“So you are a spy Andrew?”
“Yes! My name is Guntram Bayer.”
Stella studied him for a few moments and wondered whatever she had seen in him. “So it’s my duty to kill you if I can to stop you getting back,” she answered, slowly bringing the pistol up and levelling it at his chest.
Grinning, he shook his head. “It’s a very hard thing to do, to actually kill a person Stella. Do you think you have got what it takes to do it?” he asked.
“Oh! I’m sure I have,” she replied with malice, pulling the trigger but getting no response from the weapon. Trying again she realised it was out of ammunition. Dejected, Stella slowly lowered the gun and, releasing her grip on it, let it fall to the ground.
The grin on Bayer’s face turned to one of relief knowing that his memory had served him right on the bullet count. “You should always check your weapon if you intend to kill my dear; if you had done you would have known there were only five bullets left in the magazine,” he told her superciliously, and bringing the knife into view so she could see it he quickly started to climb the rough steps towards her.
Fearing for her life Stella turned and ran for the protection of the cottage, tripping and falling heavily; she hadn’t been able to reach the door before his superior speed caught her and his overpowering strength easily brought her to her knees. Rolling her over onto her back and using his body weight to pin her down he laid the blade of the knife against her throat.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
HAUPTMANN BERNARD KURTZ settled himself into the pilot’s seat alongside his radio operator Oberfeldwebel Herbert Bolling in the Blohm and Voss flying boat. Starting the three Jumo diesel engines in turn he let them warm up while he checked the crew positions. The nose turret was occupied by Manfred Filor, the rear and upper rear manned by Walter Myer and Viktor Klingemann, all reporting back that things were satisfactory, which was followed by the usual light-hearted banter between the three men who had flown many hours together and came to rely on each other implicitly. Kurtz thought back to the briefing and the annoyance at being told that his regular Navigator Engel was being replaced for this operation by – Oberleutant Karl Bastion whose navigating skills he knew nothing about. Getting the thumbs-up from Bolling that they were free to move away from the 300 metre purpose built pier, Kurtz taxied the 138 out across the calm waters of Limfjord. Neither he nor his crew were strangers to seaplane operations, having flown many hours on the type while based at Stavanger in Norway before being attached to the Seefliegerhorst Aalborg on Denmark’s Limfjord. Construction of the base had started in the late summer of 1940 and had been an ongoing development ever since, with its large hangar for the maintenance of seaplanes heavily defended with bunkers and pillboxes and all the amenities for a garrison of 1,500 men, Kurtz had found his stay here a pleasant one. While waiting for permission to take-off, which was being held up by the late arrival of an Arado reconnaissance aircraft that was making an emergency landing with engine problems, Kurtz’ thoughts turned again to the briefing which had been uninformative to say the least – fly to Stavanger and refuel, after which he would be briefed fully on the operation he was to carry out. The flight north over the Skagerrak and across the tip of Norway was uneventful and they landed under clear blue skies at Stavanger ahead of schedule and taxied to their mooring. With the refuelling operation underway and leaving the crew to carry out last-minute checks of their respective positions, Kurtz made his way to operations and a meeting which was to bring to the forefront the darker side of the Third Reich.
“Please follow me sir,” the young subordinate said hastily making his way along the corridor and coming to an abrupt halt outside an office door, whereupon he quickly checked his appearance and adjusted his tie before knocking.
“Come!”
Opening the door he entered and came smartly to attention. “Hauptmann Kurtz sir,” he said in a slightly nervous tone.
“Good, show him in,” an authoritarian voice answered.
On entering Kurtz immediately saw why the young man had been so uneasy. Seated opposite him behind the desk was a thick-set man in a dark grey suit whose features looked to be that of a prize-fighter, and stood next to him in an immaculate black uniform, an officer of the SS.
“You have made good time from Aalborg Hauptmann, please sit down,” he was told, being offered a cigarette, which he took.
“Yes, it was a good flight, the weather was excellent,” he replied sitting back in the chair to show he wasn’t going to be intimidated by their presence.
The man behind the desk drew hard on his cigarette and glared at him for several moments before leaning forward to speak. “We are from Ausland-SD – Department B, our expertise is Espionage in the West. I am SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Schmitt and this is SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Falk.”
Kurtz didn’t respond verbally but just gestured with his head in acknowledgement.
“So, how much were you told before you left Aalborg?”
“Nothing sir. I was just told that my crew and I were to fly here, refuel, and await further orders.”
This time it was Schmitt who nodded while stubbing out his cigarette into the ashtray. “Good! Now, what do you know about jet engines?”
“Only what I’ve read from reviews and books. I believe an English engineer, I think his name was Griffith, published a paper on compressors and turbines as early as 1926. But the English inventor Frank Whittle developed the concept of the jet engine in 1928. If I remember rightly the ‘turbojet’ came later in the 1930s independently by Whittle and later by Hans von Ohain in Germany. I know the first turbojet aircraft to fly was in Germany at Rostock, that was in August ’39 and it was the Heinkel HE 178. Also the Italians had a prototype flying in 1940 and not long after the British had one up in May ’41, but the first operational jet fighter was the ME 262, but from what I’ve been hearing it spends a lot of its time on the ground due to its high fuel consumption.”
“Where have you heard this?” Falk enquired.
“Oh, here and there, mainly from other aircrew members, word soon gets around if there is a problem which keeps aircraft on the ground,” he answered casually.
“We do not like loose tongues in the SS, Kurtz,” Falk said sharply.
“Is that so? But it is widely known that tongues soon start to wag during interrogation through the methods you people use,” he replied sarcastically, and knew immediately that his comment had touched a raw nerve by the thunderous look he was getting.
“Be careful Hauptmann. Be very careful,” Falk snarled.
“Enough gentlemen,” intervened Schmitt. “We have more pressing matters to discuss. Now Kurtz, what you have heard, by whatever means, is irrelevant,” he said, looking at both men. “The Reich has several, let’s say, projects under mass production as we speak that could turn the war in Germany’s favour, but that is not why we are here.”
“Could I ask why I have been brought here?” he asked curtly.
A coldness descended in the room for a few moments before Schmitt broke the silence. “The reason is, Kurtz, because of the British. They have developed a new jet engine which they call the ‘Welland’ and it has been fitted into an existing airframe, the Gloster Meteor. It made its first test flight on the 12th January which was very successful and we now know through our operatives that the British are now building these aircraft and they could be reaching RAF squadrons by as early as mid-summer,” he said, abruptly stopping to pick up the telephone to order some coffee.
Kurtz stroked his forehead while he thought over what Schmitt had said. “Do we know the performance capabilities of this new aircraft?” he enquired.
“No, not at the moment, but,” Schmitt immediately broke off the conversation when a knock came on the door, which was the arrival of the coffee.
“What I was about to say before this arrived,” he gestured with the coffee cup. “That is where you and your crew come in Kurtz.”
He looked at the Obersturmbannfuhrer quizzically.
“Us sir. In what way?”
“Tell him, Falk, while I drink this muck they call coffee.”
“Since nineteen hundred and forty-one our intelligence service has been keeping a close eye on the British experimental jet which flew for the first time on the 15th of May that year. In the early days of its construction and test flights the British had several problems with the aircraft which they have slowly overcome and they have now test flown the fifth prototype on the 5th of March 1943 at Cranwell airfield in Lincolnshire. This flight was watched and photographed by one of our top agents in England who has kept a close eye on its movements during its development stages.”
Intrigued by how informative Falk was being Kurtz decided to break in on his narrating. “Where is the aircraft now?”
“As of January this year it was at Moreton Valence airfield in Gloucestershire.”
“Our agent was able to get on to the airfield and into the hangar where the aircraft was being kept, photograph it and its engines, and get clean away right under their noses,” Schmitt boasted.
Kurtz couldn’t help but be impressed by Abwehr’s efficiency, even though it was now run by the SS after the removal of Canaris. “So where is this agent now?”
“He is on a small uninhabited island off the west coast of Scotland.”
“And what is the name of the place?” Kurtz asked.
“Stracandra.”
“It’s not one I’ve heard of, where is it located?” he queried.
Falk took a folded map from his briefcase and opened it out on the desk. “That is the island there,” he said, pointing at the small clump of rock that lay at the southern tip of the Western Isles.
Kurtz ran a careful eye over the area he had to fly to. “Is there anybody living on these other islands in the area?” he asked.
“No! Stracandra Island did have a manned lighthouse station until it was attacked by one of our submarines in the early months of the war; since then the island has been deserted, the lighthouse and one of the cottages survived the attack which our agent is using. We want you there at first light tomorrow morning, collect him, and fly him here. On his arrival, an aircraft will be waiting to fly him direct to Berlin for a meeting with the Fuhrer. This mission must not fail Kurtz! There will be serious consequences for all concerned if it does, and that comes from the highest authority, do I make myself clear?” Falk emphasised, refolding the map and putting it back in his briefcase.
Schmitt scowled menacingly. “You seem bewildered Kurtz, is there a problem?”
“Well, wouldn’t it be easier and safer to pick this man up by U-boat rather than using a seaplane? It is a long way back to the Norwegian coast in daylight and the RAF constantly patrol well out into the Atlantic from their bases down the west coast of Scotland, so an encounter with one of their aircraft is a risk factor.”
“We are aware of the dangers, but the need to get this man back as soon as possible far exceeds the risk involved. As you say, a U-boat would have been the safer option, but unfortunately we do not have a boat in the area, so it is down to you and your crew to undertake the operation,” Schmitt answered.
Kurtz sighed heavily. “Right sir.”
“Good! I suggest you and your crew now get some rest. You will be called to a briefing prior to take-off, we will see you then,” Schmitt concluded.
*
Maynard sat back in his chair, rested his crossed legs on the corner of the desk and drummed the desk top noisily with the flat end of a pencil in frustration. Sighing, he stared at the map on the wall; he knew time was running out to stop Bayer getting out of the country and looking at it realistically, it probably already had done. Hurried footsteps coming along the corridor outside made him turn as the office door burst open and Soames came in with the makings of a smile on his face.
“I’ve just been given some information from the police here in Stornoway. By all accounts a fisherman who owns a decent sized boat at Lochboisdale has reported it missing this morning.”
“This morning?” Maynard said angrily, getting up and going quickly over to the wall map. “Lochboisdale! That’s here at the bottom end of South Uist. Bloody hell, why have we only just received this now with only an hour or so of daylight left? We could have had the RAF up doing a search of the area to look for the bloody boat, now we’re snookered until tomorrow morning. Downright incompetence on the police’s part, they know how vital it is we get any scrap of information as soon as we can that could help us get Bayer, the murdering sod,” he ranted throwing the pencil on to the desk.
“I’m afraid it gets worse sir,” Soames said frowning.
Maynard gave him a look of despair. “Go on!”
“Well, apparently this fisherman told the local plod there that the day before he had been talking to a stranger on the quayside about his boat, general run of the mill stuff, the fish he caught, that kind of thing. But one thing this man did ask was if the boat was refuelled ready to go out on his next fishing trip.”
“Which it was,” Maynard answered.
“I’m afraid so sir.”
“That’s our man Gideon, so where is he trying to get to?” Maynard asked, turning to look at the map again. “We know he has a full tank of fuel, but he has to stay within this area here,” he said, drawing an imaginary ring around South Uist. “And wherever he’s making for has to be done under cover of darkness.”
“Which only gives him seven or eight hours at most, depending on what time he stole the boat,” Soames added.
“Right! Contact Carlton at Benbecula straight away and ask him if he can put up one or possibly two aircraft as soon as possible tomorrow morning to do a search of the area. Did the police give you a description of the boat?”
“Yes, they did!”
“Good! Make sure he gets that as well so the aircrew have an idea what they are looking for. Also have the Catalina flying boat on stand-by to fly us down to Lochboisdale in the morning.”
“I’ll get on to it right away,” Soames replied grinning. “The RAF boys are going to love us, they have a bit of a crisis on as it is, one of their aircraft is overdue from a sortie.”
“I see. Is it one of Carlton’s aircraft?” Maynard asked.
“No! I believe it’s a Met flight Halifax from Tiree. Anyway, I’d better get on to the Group Captain and see what he can do for us tomorrow morning,” Soames replied, heading for the door.
“Gideon, just a minute! On reflection, when you speak to him, tell him I will ring him shortly after I’ve spoken with London.”
“Will do.”
*
After neatly folding the letter he had written to Isobel, he sealed it in the stamped addressed envelope while wondering how she would take the news that he had gone back flying. Will knew their romance had blossomed during their regular correspondence and he had told her about the strained relationship he was having with Nelson the Armaments Officer and his need to get back on ops. It had been a pleasant walk in the late afternoon sunshine to the station post office to post his letter, and with Isobel still occupying his thoughts on the walk back he hadn’t been expecting to be suddenly confronted by Keith Stanbury when he reached the mess.
“Will! I’ve been looking for you, there’s a flap on!”
“Why, what’s up?” he asked.
“We’ve a kite missing and we’re down to do a search operation in the morning and we have to report to the flight office immediately.”
“Whose crew is it?” Will asked.
“Sergeant Parrish’s! The wireless operator radioed in saying they had problems with two of the engines, after that there’s been nothing heard from them since.”
“Two of the engines! Hell, that doesn’t sound good, does it?”
“No! It doesn’t.”
The flight office had a sombre feel about it when Keith and Will got there, and they were told to go and wait in the briefing room with the other members of their crew whereupon further waiting ensued while other crewmembers were located arou
nd the base. By the time Squadron Leader Walker arrived, the equivalent of three crews had assembled.
“Right gentlemen, are we all here?” he asked, which got him the response he expected. “This is not a full briefing, you will get that at 5am tomorrow morning. I’ve assembled you here now to put you in the picture as to what’s happening. As you all will have heard by now, Sergeant Parrish and his crew are now overdue from their Met Flight. We received a message from the aircraft at fifteen ten hours, saying that their port outer engine had suddenly disintegrated, which they thought was caused by an internal seizure. They also reported that debris from the outer engine when it broke up had damaged the inner one, which they had shut down, and they were hoping they could make it back to Tiree on the two starboard engines. Since that message we have had no further communiqué from the aircraft, and neither have we been able to contact them, so we have to assume that the aircraft has either ditched, or the worst case scenario, they have crashed into the sea before they were able to get a message off – any questions so far?” Walker asked, glancing around the room quickly.
“How far from base were they when they got into trouble sir?” a voice from one of the other crews asked.
“The position they gave us put them 325 miles out on their homeward leg. Which you’ll all appreciate, is a long way out with two duff engines,” Walker added.
“What Met flight were they on sir?” Len Oakes asked the navigator on Will’s crew.
“They were on a Mercer flight,” Walker replied, turning to the large map that hung down over the blackboard showing the Mercer and Bismuth operational flight routes. “These are the areas that you will be covering. Aircraft one will search this area here between the Irish coast and the Mercer outward leg, they may well have tried to make for Northern Ireland. The second aircraft will search the area within the Mercer triangle, and the third aircraft will cover the area between the Mercer homeward leg and the Bismuth outward route. Benbecula are going to put up two Wellingtons to cover the area within the Bismuth triangle, so as you can see the whole area is pretty well covered and with good weather conditions forecast for the next few days there is a good chance of finding our chaps. And remember, the regular Met flights will be taking place so watch out for those aircraft, we don’t want any airborne collisions.” Looking at his watch he continued, “After you’ve eaten, liaise with your ground crews on the status of your aircraft and make sure they are on top-line, if not, sort it out before you turn-in, we don’t want any problems before take-off, or during the flights, understood? You will be called at four, a full briefing at five, take-off at six.”
Stracandra Island Page 27