Meticulously did he arrange his customary pocket handkerchief. White silk today; white for inner purety of spirit. His bodyguard escort would be knocking in just a moment, his escort to the Convention of the National Unity Party. And unity he would have: Today, an outdoor massed rally: a public demonstration of strength and support that no man could take away from him. Ah, the so very fine youngsters of the ‘National Unity Youth’, the shining future of Norway…
Vidkun looked out his floor-to-ceiling balcony window of the Palace, there, his beloved Oslo: The city this day hosting a rally in his honour. And there, directly below his high window, in the parade forecourt of the Palace, those marvellous black-uniformed youngsters unfurling their flags – all emblazened with the gold cross on red of the National Unity Party. It would be some spectacle. And such a beautiful afternoon for it.
Simply stunning…
*
Flattening as one at 100 feet over the blue rippled surface of the fiord, past the four Mosquitos tore an island here, an island there, a brightly coloured fishing boat, a lighthouse, and all at upwards of 350 mph after the long, long dive from altitude. And though the sweep north into which they followed their flight leader was a long, smooth one, at such speed the g-forces pressed Mick firmly in his seat. It felt good. As they levelled out he saw in all directions the afternoon crisp and clear – the Met Officer really had been spot-on.
Now they passed over the green countryside of a larger island, a farmhouse, a human figure standing still in a field, more water.
But then came countryside proper, a snaking main road, a horse and cart, an upturned face, a village, more faces, a person waving – with both arms – and they were over fiord once again. Up ahead, though, Mick saw what seemed a solid mass of land, Jack Fraser moving forward into the nose to fuse their bombs.
Shoreline whipped beneath, in moments a village on the right, an automobile, a truck, gently undulating green countryside, a village left. No sooner had Fraser climbed back into his seat than his voice was in Mick’s headphones…
‘According to my calculations Oslo should be five miles ahead front left. Stand by for Red Leader to lower speed; he’s bound to any sec; we can’t bomb this fast…’ – Ahead Mick saw Perry wing-waggle – ‘There he goes,’ gestured Fraser, Mick easing back on the throttles. ‘Where’s the hill?’ bristled Fraser. ‘There’s s’posed to be a hill, we’re looking for a hill…’
Mick saw mainly forested land carpeting beneath them, though forward left now – it was subtle, but it was there – a rise, a broad forested rise, Perry heading them for the right of it, in seconds its pinetrees tearing past above-left of the Mosquitos as they followed Perry’s smooth left bank around their crucial landmark.
And the forest fell away, suddenly vast out ahead of them the city of Oslo, a sprawl of countless colours in the Autumn sun, harbour sparkling on the left, distant hills bordering on all sides. When a voice came urgent over the radio…
‘Red 4 to Red Leader! Bandits at 6 o’clock!!’
Fraser craned aft, immediately transmitting: ‘Red 3 to Red Leader. Two Focke-Wulfs directly behind, about half a mile and coming in fast.’
‘Height, Jack?!’ called Perry.
‘Just a few hundred above us, Red Leader.’
‘Right,’ came the flight leader’s voice, ‘they know we’re here. Target dead ahead. Bomb doors open. Stay with me, Red Flight, but stay wide. Out.’
Stay wide? Mick grimaced, then understood: Close line-astern formation on Perry’s tail would concentrate their bombs alright but one lucky burst from a Focke-Wulf could hit the lot of them – Perry was keeping them alive.
Shifting the bomb door lever to OPEN, ahead Mick saw the harbour docks, massive ships, funnels and masts – Over them! – busy harbour left, railyards right, coming up on the left the old stone fortress. He was struck at how recognisable it all was from the briefing slides, just as white tracer fire shot past close over the Mossie’s canopy from behind.
‘Red Leader here, 5 seconds…’
As the stone fortress whipped beneath, directly ahead Mick now saw the twin towers of the City Hall: rectangular red-brick, white clock.
Out right Jack Fraser saw Red 4’s port engine take hits from behind and burst into flames.
Mick saw only the Nazi flag on mad approach: its black swastika on white on flapping red… And touched his right thumb to the bomb release button.
‘Red Leader here,’ came Perry, ‘stand by… Bombs gone! ’
Mick saw the domes of the Victoria Terrasse, thumbed the button, bombs away, bomb doors closed, Olso rooftops planing…
Perry transmitted again: ‘Red Leader to Red Flight, full throttle and report in,’ Dave Matthews’ nav quick to answer: ‘Red 2, bombs gone.’
Already jammed back in his seat as Mick jammed on the power, Jack Fraser transmitted: ‘Red 3, bombs gone, Red 4’s been hit!’ Out to starboard he saw Red 4’s port engine blading to a stop as it spewed a stream of white fire-extinguisher, beneath it a giant building of Oslo passing like a wedding cake in some multi-coloured dream. No time to blink, he craned back aft: no tracers, only one Focke-Wulf, then the second emerging from giant mushrooms of smoke and debris flying in all directions in their wake, Red 4 falling behind.
‘Red 4 here,’ came a young Brit voice. ‘Red Leader, we’ve lost an engine.’ The voice was groggily determined. ‘Other damage too and I think our bombs are hung up…’
‘Can you stay with us, 4?’
‘We’ve had it, Leader. You blokes keep on. Sweden for us.’
‘Best of luck, Red 4. Out.’
‘We’re gone…’
Fraser saw the Mosquito’s ‘winged trident’ shape as it peeled off to starboard trailing streams of white extinguisher mix and black smoke, neither bandit peeling after it; no, holding fast astern to kill the Mossies remaining – rapid flashes, tracers flying – just as Perry’s next transmission came…
‘Red Flight, stand by to hit Boost. And… NOW.’
Mick flicked the switch top left of his instrument panel, his Merlins upping to sweet fury as one with the gushes of black exhaust from each Mosquito ahead left.
‘Red Leader to Red Flight. I’m taking us out below the tree-tops. YOU just make sure y’don’t HIT ’em!’
*
In the cockpit of his Focke-Wulf FW190A, Oberstleutnant Dieter Brandt was convinced no one would believe him…
Clearly was it a type of British bomber they had not seen before and, yes, they had downed one; crashed into a lake just a minute ago, so said the ground controller. Still in Dieter’s gun-sight were the three remaining British bombers, though, as of the last 30 seconds or so, just beyond effective range of his guns. No… No one would believe him.
His FW190A, the Fatherland’s latest fighter, was awesome. A true pilot’s aircraft; its cockpit laid out so ergonomically, everything exactly where you would like it to be. And as for its BMW engine, could there be a more splendid example of German engineering excellence?
The 190 had had it all over the Spitfire V… Just enough performance edge to murder them. Of course the Mark IX had changed all that of late; the playing field now back to a level one: supreme German fighter against supreme British fighter. True, Dieter had shot one down over Dieppe a month back but in a contest between equal fighters there was no substitute for experience. Which, since Spain in ’37, was still one thing any German had over any Tommy.
Of course, against their Lancasters, well, that was out and out murder. No contest. Poor bastards… But British bombers had always been easy meat for German fighters…
This is why, Dieter knew, no one would believe him now: In the Fatherland’s fastest fighter, he was chasing British bombers. He had chased them for 40 kilometres. And they were getting away…
Dieter was alone now; his wingman had to peel off after clipping a tree. So no witnesses. To these British bombers being chased.
And getting away.
*
Skimming at 50 f
eet over the North Sea, boost off, Jack Fraser marvelled at the precision with which these chaps flew – the Mosquitos of Perry and Matthews sitting out there like rocks as the infinite white-caps between Norway and Scotland ripped beneath. Matthews had taken serious hits on both wings that he could see, Perry’s nav reporting more on his fuselage. So either the wood of the Mossie took punishment better than metal or Matthews was one gem of a pilot. Perhaps a bit of both. Jack Fraser had been ‘scrubbed’ out of Elementary Flying Training School, and anyway the technical side of things turned out to have been his ‘forte’ – some said more than that – but one thing Jack knew for certain: Right now he wouldn’t change places with these pilot types for all the tea in China. He flicked his intercom switch.
‘You alright, Mick?’
Though O’Regan seemed calm at the controls of their Mosquito, he took a while before answering.
‘Yeah, fine, mate.’
‘Y’think Red 4 made it?’
‘Who knows?’ Mick tried to recall the young pilot’s name. ‘… Cotter.’
‘Yes,’ followed Fraser. ‘Cotter. And his nav?’
‘New bloke…’ Mick very delicately tweaked a dial. ‘Y’know… that shouldn’t have happened. And it wouldn’t have if we’d gone in low the whole way.’
‘Well, yes,’ returned Fraser, ‘in theory… Low the whole way we’d have been below their radar detection. So they wouldn’t have picked us up.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mick. ‘I know that much from what you’ve explained to me already. So probably no bandits, so nothing on our tail on the way in to target, so all our bombs dead on target, and Cotter and what’s-’is-name’d be with us right now.’
‘D’y’think we were on target?’
‘I think so,’ returned Mick. ‘Hard t’say… Have t’wait for the Intel report.’
Jack considered a few figures in his head before speaking up again. ‘When you say go in low, how low are you talking?’
‘Zero feet. The whole way in.’
Jack Fraser knew his eyes hadn’t been good enough for him to become a pilot. But his hearing was excellent. ‘…Zero feet over the whole North Sea?!’
‘Yes. And then what just happened wouldn’t have happened, now would it.’
Jack nearly settled. ‘Well no. No it wouldn’t have.’ He didn’t ask if Mick could truly do what he was talking about; he knew he could. And that he would. And so, as a result, would Jack Fraser.
As the North Sea carpeted beneath and all around them – almost hypnotically – Jack found himself recalling the so striking Oslo building they’d passed after bombs-away. He could hardly help it; in his whole life a stranger sight he simply did not recall: The building had passed like a giant, white-iced cake… On a trolley-top thick with red and gold flower petals…
Out of which black ants were streaming.
*
Shortly before midnight, Flight Lieutenant Hundleby’s post-op intel having at long last been received, he reported to the Wingco’s office as standard after every mission.
‘So,’ began Bedfords across his desk. ‘How’d they go?’
‘Well…’ strained Hundleby, a hand to the back of his neck as if stricken with cramp, ‘Resistance reports on the ground indicate we missed.’
‘Blood-dy hell,’ loosed Bedfords.
‘Apparently, sir, an accurate assessment: A couple of bombs hit the Victoria Terrasse alright, but went right through it. Lodged in the building across the street. Where they duely blew up, killing a number of Norwegians.’
‘Jesus, what number of Norwegians?’ Bedfords’ face was haggard disbelief.
‘They’re saying eighty.’
‘…Jesus - Christ - Almighty.’
Bedfords sat in silence for long minutes. Damn Command, damn them… Dropping their bombs at night from so high for so long that hitting the right city was considered ‘accuracy’, in any event their bombs impacted vertically. Next time, Bedfords vowed – if there should ever be a ‘next time’, he would fight tooth-and-nail for four 500-pounders per aircraft instead of the two 1000s that Command had been so bloody adamant about. Then his squadron’s bombs – impacting horizontally when dropped from low level – might just stay in the bloody target!
He exhaled heavily. And looked up at his Intel Officer once more. ‘So what do we give the newspapers?’
‘Well,’ returned Hundleby, ‘whatever we give them, we must be correct. Or the Germans will run headlines in the next day’s editions saying we lied; Goebbels lives for that sort of thing…’
‘So what, then?’ The seasoned Wingco’s eyes now softened at Hundleby’s. So too his voice. ‘Dom, I’m all ears…’
Hundleby creaked forward in his chair, his fingers meshed in a ‘church steeple’, fingertips to his spotty upper lip. Then suddenly sat back. ‘We give them the facts as suit us,’ he said.
‘…These being?’
‘Well,’ Hundleby scratched a pimple, ‘much the same as I foamed in the briefing hall: Daring low-level raid on Nazi HQ by brand-new bomber, fastest thing in the air, made of wood.’
‘And that’s our headline?’
‘More or less. And it’ll be a true one.’
‘But,’ Bedfords seized, ‘what about this BBC thing tomorrow night?’
‘What, indeed, sir… Voice live to air – That’s harder to fudge…’
‘It’s the Six O’Clock bloody News! What’s Squadron Leader Perry gunna dole out?’
When Hundleby spoke again his voice was calm, emphatic. ‘The wider facts.’
Bedfords’ brow lifted starkly. ‘The wider facts?’
‘Yes, sir. About the rally: Bad guys throw a party. We thought to spoil it. Which we went and did.’
The Wingco stared towards the 24-hour clock on his office wall. Then back to his Intel Officer. ‘Simple as that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ offered Hundleby. ‘In fact it’s best to keep things simple. Of course, you package the simple thing you say like it’s something noble.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well, sir… Consider Churchill. Two years back the Americans were telling us to give up against the Germans – along with just about everybody else with an ounce of common sense – an’ I can’t blame ’em. But then our pissed and fearless leader comes out with “We will fight them on the beaches”. It was bollocks but the people could understand it. The thing is it sounded so very noble. And, as a result, here we still are.’
‘Here we still are…’ Bedfords struck a match, lit a cigarette. ‘Funny about that speech… I even remember where I was at the time… And all he was saying, and, like, to Hitler… was “Stuff you”…’
‘Simple.’
‘Winston’s certainly good at it…’
‘He’s a journalist by trade, sir. Who knew the golden rule – some say invented it.’
‘And what’s that, pray tell?’
‘Give the people what they want. What they want is what they can understand. Give them that and you’ll win. … With a bit of luck and God on your side…’
Bedfords sat back. ‘Al-right… Phone the newspapers… and get our boy Perry in here.’
‘Sir.’
*
At a minute to 6, Saturday evening drinks in the bar of the Officers’ Mess at RAF Marham was standing room only. As the clock hit the hour the sounds of Big Ben chiming over the radio-phonograph’s speakers became the only sound in the jam-packed room. After the sixth chime came the voice…
This is the BBC Home Service… Here is the news, and this is Omar Mendell reading it… The Air Ministry has revealed today that a daring, low-level bombing raid was carried out by RAF bombers yesterday on Gestapo Headquarters in Oslo, Norway. Performed by a new and hitherto top-secret aircraft which can at this time be revealed as the ‘Mosquito’, the raid was timed to coincide with a rally of Nazi sympathisers. Squadron Leader Perry DFC, leader of this daring exploit, takes up the story…
‘On Friday afternoon Quisling and I had an appointment in the same
town. Quisling had a big crowd with him, I believe – it was one of his party rallies. I had only a little crowd – we were in four Mosquitos – and they gave us very short notice. But we were punctual.’
If the announcer then moved on to the next news item it was lost forever under the wave of warm cheers and clapping that swept the room, Dave Matthews clinking his pewter beer tankard against Mick’s.
‘Fuck ’em, eh?’ smiled Matthews.
‘To hell,’ said Mick.
*
Receiving the summons to the Wingco’s office the next morning, Mick and Jack Fraser reported, knocked, entered, marched forward three paces, halted, saluted as one, removed their caps to under-arm position, remained at attention. Mick proceeded by the book.
‘Sir. Flight Lieutenant O’Regan and Flying Officer Fraser reporting as ordered.’
Bedfords held up the headline of the morning’s Daily Express. ‘Have a seat, boys.’
SWIFTEST BOMBER - FROM WOODSHOP, Mick made out at a glance, Multi-role aircraft… Furniture manufacturer…
‘It’s all in there,’ said Bedfords, pushing the newspaper across the desk to Mick. ‘Have a read.’ As he did so, Bedfords angled to Fraser. ‘Alright then, Jack. As you’re no doubt aware, Squadron Leader Perry has passed on to me the details of your informal conference, the two salient words of which were “zero” and “altitude”.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Fraser.
Bedfords paused a moment. ‘Zero altitude the whole way across the North Sea so as to remain undetected by German radar.’
‘Remaining under it, sir.’
‘Go on…’
‘Well, in simple terms, sir, when radar transmission signals reach an object they bounce back off it and return to the point of transmission. The object is then detectable. But given the marked ineffectiveness of radar under about 50 feet, if we go in the whole way at zero altitude we should be, well, undetectable… in theory.’
‘In theory…’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Just as long as you fly at wave-top height the whole way in.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes… Which, I suppose, all quite simply begs one question.’ The Wingco faced Mick. ‘Can we do this, Flight Lieutenant?’
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