Chapter Thirty
WATCHED BY SCHMITT AND FALK, Kurtz walked with his crew to the waiting transport that would take them to their aircraft. He noticed that this time there was a quietness from the crew during the journey to the dockside, no doubt each man realising there could be a strong possibility of an encounter with a British aircraft during their long flight. Standing to one side to finish his cigarette he looked at the ‘Seedrache’s’ unusual shape, or ‘the flying clog’ as it was unofficially called by the crews that flew them, well-armed and well able to take care of itself in combat and with a range of 4,300 km; these were its good points. Its downside was its ceiling of only 5000m and a maximum speed of 285 km/h making it vulnerable to attack from allied aircraft. Flicking the cigarette end into the inky black water he climbed aboard and took up his position in the pilot’s seat and, after checking the crew position, he went through the start-up procedure. With the engines running in unison and getting the thumbs-up from the dockside that they were free to move, Kurtz opened the throttles slightly and eased the flying boat away from the dockside and out into the middle of the bay, whereupon he increased speed for take-off, the noise from the three diesel engines piercing the night air as the aircraft cut a white furrow across the surface of the water before being lifted aloft on its dangerous assignment. On a course of 350 degrees they climbed steadily to their cruising height where Kurtz levelled the aircraft off for the 145 km flight along the coast to Bergen. With time and fuel consumption to consider they had debated on whether to take the more direct route between the islands of Shetland and Orkney, but with little room for manoeuvre should British radar pick them up and send an aircraft up to intercept them, the risk was too great; also with clear conditions given for the duration of the flight, they had decided to take the northerly route which would take them between the Faroe and Shetland islands, the distance being far greater but with less chance of detection.
“Beautiful isn’t it?” Kurtz said, looking at the coastline and snow covered mountains ahead which were clearly visible in the moonlight.
“Yes, it is! Maybe after the war is over we could come back and try our hand at skiing,” Bolling answered.
“Have you done any?” Kurtz asked, adjusting the aircraft’s trim.
“No! I’d probably spend more time on my arse than stood up on the skis,” he chuckled. “What about you?
“My parents liked to ski so we used to holiday in Bavaria in the Oberbayern region during the thirties.”
“So you are pretty good then?” the radio operator said, giving his captain a pretentious stare.
“Well, I might be a bit rusty, but I still think I could get to the bottom of the piste without falling on my backside.”
Bolling started laughing. “I’m not so sure of that, I’ve seen you on your backside several times when you’ve been pissed, remember that night in Aalborg?”
Kurtz was just about to respond to his friend’s humorous remark, but this was interrupted by Karl Bastian’s voice on the intercom.
“Captain! Come left onto new course, 290 degrees,” he said in a rather brusque tone.
The two men looked at each other without speaking, but wondering what the other was thinking about Bastian’s mannerism.
“Thank you navigator, turning on to new course, 290 degrees,” Kurtz replied politely.
Walter Myer felt quite detached from the other crew members as he made a slow search sweep in the rear turret; night flying he always found monotonous, especially when there were long periods of silence between the crew, and he was always relieved when he heard the familiar click, and the captain’s voice come on the intercom checking each crew position, so it had been nice to listen to the cross-chat between the radio operator and the captain which had alleviated some of the boredom. He’d had a bad feeling about the flight from the beginning; having Engle their regular navigator replaced had not sat well with him and he had voiced his concerns to the captain who had taken him to one side and quietly told him ‘that it was out of his hands.’
Looking at the 20mm cannon in front of him he felt confident in his own capabilities should they encounter the enemy as he slowly traversed the turret to make another search, but even so, it was a long flight with much of it being flown in daylight. Satisfied all was clear, his thoughts turned to his wife Dagmar back in Heidelberg. The continuous allied bombing raids weighed heavily on his mind and he couldn’t remember the number of times he had asked her to go to her parents’ house in the country where she would be safe, but she always refused. He shook his head in annoyance at her stubbornness; she had always been the same, but in fairness it had been one of the qualities that he loved about her, plus her enticing ways.
After covering the 274 km from the Norwegian coast to the mid-way point between the Shetland and Faroe islands without incident, Bolling couldn’t help but notice that the port wing tip seemed awfully close to the surface of the ocean as Kurtz banked the seaplane around sharply on to the new course of 210 degrees he had been given. Back on level flight he looked down the side of the pronounced features of the front turret as Manfred gently tracked from side to side searching for any signs of hostile aircraft, but even with this threat, he couldn’t help but feel the exhilaration he always got from low flying.
“I wonder how that land based aircraft is making out on its diversionary flight towards Fair Isle to try and draw the attention away from us?” he said, trying to sound concerned.
“I don’t know! The skill with those sort of operations, as you know, is to get turned around and on your way back before the bastards get up to intercept you; leave it too late, and you can be up the proverbial without a paddle,” Kurtz answered, checking the fuel state and also hearing the click of the intercom.
“Captain! Navigator?”
“Yes, navigator.”
“New course! Come left on to 200 degrees, that will keep us west of Rona and the Hebrides, distance to next course change 161 km, captain.”
“Thank you navigator,” Kurtz answered, impressed with Bastian’s efficiency. “Seems to know his stuff Herbert.”
Bolling didn’t reply to the appraisal of the man but just stared down at the sea below. “Well, if operations have got their timings right the JU 88 should be on its way back to Stavanger now, lucky sods.”
“Mmm! If they’ve got it right. The British are no fools when it comes to the art of deception, they pull the same stunts to keep our fighters away from their main bomber streams, so they may well have guessed what we were up to,” Kurtz replied gently, reducing height to be as close to the surface as he could to keep below the British radar, knowing that the worst part of the flight was still to come which would take them very close to the incoming route of the Met flight Halifax’s based on Tiree.
*
Suitably kitted out for the long flight in an unheated turret, Will shuffled out with the rest of the crew carrying his parachute, survival rations and other paraphernalia into the surprisingly mild morning air and across to the waiting transport. Climbing the steps he grinned at the driver who he saw stifle a yawn with the back of his hand. “I know the feeling,” he said, making his way down the aisle and taking a seat behind Jack Rapier, the wireless operator. The cross-chat, given they had been called at the God unearthly hour of 4.00am seemed more intense than normal as they made the journey around the perimeter track to the far side of the airfield, and the dispersal where their aircraft, A for Apple, stood with its nose aloof in the air after being lovingly prepared by its ground crew.
“How is she, Flight?” Groves, their pilot asked, taking the form 700 to sign.
“She’s on top line sir!”
“Thanks Flight – Right chaps, let’s get aboard.”
*
Having covered the last 97km from their last course correction of 180 degrees, which had kept them well clear of the larger islands of South Uist and Barra, they had reached the northern end of Stracandra Island as the first streaks of light were beginning to show in
the east. After gaining height Kurtz decided to run down the dark side of the island to seaward which would bring them to the promontory which housed the cottages, lighthouse, and the all-important jetty.
Bayer had been on the walkway that encircled the top of the lighthouse since before dawn and heard the sound of the approaching aircraft before he saw it; taking the flashlight from his jacket pocket he held it in readiness. A sudden feeling of gratification, of a job well done, swept over him as he saw the trimotor flying boat with a swastika on its tail unit slowly materialise out of the early morning gloom and, after giving the designated three flashes, and getting the same response from the aircraft, he stood a few moments to watch it head out to sea before banking around to make a long approach towards the island.
Stella had also heard the distant aircraft and tried desperately to free herself from the ropes that bound her to the chair, but however hard she tried she couldn’t, and the thought of Guntrum coming back to the cottage and what he might do to her now frightened her even more. She began to sob as she thought of the previous day and how he had pinned her to the ground at knife point; then after dragging her to her feet he had taken her into the cottage where he had forced himself upon her in an aggressive manner. The sound of him approaching made her look up at the door which was suddenly flung open and he stood looking at her in the half-light.
“So what are we going to do with you?” he smirked, walking over to her and grabbing her by her chin and squeezing it, so it pushed her head back.
“Please, please don’t kill me, I won’t say anything,” she pleaded with tears streaming down her cheeks. “I promise I won’t say a word!”
“I’ll just bet you wouldn’t,” Bayer said, scowling at her while being keenly aware that time was of the essence as he moved behind her.
Stella shrieked as the blade from Bayer’s knife flashed open close to her face.
“Because you have given me much pleasure since we first met I’ve decided to let you live,” he told her, stroking her cheek with the back of the blade. “But put one foot outside that door before we have left, and I will instruct the aircraft’s gunners to turn all their firepower on the cottage – is that understood?”
“Stella nodded frantically, before burbling out, ‘yes’, as she felt the ropes that held her being cut. Free of her bounds she stayed in the chair and looked up at the man who had once been her lover and despised him for all he had put her through as she wiped away the tears.
“Are you not going to wish me bon voyage Stella?” he asked, but not getting a reply he picked up his travel bag and went to kiss her – but she turned her head away.
She sat for a few moments after he had left in utter relief that she was still alive before getting up and walking over to the window where she saw him reach the top of the steps that went down to the jetty. There she saw him hesitate and look back, before disappearing from view.
*
From the rear turret Will watched the grey light of dawn spread across the airfield below as they climbed steadily on a north/westerly course to their designated search height. After test firing the guns, and reporting back that all was ‘OK’, he settled down to the routine of searching for any sign of enemy activity. Feeling the aircraft level off Will could just make out the dark shape of Tiree in the distance as he slowly tracked the turret around on to his port quarter. Thin wisps of transparent white cloud, almost motionless, drifted by above him which seemed to add to the early morning beauty. Depressing the four Brownings down he felt the seat slowly tilt forward also (a feature he found superior over the Lancaster’s Frazer-Nash turret) which made it easier for him to check the lower quarter and in doing so, he saw the distinct shapes of the islands at the southern end of the Western Isles, and one in particular with its prominent lighthouse. Staring at the structure he recalled the earlier incident and wondered if it had been a trick of the light, but he knew what he had seen and no amount of dissuasion would convince him otherwise. Dismissing it as a closed chapter, he was just about to rotate the turret to make another search when he thought he saw movement below. A bank of low cloud temporally obscured his vision so he waited for it to clear; what he observed made him stare in disbelief: a Blohm and Voss flying boat stationary, but with its engines still running and what looked like two people in a rubber dinghy heading for the waiting aircraft. Assessing the situation, Will quickly realised the flying boat’s vulnerability; the craft was pointing seaward ready for take-off once the pick-up had been made, but in doing so, this rendered the two rear gun positions inoperable as they were pointing towards the island, which left the aircraft’s single front gun as its only means of defence. Alerting the skipper of the enemy’s presence and giving him his evaluation on the best line of attack, Flight Sergeant Groves immediately put it in to operation by banking the Halifax around in a tight turn to starboard, and given their low search altitude began a shallow diving attack towards the enemy aircraft, which in response opened fire with its single 20mm cannon. Listening to a choice remark made over the intercom by a crew member, who was told ‘to put a sock in it’ by the skipper, Will saw the enemy’s fire pass underneath the Halifax’s tail unit, while in retaliation he heard Sergeant Doyle in the nose begin to fire the Vickers machine gun, who reported scoring hits on the flying boat’s hull before being wounded by a cannon shell smashing into the nose section. Undeterred by the elements and damage to the aircraft Groves pressed home the attack, while Flight Sergeant Oakes, their navigator who was tending the wounded gunner, shouted to Will over the intercom that they were about to over fly the enemy aircraft. With the four Brownings fully depressed and thankful for the unobstructed view below given by the gunner’s seat arrangement, Will waited out the few remaining seconds looking into the reflector sight; breathing heavily, he knew his firing was now the only means of stopping the enemy seaplane from taking-off. Hearing and feeling the thud as cannon shells struck the Halifax and a shout from someone saying that the starboard wing had been hit, Will opened fire, strafing the bow section, his fire hitting a crew member in the dinghy which was tied alongside and a second man who looked like a civilian who was climbing into the flying boat through its open forward hatch. He redirected his fire at the front turret, which stopped firing immediately, and he saw the cockpit shatter under the hail of fire from the four Brownings as Groves lifted the Halifax up and made a wide turn to starboard to take stock of their situation.
Chapter Thirty-One
ABOARD THE FLYING BOAT sitting amidst the debris it had been the sound of the engines still running and a cold breeze on his face that revived his senses. Wiping away the blood that ran down his face from the head wound sustained during the attack Kurtz watched the circling Halifax. Looking around the smashed cockpit he wondered how he had managed to survive the savage onslaught; apart from having no protection from the elements forward, the central console had been hit, while the adjacent observer/radio operator’s position was totally destroyed and the starboard side windows blown out; also, the side of the hull was peppered with jagged holes.
“Can we take-off Captain?” a voice from behind him asked.
Turning around while wiping away more blood Kurtz saw Karl Bastion the navigator looking at him wide-eyed.
“I don’t know! Are Myers and Klingemann okay?”
“Yes!” Bastion answered, looking at the head wound.
“Good, at least we’ve got some means of defending ourselves if we can get airborne,” Kurtz replied while still keeping a watchful eye on the enemy aircraft’s movements.
“Shall I get the first aid box and bandage that head wound for you?”
“No! Never mind that. You go forward and see what state Filor, Bolling and our passenger are in; also see what damage has been done to the forward section of the hull while I check things out here and keep an eye on him,” he gestured, “to see what he’s going to do,” Kurtz answered.
Making his way through to the forward compartment Bastian was alarmed at the amount of sea
water there was. Checking the nose turret he found Filor slumped forward over the cannon. Lifting the gunner’s head he checked for a pulse. Satisfied he was no longer of this world, he went to check on their passenger, who was lying in a twisted position under the forward hatch unable to move from wounds to his back and legs. Crouching over the injured man, Bastian could see a substantial amount of blood mingling with the freezing seawater and knew the wounds were severe.
“Do you think you can move ?” he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
Looking at the Oberleutant Bayer grinned and shook his head. “But could you make me more comfortable by straightening my legs for me?” he asked, his voice all but a whisper.
Bastian nodded. “Sure!”
Wincing from the pain Bayer was eventually able to look up at the sky above through the open hatch, his mind drifting back to days past in Germany with family and friends.
Stracandra Island Page 28