Mick nodded singly, sharply, and let the Queenslander continue.
‘This, ah, opposite number… We both know who we’re talking about, don’t we.’
‘We do,’ replied Mick under his breath.
‘Yeah,’ said the Queenslander. ‘We do… Begins with G, ends with O, and an E-S-T-A-P in the middle.’ He took his time once again, his eyes just quietly searing into Mick’s. ‘ My new mob’s going after the fuckers.’
Mick sat in silence with Dave for some time. The room remained lively, if anything getting livelier, though such life to Mick was now something way distant. He simply stared out the tall window, out over London, patches of sunlight and shadow creeping east towards the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral on the far horizon. When finally he murmured to Matthews about the security risk of revealing what he just had, Matthews’ logic was as follows…
In Occupied Europe as it stood, the ‘German mob’ now targeted was, in a geographical sense, everywhere. So, certainly, tell not another living soul, but even if this mob found out they were now targeted, they could hardly plan to defend ‘Everywhere’…
Could they.
*
Bournemouth
From the East Cliff Promenade, Mick looked out over the English Channel. Pale green and blustery once again.
‘It’s done,’ said Jessop by his side. ‘105 Squadron. At Marham in Norfolk. Your new posting is now official.’
Mick drew in the sea air. Held it. ‘Good,’ he released.
‘That, my dear sir,’ followed Jessop, ‘is a matter of opinon. Oh, one more thing: All 105 new-boys do a month at 1655 MTU.’
‘What’s that?’ put Mick.
‘Mosquito Training Unit.’
Mick took a while before speaking again. ‘Crispin, there’s one thing I wanted to ask you…’
Jessop chuckled, angling to him: ‘Well, now the floodgates have opened…’ Though his face reverted to a focused sincerity. ‘Anything.’
‘Why are you helping me?’
‘Because you helped me, my friend.’
‘I’m buggered if I know how… But thank you. I mean it.’
‘Michael, to tell you the truth, I don’t believe in a higher being but, well, I’ll be praying for you.’ Jessop’s smile at him was determined. ‘You’ll need it.’ He then saw Mick extract an envelope from his battledress chest pocket, and very, very gently crush it. ‘What was that?’ put Jessop.
‘A piece of paper in a war,’ replied Mick.
‘Oh, I see.’ Jessop looked out at the Channel again. ‘…As for your, ah, “personal” reasons for staying, Michael… I can only hope this girl of yours is worth it.’
Faced out across the pale green water, it occurred to Mick that he was looking directly towards her. ‘She is,’ he said. ‘That I know.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
September 1942
Archibald Grove-Stokes puffed on his pipe on the poplar-lined way by his favourite brook. Digging within his tweeds he withdrew from a waistcoat pocket his fob watch and chain, thumbed the release on the gold timepiece, its lid flipping open. Noting the time, Archie peered down the line of poplars.
Remarkable…
The chap was late. A good 10 seconds late! Every morning for a week and this was a first, Archie’s plan to start setting his watch by the chap now dashed. Dashed, blast it!
But hold… Here he came.
Just as every morning: dead centre of the twin poplar lines into the distance here he came, that so martial symmetry of rounded engine-body-engine, wings out like carving-knives laid flat and all coming on, on! As did that sound, building, building to its beadily thundering bass roar until – the thing a sudden silhouette high above – it tore overhead, an assault on the ears already rich and resounding in its wake.
But then came the whoosh of leaves above and all around Archie – the aircraft’s ‘slipstream’ they called it – it caused leaves to fall! Barely a week into September, if the chap flying it was attempting to hasten the onset of Autumn along Archibald Grove-Stokes’ morning walk he was succeeding! Alas, this moment in his routine, though daily, was fleeting; in a moment from now, there’d be but the birds of morning once again.
Though now, Archie noticed, something fell with a swish down onto the path just ahead: Stepping forward he saw it was a length of poplar. A good yard of it. And not just leaves but leaves still attached to twigs attached to a central spine rudely cut at one end…
This hadn’t been blown off by any slipstream…
Archie picked the thing up: The leaves all shattered and torn, it looked, in fact, the very top of a poplar tree.
And not blown off at all…
But bloody-well chopped!
From his pilot’s seat position in the Mosquito Mark B.IV Mick had seen the man in the the cap and jacket quite clearly – saw him most mornings, exact same spot, always a pipe in his mouth and looking up a bit suspicious about something.
Of his two weeks so far at RAF Marham, which 1655 MTU shared with 105 Squadron plus a few other units, Mick had loved every single flying moment: The ‘B’ in Mark B.IV stood for ‘bomber’. Which it was but it flew like a fighter. And as fast as a Spitfire IX. He knew full well that any twin-engined aircraft he’d ever heard of had trouble merely keeping altitude on one engine. On the Mosquito you could turn one engine off in flight and still zoom up into a mad rolling climb. The theory was that a fighter did what the skilled hand made it do, by contrast the size and weight of a bomber giving it a mind of its own to be harnessed. The De Havilland Mosquito had just kicked this particular theory very bloody soundly down the stairs. And all because she was made out of wood, so was lighter, so faster.
In brand-new flying kit including leather helmet, fleece-lined jacket and flying boots Mick edged slightly back on his twin-grip control column, the Mosquito lifting into a shallow climb, in his headphones now the click of the intercom switching on: While each waiting for their new navigators to arrive at Marham, he and Dave Matthews had been taking turns as ‘back-seat driver’ while the other flew – Matthews’ idea, it had turned out the most excellent way of familiarising one’s self with a cockpit twice as complicated as anything either of them had known to date.
‘Mate,’ commenced the Queenslander’s drawl, ‘I reckon you’re gettin’ the hang o’this…’
‘You certainly have,’ returned Mick.
‘Well,’ Matthews sniffed, ‘I’ve got talent, ’aven’t I.’
Mick shared his chuckle, shortly ahead, King’s Lynn, beyond it to the horizon the slate-green waters of The Wash.
‘Seriously though, mate,’ said Matthews, ‘she’s aptly named, y’know that, doncha…’
‘How’s that?’
‘Mosquito. If you over-control her, she’ll sting you. Yeah, she’s responsive but y’gotta treat her real gentle.’
‘ Unleash her,’ breathed Mick.
‘Whatever floats y’boat…’
Mick saw on the altimeter he’d just climbed to 2500 feet in a minute flat, over King’s Lynn now, The Wash out ahead. ‘Watch out behind us, Dave…’
‘Yeah?’ Matthews craned aft.
‘Me and a mate got shot down about here.’
‘All clear, son.’ Matthews settled back in his seat. ‘Anyway even if it wasn’t, the bastard’d never catch us. Not anymore.’
*
Just about bald at age 25, the outer corners of his eye sockets creased as he almost smiled. There was a kindly glint in his eyes, yet they were old.
‘John Fraser,’ he said, his voice quiet but sandily sharp. ‘People call me Jack.’ He put out a hand.
Mick shook it. ‘Mick.’
A Flying Officer, he hailed from a small town by the name of Tuncurry on New South Wales’ mid north coast. A dedicated member of his local Presbyterian church, before passing out through the Sydney Heads in ’41 he’d been engaged to ‘a beaut little woman’ called Dot for two years already – They’d be married when the war was over, an end to it clearly his
primary ambition. He didn’t drink, though might consider one, he said, when the war was over, after which he would recommence his technical studies – Electrical Engineering.
Since arriving in England he had flown 17 ops out of the required 30 of a full Bomber Command ‘tour’ of ops as a navigator with an RAF Lancaster squadron. When asked by Mick how the experience had been, ‘Bad’ was all Jack said. Clearly grateful for getting off Lancs and onto Mosquitos, he had been selected for 105 Squadron by its Commanding Officer, one Wing Commander Louie Bedfords VC DFC, an actual ‘hero’, apparently, from earlier in the war. Fraser confirmed what the acronyms stood for, conceding he had no idea how the bloke might have won the Distinguished Flying Cross, though fancied it just may have been for getting the Victoria Cross; the highest award for gallantry in combat the British Empire could bestow. Fraser also confirmed that the recipient of these almighty gongs, their new CO, was an Australian.
*
‘Right,’ said Fraser as they stood in the early morning light before the Mosquito in which he and Mick would henceforth fly together. ‘What d’you know about Radar?’
‘Y’mean RDF?’ put Mick.
‘Range and Direction Finding,’ – Fraser’s tone was dry, methodical – ‘is what the Poms have been calling it to this point, and why not, considering they invented it, but the Americans are now calling it Radio Direction and Ranging; RADAR. Just like the Yanks to pretend they invented it by re-naming it but that’s what they’re calling it, so believe me, Mick, from now on so will we.’
‘Okay,’ said Mick.
‘Right. Now all the ops I did on Lancs were at night. As the poor blokes sent out in daylight early on, well… rest in peace.’
‘I can’t believe they were sent,’ released Mick.
‘Neither could they… And it gets worse,’ said Fraser. ‘Now the Americans think they can do it by day where we couldn’t, indicating they consider themselves some breed of supermen, which they will soon discover they are not, I assure you. In any event, when you and I fly by night I’ll be navigating us by all the usuals: radio beacons, dead-reckoning, star-shot fixes, visual fixes, anything it takes, but this radar stuff’s dead cert the way of the future.’ He indicated left and right towards the Mosquito: ‘Signals coming in from aerials on our wingtips’ll show up as blips, blips on a radar display screen in the cockpit. Which is where I come in. And just as well,’ he grinned a touch wryly, ‘as I haven’t met a pilot who can make head or tail of ’em yet.’ Though his mirth seemed to realise it had no future. ‘In addition, rumour has it we’ll be trying a new sort of bombing op… in daylight.’
‘In daylight?’ flinched Mick.
‘Not as bad as it sounds,’ said Fraser, ‘not on Mossies; when the Yank B17s go in by day they go in high and slow. At such time as we go in by day we’ll be going in very low and very fast. Which is where you come in, my good friend.’
In his mind’s eye Mick saw the two Mosquitos streaking over Orval’s orchard. ‘Low… and fast… in broad daylight,’ he breathed.
And was glad.
*
At one of the operational-aircrew-only-bacon-and-eggs tables of the dining hall of the Officers’ Mess, RAF Marham, Mick looked up from his Daily Express.
‘Milne Bay,’ he gasped. ‘In New Guinea… The Japs have retreated! Actually withdrawn.’ He looked back to the story. ‘And from our blokes! Australians…’
‘From a few of our Kittyhawk squadrons too,’ said Dave Matthews. ‘I reckon those blokes deserve a DFC apiece. It’s a first, y’know. In the whole war. The Japanese withdrawing on land from anybody. Any-body.’
Mick looked up again. ‘You’re shitting me.’
‘Have I ever shitted you?’
‘…You have not.’ Mick looked back to his paper.
Jack Fraser put down his tea, his eyes intense. ‘It’s all wrong.
All wrong. Suicide charges, I ask you… The Japs are acting like mad buggers. And I cannot believe they’re like that normally, I just cannot. Somebody’s made ’em that way. And whoever that is has to be stopped.’
Mick took a gulp of tea. ‘Seems somebody’s started stopping ’em.’ Sensing commotion a few tables away, he peered towards the dining hall entrance. ‘Speaking of DFCs…’
There was no getting round it: Wing Commander Louie Bedfords had an air about him. Mick discretely observed as ‘the Wingco’ gathered a cup and saucer, moved from table to table, speaking to seated aircrew as he did, all the time beaming the sort of authority of a man who isn’t trying to. He also happened to be what the WAAFs called ‘dark and handsome’ – He had these heavy eyebrows. And a gaze to match.
Dave Matthews looked at Mick. ‘My bacon on straight?’ he asked.
Narrowly managing to stifle his chuckles as the Wingco neared, Mick, as their senior officer, introduced Matthews and Fraser to their CO, then introduced himself.
‘Ah yes. O’Regan,’ Bedfords’ eyes narrowed. ‘Our station commander tells me you made something of an unscheduled stop-over here a while back.’
His voice was like smooth gravel.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mick. ‘’Fraid I did.’
‘A damn good show were his exact words…’ Bedfords grinned. ‘Glad to have you with us… and, ah, so unexpectedly.’ He winked. ‘Gentlemen…’ And moved on to the next tables.
‘I wonder what he meant by that,’ said Fraser in his wake.
‘No idea,’ said Mick.
‘Don’t look at me,’ followed Matthews with a chomp of toast.
*
At 25 000 feet, above, the so far moonless night sky was full of stars. Ahead, it glowed red. That, unless Bomber Command had bombed the wrong city again, was Munich. In any case, the glow on the horizon in Mick’s windscreen was very definitely growing larger, and very definitely brighter.
According to the schedule set out at the mission briefing, he and Jack Fraser had taken off with 105 Squadron a full two hours after Lincolnshire’s Lancaster squadrons, and after two hours out over the North Sea, Holland and Belgium and now Germany they had caught the Lancasters up. It gave Mick an icy chill in his stomach that he could not quell: That was Germany down there. And they were shooting up at him. The first time Mick had seen enemy anti-aircraft tracer fire from such a height, he was amazed that it seemed so pretty coming up to kill him: It had been just the one lingering look he’d stolen but from the blacked-out earth below the tracers in dazzling red, white, pale green and pink seemed to waft up slowly at first, then speed up, up, up, flash past and just keep on going until one with the stars. Though every short while, ever since the Dutch coast though much lower in the sky, he’d seen an altogether different sort of firework: one after the other, vast and sudden fireballs in the air.
He tried to chase them from his mind. Concentrate. Concentrate of his flying. Concentrate hard. And thanked Jesus, Mary and Joseph for the nights just gone by: training ops with Fraser to the west of England. These had reassured Mick about his night-flying, but mostly about his new navigator: Fraser was rock-solid, nearly always spot-on and when he wasn’t realised it quickly and corrected. But perhaps most reassuring of all to Mick was how Fraser communicated his constant stream of navigational instructions and adjustments in a way that was unflappably clear. Also, in addition to Mick’s time instrument-flying ‘under the hood’ at Watton, he realised his own time teaching night flying on Fairey Battles back at Evans Head had just paid off.
At this moment Fraser was deeply engrossed in the ‘Gee’ radar set installed behind Mick’s armour-plated seat. He had earlier explained the apparatus to Mick: ‘Gee’ stood for G, G for ‘grid’, the blips on the green-glowing cathode ray tube screen into which he now peered indicating the aircraft’s changing position on a fixed grid of insecting beams laid out over Europe by Gee transmitter stations back in England. By matching what the Gee set indicated to a map of Europe superimposed with the insecting lines of the Gee grid, Fraser could quite accurately plot their position over Europe. …As long as the
Germans didn’t ‘jam’ the Gee signals.
Fraser tapped the side of the cathode ray tube display box. He tapped it again. And flicked the intercom switch on his oxygen mask.
‘Nope. We’re stuffed,’ he said.
‘What?’ returned Mick. ‘We’re off course?’
‘Your course is fine. But we’re beyond Gee range. Way beyond.’
Fraser returned to his seat, and to his conventional maps and charts; he had also explained to Mick that expertise with electronic gadgets was all very well. When they worked. The thing was how you coped when they didn’t. ‘Anyway,’ Fraser now resigned, and indicated the red glow in their windscreen, ‘just head for that.’
Mick now saw it was no longer merely a glow but becoming clearer and clearer as a flat mass of raging fires stretching out ahead, nearer what seemed isolated ones like blazing islands in a sea of black. Entire bomb-loads dropped early? he wondered. If so, they’d been getting dropped early the whole way across Germany – the whole way so far. But then, against red-illuminated low cloud or smoke from the fires – he couldn’t tell which – Mick had his question answered…
Many thousands of feet below yet so very distinctly, he saw the unmistakable silhouette of a four-engined bomber on parallel course with them. Flying straight and level, in its wake was a black gnat, from this issuing streams of sparks – tracers! – both streaming past and slamming into the silhouette. Which started to flame from its starboard-inner engine: a long, long tongue of orange flame. Then came flame from the fuselage, burning all the way down it from the cockpit, all the way back to the tail, the bomber now entering a slow dive.
Before wholly blowing up – burning pieces showering on, on, and down.
Suddenly way out forward left he saw an icy blue beam of light penciling as if infinitely upwards. A German searchlight! From various points on the earth surrounding it, white beams like clasping fingers now closed in around it – until all intersecting the blue beam at a single point…
In which Mick saw a four-engined bomber turned silver. Multi-coloured tracer fire rose toward it, and more, and more, and more and the bomber exploded, the beams now wavering, moving, moving off as if to seek another.
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