Flight Lieutenant had put a stop to his flying ‘jollies’, as he called them. But a bad bout of influenza had taken its toll on many sections of the camp and with the aircrew also badly affected, they needed all the fit personnel they could muster for flying duty.

  Taking-off a little after eight, they climbed steadily out into the cold grey light of day on a westerly heading; with the bulk of the heavy rain having passed through during the night, breaks in the clouds started to appear. Their outward track was uneventful and at their turning point the weather had steadily improved with heaped masses of cumulus cloud, which from a distance looked like snow covered mountains, intermingled with large patches of clear blue sky.

  They were on the final leg back to base when Will first caught a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of his eye of what looked like an aircraft. Quickly bringing the turret to bear, he searched the clouds below in the general direction that he thought the aircraft would appear while informing the skipper, Pilot Officer Bingham, of a possible sighting. He didn’t have to wait long before the aircraft reappeared, which he recognised as a Blohm and Voss 138 long-range flying boat. Not having come up against one before, but knowing the possibility it could happen, he had studied the aircraft’s profile in the gunnery section. They were slower and lacked the height the Halifax had but they were heavily armed with two 20mm cannons in powered turrets, one in the nose and one in the rear of the hull as well as a 13mm MG 131 machine gun in a position behind the central engine. After reporting the enemy aircraft, he ran a careful eye over its defences, with the flying boat keeping as low as possible to sea level; whichever way they went in for the attack, their height advantage was going to be no help in taking on all its defensive armament.

  The flying boat seemed to be keeping to its intended course and taking no evasive action, which made Will wonder if the gunners hadn’t seen them yet, but without the luxury of a mid-upper turret it was going to be a hard fight. Giving Bingham a running commentary he felt the aircraft bank into a shallow turning dive, putting the sun to their advantage. He could only listen and wait as the Halifax dived on its unsuspecting prey, closely followed by the sound of the front Vickers gun being fired and the shout of, “I think I’ve hit him and he’s turning to port skipper.”

  Will felt the pilot bank the Halifax round in a tight turn, putting the enemy aircraft on his starboard side and below him, making the flying boat a perfect target. What he hadn’t expected was how accurate the return fire was from the German gunner manning the 13mm machine gun, its arch of fire passing dangerously close over his turret before hitting the starboard tailfin and punching a line of holes through the Halifax’s fuselage forward of the tail plane. Returning fire at the gunner’s position with a five-second burst, the rounds fell short as the flying boat’s pilot took evasive action; realigning his fire he saw a steady stream of hits behind the gunner’s position and the central engine. He managed to get in another quick burst but they missed the target, sending up a line of splashes across the surface of the ocean as the 138 suddenly made a sharp turn to starboard, passing under the Halifax, the German pilot no doubt trying to manoeuvre his aircraft into a position so he could bring the two deadly 20mm cannons to bear.

  Will tried to anticipate what the German’s next move would be as the flying boat disappeared from view and a long stream of fire from its top turret gunner arched over the Halifax’s tail plane as he shouted to the skipper to turn to port. Banking hard, Bingham brought the aircraft around in a tight turn as another burst of fire from the Blohm and Voss found its mark, hitting the Halifax’s starboard wing tip.

  “He’s a tricky sod is this one,” Will thought, as he quickly tracked the turret round onto his starboard side as the flying boat came out from underneath them, keeping low to the surface of the ocean on a south easterly heading. He fired a long burst, longer than the recommended five seconds, aiming at the gunner’s position and central engine. He knew he’d found his mark when he saw Perspex fly upwards and the gunner abruptly stop firing, while black smoke and flames trailed out from its number two motor. Informing the skipper that he had seriously damaged it, he watched it make a sudden turn to port then drop rapidly, striking the sea in a nose-down angle, ripping off its port float which lifted the aircraft tail high into the air before falling back in a shower of spray.

  “Poor buggers,” he whispered quietly to himself as they circled around the downed aircraft, his mind recollecting his own ditching in the North Sea. He didn’t think he had ever been so cold as they sat in that open dinghy, ravaged for nearly fourteen hours by wind and rain before they had finally been picked up by an Air Sea Rescue launch, given dry clothes, a hot drink and food and nothing had ever sounded so good as the boat’s engines taking them back to Blighty.

  A couple of bangs on the turret made him square the turret up with the fuselage and slide back the doors.

  “You okay Will?” Tom Fielding, the flight engineer shouted, patting him on the arm.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he acknowledged, putting his hand up.

  “I’ve just been going around the crew positions to see if everybody’s okay and see what damage has been done.”

  “Is everybody all right?”

  “Yes, but we’ve got some bloody great holes through the fuselage, but fortunately Jerry’s fire didn’t hit anything vital.”

  “It’ll give the ground crew bods something to do when we get back,” he said, laughing.

  “Chiefy Baker’s face will be a picture when he sees we’ve bent his aircraft for him, Will.”

  “I don’t doubt it. So what’s happening about these chaps in the drink?”

  “Air Sea Rescue is on the way out to pick them up; we’ve told them that we’ll circle them for as long as our fuel will allow.”

  “And how long will that be?”

  Tom Fielding looked at his watch. “Thirty minutes, then we’ll have to start heading back. Oh! By the way, that was a bit of good shooting on your part Will, the skipper’s well impressed.”

  “Thanks, it got a bit hairy at times though, he wasn’t going to go down without a fight; he was a good pilot that Jerry whoever he is!”

  “Well, he won’t be doing any more flying when the Air Sea Rescue boys get hold of him.”

  “No, that’s him and his crew in the bag for the remainder of the war!”

  “Anyway Will I’d better get back, if you want to get out and have a stretch for a while and a cup of coffee, I can send Benny back to man the turret?”

  “No, I’m okay Tom,” he answered, content to sit back and watch proceedings unfold below.

  They had been circling for thirty minutes and were just about to head for home when the small speck of the Air Sea Rescue launch was seen heading in their direction. So after a quick discussion between Bingham and Tom Fielding about their fuel state, it was decided to circle for another five minutes more to vector the launch to the survivors.

  Chapter Nine

  GRISELDA sat back in the chair and watched Guntram finish transmitting, then pack away the equipment neatly in its case. “What did they say?” she asked, taking two cigarettes from a packet, lighting them both and handing one to him.

  “We will get further instructions in twenty-four hours. So all we can do is wait,” he answered, concealing the transmitter behind a false panel in the cupboard under the stairs.

  Griselda shook her head and stared at her lover. “Don’t they realise how dangerous it is for us to remain here after what happened on the airfield? The police, M15, they will all be searching the area for any clues to our whereabouts,” she said nervously, d
rawing hard on the cigarette.

  Bayer stood and looked at her; he could see the fear in her eyes and knew what had to be done if things should take a turn for the worse. It would be a tragedy to have to kill her as he had grown quite fond of her over the past few weeks, but he could see she was going to be a liability and a threat to his own safety if the net started to close in around them. He stroked her cheek tenderly and smiled at her before sitting down; he would make it as quick as possible when the time came to take her life.

  *

  Bayer watched the grey clouds of dawn through the sky light above him. Rolling over onto his side he propped himself up on one elbow and watched Griselda brush her hair in front of the mirror. “You look tired!” he remarked casually, reaching for the cigarettes on the bedside table.

  “What do you expect?” she answered huskily, looking back at him through the mirror. “We were making love until God knows what time and again this morning,” she smiled, getting up and walking over to the bed. “Zip me up will you?” she asked, checking the time for her walk to the railway station.

  After Griselda had left he lay for a while turning over the events of the past few days, but his thoughts still kept coming back to the photographs he had of the new jet fighter and its engines; they would now be top priority and needed to be got back to Germany as soon as possible. After washing and dressing he ate a light breakfast, after which he got out the bicycle from the shed and using the lanes set off at a steady pace in the general direction of Stonehouse. After further deliberation he decided against it because of its close proximity to the airfield at Moreton Valence. Turning back towards Nympsfield he eventually came across a public house where he spent an enjoyable two hours listening to the banter of the locals and occasionally joining in and it had been the last thing on his mind that he would meet a police car down one of the narrow lanes as he cycled back rather unsteadily due to the large amount of alcohol in his system.

  “You seemed to be riding very erratically sir, have you a problem with your bike?” the patrol officer asked from the confines of his police vehicle.

  Bayer had to think fast. “Yes! A friend of mine lent me the cycle and the brakes aren’t as good as I thought they were,” he lied, while trying to look apologetic.

  “Well, be more careful in future, and get that friend of yours to sort those brakes out,” the officer demanded, winding up his window before driving off.

  Bayer grinned to himself as he watched the car disappear down the lane and out of sight. “And balls to you, you English bastard,” he said quietly to himself releasing his hold on the switchblade in his pocket.

  The sound of a key being inserted and a door being opened woke him, then Griselda call his name. “I must have fallen asleep,” he answered, as she came into the room and he got clumsily to his feet.

  Kissing him, she immediately pulled away. “You stink of drink!” she said sternly.

  “I went for a cycle ride this morning to think things over and stopped and had a few drinks at a local pub and that’s all it was,” he replied, following her into the kitchen.

  “It was more than a few Guntram, you reek of the stuff.”

  “What have we got to eat?” he asked, leaning over the sink to splash his face with water.

  “I’ll see what I can find, you’d better do the blackout,” she smirked, pleased with his suffering.

  The last two hours dragged by painfully slowly until it was time to make the call-sign to Berlin. After acknowledging the orders he had been given, Bayer switched off the wireless set and sat back in the chair, turning over in his mind the message he had received.

  “What do they want us to do?” Griselda asked, as calmly as possible.

  “I’ve to be at ‘location seven’ tomorrow afternoon between one and three o’clock to make contact with one of our agents who will give me further instructions.”

  “Where is ‘location seven?’” she queried.

  “If I told you that I’d have to eliminate you afterwards,” he grinned.

  Griselda was shocked at his outspoken remark. “Okay! But how will you recognise each other?” she asked, cautiously.

  Bayer got to his feet and went over and gently stroked her hair. “You are too inquisitive my little lovebird for your own good,” he said, kissing her. “Now! I’ll have a long day tomorrow so I need to get some rest, but first I have plans for you before I do, so you go up and get undressed while I take care of things down here.”

  After their lovemaking Griselda lay listening to Guntram sleeping; he was beginning to frighten her with some of the remarks he had been making of late. Unable to sleep she eased herself quietly out of bed and putting on her dressing gown, went down to the kitchen. The warmth from the fire coupled with the drink she made lulled her into a state of drowsiness and finally to sleep. It was Guntram shaking her and looking down at her stern faced that woke her.

  “What are you doing down here?” he demanded sharply.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so came down to make a hot drink. I must have fallen asleep,” she answered, getting up but conscious of his eyes following her. “What time is it?” she asked, leaning against the sink.

  “Quarter to six.”

  “Oh! There’s not much point in going back to bed now. I might as well get ready for work,” she smiled, heading for the stairs.

  Having no need to rush with catching a later train, he got ready at a leisurely pace after Griselda had left. Checking the Walther was fully loaded and his favoured way of killing, the knife, was in his pocket, Bayer put on his top coat and made for the door, checking that everything in the room was as it should be. He quietly closed the door behind him and walking steadily, soon covered the distance to the station. The train was surprisingly crowded when it arrived and he stood in the corridor for the entire journey to Bristol’s Temple Meads Station. Holding back as he walked along the platform to give the alighting passengers time to thin out he then made a necessary stop at the paper stand to buy the Daily Mail, the paper to be folded in such a way that it displayed Mail from his left coat pocket, his contact to do the same with his paper showing Daily from his right pocket. Bayer knew nothing about his contact but even so, experience had taught him never to throw caution to the wind and he decided as he walked down Station Approach that he would take an indirect route to the rendezvous point. Cutting through the back streets and checking regularly that he wasn’t being followed, he made his way into Queen Square by way of the Redcliffe Way bridge and still having time to spare, he sat for a while in a small café and took time lingering over a mug of tea while pretending to read the newspaper. Light rain began to fall when he came out from the café and walked down the busy King Street; standing in a shop doorway he spotted his contact, the newspaper clearly displayed from his right coat pocket, walking down the opposite side of the road. Bayer’s experienced eyes took in each and everyone following him; he couldn’t pick-out anyone who resembled being a tail, but again he decided on caution and waited another thirty minutes scrutinising everyone entering ‘The Old Duke’ public house before being satisfied it was safe to enter the establishment. The place was quite busy with lunchtime drinkers but as he stood at the bar it didn’t take him long to spot the neatly folded raincoat by the side of its wearer, the newspaper easily visible as arranged. Bayer took a few minutes to size the man up. He estimated his age to be around the thirty mark and he looked to be extremely fit by his build, a force to be reckoned with, Bayer thought, as he took a drink while watching him over the rim of the glass. Choosing a table facing the door, he observed for a while the comings and goings of the bar’s clientele while all the time keeping a wary eye on his friend opposite. The man’s nervousness did worry him, obvious from his constant checking of his watch and rubbing his right fist inside the palm of his left hand, all the signs that showed he was not happy being kept waiting. Bayer let the minutes tick by, but the bar seemed to have a constant movement of drinkers and as far as he could see there didn’t seem to be
anybody that set the alarm bells ringing by their behaviour. Close to time being called, he drank up and left and took up a position where he could see when the other agent left and his patience was soon rewarded for a little after three, he saw him leave and tailing him at a discreet distance, followed him to a residential area along the side of the river. The end of terrace three storied house looked to be of the Victorian era with its once elegant rooms now turned into rented apartments. Crossing the road to give himself a better view of the house, he saw his contact through the window in a room on the second floor on the right as he walked by. Bayer smiled to himself as he kept on walking; how easy it all was for M15 or the police once they had an agent pinpointed, the rendezvous point and who they were meeting, the road and house and even the apartment where he or she lived – he had got it all within a short period of time. Taking a round-about route to waste time, he eventually made his way back to the café he had used earlier and ate a reasonable meal after which he steadily made his way back to the house to await nightfall. Shielded by the darkness and mist that swirled off the river, he opened the gate quietly and made his way to the front door, only to find it could only be opened by putting in a series of numbers into a key pad. Frustrated, he had just been about to turn away to rethink another means of entry when he heard the sound of laughter from inside and the shape of two figures appear through the door’s frosted glass panel. Standing to one side he acknowledged the two women coming out with ‘good evening ladies’ while holding the door for them in a polite gentlemanly fashion. The hallway and stairs were in darkness but a solitary dark shaded light shone on the first floor landing as he cautiously made his way up to the room in question. Bayer noticed there was a light shining from under the door as he pressed his ear hard against the panel to listen and with his knife at the ready, he used the blade to tap quietly on the door then stood to one side to wait. With lightning speed, the blade of the knife was held close to the man’s throat as he was forced back into the room and told to sit down, Bayer closing the door behind him.