Airborne

by Robert Radcliffe

  ‘You’re an athletic outdoors type, I gather. Cross-country, mountaineering, all that malarkey.’

  ‘I have always enjoyed being outside, sir.’

  ‘Crack shot too. I gather you won an award at some Alpine games somewhere.’

  ‘Did I?’ Then with a jolt he remembered. The Bavarian Hitlerjugend competition of 1936. Rommel had given the medal. But how…

  ‘That is true, sir, although it was a few years—’

  ‘And you have excellent languages, no?’

  ‘I, well, yes, I speak Italian and German pretty fluently, also some French.’

  ‘Not forgetting English.’ Grant smiled. ‘Some pretty heroic swimming too, of course.’

  Theo could barely believe his ears – and barely keep up. Grant went on without pause, smoking and talking, nine to the dozen, something about 3 Commando forming in Dartmouth because of sea training he couldn’t talk about. Theo would be needed to travel there right away to join them. ‘Assuming you’re willing, naturally.’

  ‘Well, I, yes, of course but…’

  Then he stopped. Madness. This was all utter madness. Grant seemed to know everything, yet was missing so much that was important. Had he not listened? Did he not realize he’d been sacked from the army? That he was a threat to the State? That he was due to sign off at noon, a deadline he’d now miss, which was a military offence? That his mother was in custody for her politics, and his grandfather, and he probably too, any time? Nor could he just up sticks and head for Dartmouth with no notice. Carla needed him, and Eleni, and his grandparents. And anyway he didn’t know what his plans were, he needed time to recover, gather his wits, decide what to do.

  Which was all just prevarication, because the real reason he couldn’t do this was that he wasn’t worthy. Wasn’t brave enough. He’d sensed it in training, and had it proved to him in France, repeatedly. Hiding behind walls, cowering in ditches, watching in terror as four men charged to their deaths. He’d even run away at Saint-Valery, throwing aside his weapon and fleeing along the beach for the last boat to safety. When tested, he now knew for certain, he came up wanting, and that was the nub of it.

  Grant had stopped talking and was studying him, massaging his fingers and blowing thick plumes of smoke at the ceiling.

  ‘It’s voluntary, you know,’ he murmured intuitively. ‘That’s the whole point. You’re volunteers, from all walks and backgrounds. Nobody expects you to know anything, or be anything, because it’s all new. You’ll be supported and helped and trained, but if in the end you decide it’s not for you, then you can simply walk away. No questions asked, no blot on your record.’

  ‘Sir. Please don’t think I’m not grateful—’

  ‘It’s a lot to take in, I agree.’

  ‘My mother, you see…’

  ‘We know. And will do what we can to help.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘And we also know how well you did in France. We have that from various sources. You have friends, you see, Theo, referees if you like, people of standing, and reliability, willing to vouch for you.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Yes, but as I said, I can’t tell you more. But rest assured your efforts have not gone unappreciated. And you have certain valuable skills too.’

  Theo’s eyes returned to the leaflet. Who on earth could have spoken for him? And where? Caen? Guarding the bridge was hardly ‘hazardous duty’, and anyway his sergeant called him a useless shite. But had Thérèse Gondrée not hinted at trusted friends in London? And what about that sergeant at General Fortune’s HQ? MacLean, his name was. Or Major Wilson at the forward command post, who’d given him the job as runner? Or the Gordon Highlander lieutenant at Saint-Léger, or even General Fortune himself: What precisely is it that you think you saw? he’d said.

  ‘This war’s going to change, you see, Theo,’ Grant was saying, ‘very quickly now. The Germans may invade us, they may not – there’s not much we can do about it: our army’s in tatters, most of our equipment lying in ditches in France. But what we can do, what we must do, is re-equip, and rearm, and retrain, as fast as possible – but it will take months, years probably, to get back to full strength. So in the meantime we must find other ways to strike at them, in some limited way, until we’re ready. And for that we’re going to need strong, motivated young people with special qualities and skills. Like you.’

  *

  Just twelve days later he found himself clinging in terror to a scrambling net slung over the side of a Royal Navy destroyer, trying to jump on to the wildly pitching deck of an RAF launch far below. The night was tar black, the English Channel rough, and every time the destroyer rolled, the net swung away from the hull, only to crash painfully back, bruising his knees and skinning his knuckles. Much more of this pounding and he knew he would fall to the sea and drown. He must jump, and quickly. He looked up, only to see anxious sailors peering back down at him, while to either side others of his unit inched their way down the net like insects on a web. He’d known them barely a week; now they were going to war together. Timing his moment as best he could, he waited for the launch to surge upwards, let go and jumped.

  ‘Christ’s sake, Trick, you landed on my bloody foot!’

  ‘Sorry, I couldn’t see you.’

  ‘Well, I’m right here, you Irish oaf.’

  Then the motors roared and the launch was pulling away in a flurry of white foam, hurrying to join two more launches circling nearby. A wave struck it with a thud and clouds of freezing sea cascaded over the twelve men huddled on its deck. Within minutes, as the three launches sped away, everyone was soaked to the bone.

  An hour later they were still in the launch, which was now alone on an empty ocean, and apparently steaming in circles. ‘Bugger this for a lark.’ Theo’s companion ducked as another wave struck. His face gleamed wet and was curiously striped, sickly white streaked black with boot polish. ‘What are we still doing out here anyway? We should have landed ages ago.’

  ‘Maybe we’re lost.’ Theo peered into the darkness. ‘No, look, Percy! There’s rocks over there, rocks – see!’

  ‘I can’t see nothing and for God’s sake don’t call me Percy! I told you, it’s Burns or Burnsy or they’ll think I’m a ponce!’

  ‘Sorry, Burnsy, I forgot. But look, we’re definitely heading for that beach!’

  ‘Thank Christ, I’m about to puke.’

  Minutes later the launch suddenly shuddered to a halt thirty yards short of a rocky cove. ‘We’re aground!’ the coxswain shouted. ‘You’ll have to jump for it.’

  The twelve jumped, only to find themselves chest deep in freezing sea.

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Christ, it’s cold!

  ‘Nobody said nothing about swimming!’

  ‘Form a chain!’ their officer ordered. ‘Form a chain and get the equipment ashore. Quick as you can – we’re way behind schedule.’

  Struggling through the breaking surf they unloaded the launch, which then backed away into the darkness, leaving them gasping on the beach amid a soggy pile of weapons and equipment. As they began sorting through and kitting up, their officer, a young lieutenant named Copeland, consulted his map.

  ‘Right,’ he pronounced hesitantly, ‘well, chaps, welcome to Guernsey. I think. Now, I can’t be sure, because the coxswain on the launch wasn’t either, but I believe we’re here’ – he gestured at the map – ‘with the rest of B Force deployed along the coast, here and here. As you know, our job is to head inland, link up with them, then make for the airfield where the Jerry garrison’s based. Once there we disrupt their infrastructure as briefed, causing a diversion so A and C Forces can raid the garrison, before withdrawing back here at oh three hundred hours for extraction aboard the launch.’ He checked his watch. ‘Unfortunately, because of the delay getting us here, we have less than two hours to complete the whole mission. So let’s get cracking.’

  They made ready, attaching webbing, f
illing ammunition pouches, strapping on grenades and bayonets, shouldering rifles. Theo rubbed more boot blacking on his face and adjusted his helmet, which was camouflaged with sackcloth, then he and Burnsy hoisted a large drum of wire on to a pole between them.

  ‘Christ, Trick, it weighs a ton!’ Burnsy gasped. ‘And what’s it for anyway?’

  ‘Who knows. Disrupting the infrastructure, do you think?’

  ‘Whatever the hell that means.’

  The group set off, climbing slowly from the beach up a steep cliff path on to scrubby heathland. There they paused while Copeland, revolver drawn, checked for sentries. Finding none they pressed on. The sky was moonlit but overcast, so there were few stars to guide them, no recognizable features on the ground or villages or roads, and no radios to contact the other groups. Copeland navigated using map and compass but seemed unsure of his position and changed direction often. After nearly an hour trudging heavily through the darkness, and having seen no sign of the other groups, or the enemy, or an airfield, or any other humans at all, he called a halt.

  ‘This can’t be right,’ he panted, ‘we should be at the airfield by now.’

  ‘Maybe Jerry scarpered. You know, when A Force attacked.’

  ‘No, Sergeant, we’d have heard something, and seen flashes, gunfire and that.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  Theo raised his hand. ‘Sir, there’s a pole over there.’

  ‘What? What are you saying?’

  ‘A telegraph pole. Um, over there.’

  Sniggers of amusement from the others, a sigh from Copeland. ‘Yes, thank you, Private, I can see it’s a telegraph pole. What of it?’

  ‘Telegraph poles lead somewhere. They always do – to houses, a village, a road. We could follow it.’

  It led to a cluster of farmhouses, one of which showed a light burning in a window. After reconnoitring for signs of the enemy, Copeland ordered everyone to wait while he investigated. Gratefully they slumped to the ground, shedding stores and equipment. Weapons were discarded, cigarettes lit; lowering their drum of wire Burnsy and Theo sat on the tussocked grass.

  ‘Bit of a balls-up, wouldn’t you say, Trick?’

  ‘Looks rather like it.’

  He was right. Ten minutes later Copeland returned.

  ‘This isn’t Guernsey.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Sark. There are no Germans here, no airfield and certainly no A and C Forces. We’re on the wrong blasted island.’

  ‘Christ! So what do we do?’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do. Except abandon the mission and head back to the rendezvous.’

  ‘We could cut the wire, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The telegraph wire, sir, we could cut it.’

  ‘To what end, Private Burns, precisely?’

  ‘Disrupting the enemy, er, infa-struncture, sir. It’s better than nothing, ain’t it?’

  As it was his idea, Burns was awarded the honour, balancing precariously on Theo’s shoulders, of reaching up and cutting the telephone wire. Whereupon the twelve picked up their kit and trudged back to the beach.

  ‘I wonder how the others got on,’ Theo puffed as they manhandled their drum down the cliff path.

  ‘Expect we’ll find out soon enough.’

  CHAPTER 11

  A few days later, the 130 men of 3 Commando who had been on the ill-fated mission – grandly codenamed Operation Ambassador – were ordered to assemble in a hangar for a debriefing. Their commanding officer, Colonel Durnford-Slater, would not be present, they were told; nor, Theo noted, was Lieutenant Copeland or any other junior officer. Instead their much-feared senior NCO, Sergeant Major Bolton, would be addressing them. As they waited, nervously checking the shine of their boots and straightening their tunics, anxious murmurs circled the hangar like prayer.

  ‘What’s this about, do you think, Percy?’ Theo whispered.

  ‘Burnsy, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Sorry. What do you think it’s about?’

  ‘No idea. But I doubt it’s for giving out medals.’

  He was right.

  ‘SHUT UP!’ A glowering Bolton appeared, pacing back and forth before the gathered ranks. ‘Right, you feckless tossers! I’m not going to stand here and tell you what a load of bollocks last week’s cock-up was, because you already know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant Major!’

  ‘A cock-up and a disgrace. What was it?’

  ‘Cock-up and disgrace, Sergeant Major!’

  Bolton then spent ten minutes angrily recounting the catalogue of disasters that was Operation Ambassador. Apparently, while Theo’s B Force was busy roaming the wrong island, A Force landed on the right island, but couldn’t find the airfield while C Force failed to find any island at all, spending hours steaming round in circles with a faulty compass.

  ‘And that all adds up to one pathetic cock-up, don’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Sarnt Major!’

  ‘That’s right.’ Bolton’s voice lowered to a snarl. ‘But what you don’t know is, cock-ups have ramifications, and the ramifications of this cock-up is the Prime Minister himself is royally brassed off. So much so that 3 Commando is to be disbanded.’

  Shocked murmurs circled the hangar.

  ‘Dis-bloody-banded!’ Bolton glared. ‘And that’s a fucking disaster by any standards, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Sarnt Major!’

  The result of this disaster, it emerged, was that the men of 3 Commando were to be redeployed. Some would suffer the humiliation of being RTU’d – returned to their old units as unfit for special duties. Others, meanwhile, would be sent to similarly less demanding postings. Only a fortunate few were to be saved, transferring to 2 Commando: ‘In the forlorn bloody hope they can beat some sense into you!’

  ‘… So in a moment Corporal Hatch and Corporal Stoddart will come down the line, and you will learn which is your fate. Is that all clearly understood?’

  ‘Yes, Sarnt Major!’

  Theo and Burnsy waited, watching anxiously as the corporals moved slowly through the ranks, clipboards in hand.

  ‘Please don’t let me be RTU,’ Burnsy whispered, ‘I hate the bloody infantry.’

  ‘I can’t be returned to my unit,’ Theo mused, ‘I don’t have one.’

  Eventually their turn came. ‘Right, Burns, Trickey, apparently you both showed some pluck and initiative, so congratulations, you’re both still in.’

  ‘Really, Corp?’

  ‘Yes really. So splash or crash, which is it?’

  The two exchanged glances. ‘What’s that, Corporal?’

  ‘Are you deaf? I said splash or crash! Do you want special ops messing about in boats? Or special ops messing about in aeroplanes? And get a bloody move on!’

  ‘What d’you think, Burnsy?’

  ‘Christ knows, but I’m buggered if I’m doing any more swimming, I damn near froze my bollocks off last week.’

  ‘I’ve never been in an aeroplane. Um, shall we have a go at that?’

  ‘Might as well. So that’s two for crashing please, Corporal.’

  The date was 20 July 1940.

  *

  Three days later, Theo, Burnsy and a coachload of former 3 Commandos arrived at a base somewhere in the countryside south of Manchester. ‘Ringway Airport’, the sign said as they pulled through gates on to a windswept airfield surrounded by hangars and huts on one side, and passenger buildings on the other. As they disembarked and formed up into lines, PE instructors in white vests stood by to greet them, at their head a major of the Royal Engineers.

  ‘Welcome to Central Landing School,’ he said. ‘My name is John Rock, these gents are your instructors, and our job is twofold. First, to get you fitter than you’ve been in your lives, and second, teach you how to jump out of aeroplanes. Any questions?’

  ‘What did he say?’ Burnsy murmured.

  ‘Not sure,’ Theo replied.

  ‘Good,’ Rock concluded, ‘off you go then, grub�
�s in an hour, we start tomorrow.’

  It was the first they’d heard of their destiny as parachutists. There were sixty in their intake. Apart from the commandos who knew each other slightly, all were strangers, but soon learned from the plethora of insignia and accents that they represented units from every corner of the kingdom: Welsh Fusiliers, Irish Guards, Scottish Rifles, lancers, hussars and grenadiers, infantry, cavalry and artillery; there was even one from the veterinary corps (‘They said something about dogs’). Aged eighteen to thirty, from humble privates to a captain of the Coldstreams, they could not have been more disparate, yet, apart from pluck and enthusiasm, they had two vital bonds in common. All were volunteers, and all felt driven to achieve something different and exciting for the war effort. And the extra two shillings a day it paid.

  Their training was strict, physically demanding, and necessarily experimental, for Central Landing School was only a few weeks old, and the business of training paratroops still in its infancy. There was no manual, no template, no equipment – and no precedent, so Major Rock and his instructors were obliged to improvise as they went, copy what they could from the German model, and develop techniques by trial and error. ‘I’ve neither information nor instructions!’ Rock wrote plaintively to his superior. Nor were his efforts universally applauded, as many in the military thought the entire enterprise a waste of time. Official letters came deliberately misaddressed to the ‘Central Laundry Service’ or ‘Central Sunday School’, new volunteers were inexplicably slow in arriving from their units, and vitally needed equipment went astray or failed to turn up at all. Billeted at a civilian airfield so as not to interfere with ‘proper’ military work, and grudgingly loaned six dilapidated aeroplanes and a selection of spare parachutes, Rock and his men did what they could to devise a workable programme. Early training methods included throwing recruits from the back of a moving lorry, dropping them by wire from a fifty-foot tower and, least popular of all, lying them on a stretcher suspended from the hangar ceiling and swinging them back and forth to test for airsickness. As for actual parachuting, the antiquated Whitley bombers supplied had no door suitable to jump from, so other methods of ‘egress’ had to be contrived. The first idea involved removing the gun turret from the bomber’s tail and building a little platform out in the open there, complete with windscreen and handrail. On receiving the command ‘Prepare to jump!’ the trainee crawled to the end of the aircraft on elbows and knees and squeezed out on to the platform, carefully raising himself to a standing position and holding on for dear life. Facing forward at 140 mph and viciously buffeted by the slipstream, at the command ‘Jump!’ he pulled the ripcord to release his parachute and in a flash was jerked from the platform and whirled violently away. Called the ‘pulling off’ method, it was unsatisfactory in many respects, not least the violence of the ‘pull’ which rendered many men senseless and resulted in wildly oscillating and even damaged parachutes. Also having to open their own parachutes wasn’t ideal, so work went on designing a ‘static line’ system whereby a tether attached to the aircraft pulled open the parachute for them as they jumped. Another drawback of the pull-off method was the slowness of the procedure. With some minutes elapsing between the dispatch of one man and the next, jumpers could end up landing many miles apart, which was useless in a combat scenario, especially at night. Further efforts were made to speed things up, but after little improvement, and two fatalities, the method was abandoned for something less complicated…