‘Right then,’ he looked up from a file on his new desk. Opposite sat his new Intel Officer. He seemed a good’un. ‘Tell me about the 464 Squadron chap. The leader, wasn’t it?’
‘Missing, sir,’ answered Dom Hundleby. ‘Presumed dead. Nav too.’
‘Then we’ll need another.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘…Penny f’y’thoughts, Professor…’
‘Well,’ strained Hundleby, ‘464… they’re Australian… Perhaps they’d do well with one of their own…’
‘Can you suggest one?’
‘We certainly had some at 105… First rate bunch of chaps… But, well, one does spring to mind: sort of chap who paces all the others. Pure gold on any squadron.’
‘Name?’
‘A Flight Lieutenant O’Regan.’
‘Michael O’Regan?’ put Rickard.
‘Yes. “Mick”. You knew him, sir?’
‘Only about the best pilot I ever trained… His bombing accurate?’
Hundleby peered over the top of his spectacles. ‘Try in-the-front-door accurate.’
‘Right then. We’ll have him for leader of 464.’
Tuesday, July 27, 1943
Jack Fraser could not believe it, he still couldn’t, just could not believe what he was seeing. Yet he was…
On the small circular screen close before his oxygen-masked face were the phosphorescent outlines of a city. Through the greenish beam sweeping, sweeping round the centre of the screen he could make out the city’s rivers and canals dividing this district from that – like an electric map! Which, when compared with the actual map he held beside it, confirmed they were not only over the correct city, but were directly on course for the cathedral spire of St Nicholas’ Church, the very ‘aiming point’ of the whole bombing raid! And all showing up so clearly on this glowing screen, tonight, thanks to a brand-new type of radar but this was the joker: Called ‘H2S’, it transmitted from the Mossie itself, a ‘dish’-like apparatus rotating inside a teardrop-shaped dome under the fuselage.
The city was Hamburg.
Which had been bombed by Bomber Command on two of the previous three nights plus by the United States Army Air Force on two of the previous two days. Tonight, with 787 heavy bombers coming in behind them, 105 Squadron were rostered to target-mark Hamburg with Pathfinder flares. It didn’t need to be: Built up over the previous days flames were now licking many thousands of feet up into the sky. Jack wiped a bead of sweat off his brow; a first in his entire experience, it was hot inside the cockpit, as if the Mossie’s internal heater had stuck on way beyond full-blast. And the sky had clearly gone mad with up-gusting thermals; Jack had never seen Mick work so hard just to keep the Mossie level. But if anyone was up to it, it was Mick. Jack knew that much.
Mick saw the searchlight beams directly ahead, somehow still beaming up from a city on fire, and flak everywhere: German anti-aircraft shells fired from so far below now exploding in the air so bright they hurt the back of his eyeballs. Each one larger, closer, there was nothing for it but to ignore them, and blinker out everything but the job at hand…
His usual responsibility was for the life of one other. As a Pathfinder, tonight call it 5500 others; seven men in each of the 787 Lancaster and Halifax bombers of the main force close behind, the so-called ‘bomber stream’. If the Pathfinders didn’t get it right tonight, all 5500 would have to come back tomorrow night, when any German flak gunners still alive would be waiting and primed for revenge. How many crews would die tonight? Slower, lower, some already had without doubt, prey to this murderous flak and German night-fighters too. Plus it could only be guessed how many crews had been lost to bombs falling from above. More would die tomorrow. So get it done tonight.
Jack focused hard on his radar screen, and flicked his intercom switch.
‘Mick, we’re bang-on. Bomb doors open and stand by.’
‘Bomb doors open.’
‘Stand by. Stand by… NOW.’
‘Bombs away.’
Freed of 2000 pounds of target indicator flare bombs, Mick felt the Mossie want to surge upwards, though kept it flat and fast in the sky.
‘Bombs gone,’ said Jack, ‘close bomb doors.’
‘Bomb doors closed, hang on, Jack.’
Mick banked them hard through a diving turn to the left, engines howling on full power, G-forces squeezing them through 90 degrees. The dive assumed German flak gunners had their altitude now and gave them maximum speed out of the target area until at 420 miles per hour on the dial, exceeding the Mossie IX’s ‘maximum speed’, Mick straightened, and flattened them out.
Jack unclipped his straps, shifted up out of his seat, and craned back to the target area. He saw their own flare cluster falling, burning blue against the fires below. To Jack the flare clusters looked like giant Christmas trees floating down. He surveyed them now not for their monstrous glory but to ensure they had dropped on target. For once it wouldn’t matter if they hadn’t; Hamburg was ablaze… ‘Operation Gomorrah’.
He then re-seated himself and clipped back up. After a minute he flicked his intercom switch.
‘I never believed in Hell,’ he said.
‘No?’ returned Mick.
‘No. It contradicts the idea of a loving God. In which I cannot help but believe.’
‘Good for you, mate.’
‘…But I think I just saw it. And it’s got nothing to do with God… It’s man-made.’
Jack Fraser did not see the family struggling down the Hamburg main street, mother and father bodily clutching to all their children as best they could to keep them all together. Jack did not hear the sound of the wind caused by the fires all around the shambling group, a sound like a storm fused with a million animals screaming. That this family had only come up out of the bomb-shelter as the air had been sucked clean out of it by the heat, that father’s plan to save them all in the river had come to naught as the river was on fire as well, these things also Jack Fraser could never have known. He did not see the father’s face as his wife and all their children were picked up bodily by the wind and tossed into the fire.
In the moment just before father burst into flames.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
September 1943
Dom Hundleby studied the first of two 8-by-10-inch photographs from the file on his desk marked ‘Top Secret’. Taken by a Photo-Reconnaissance Mosquito just the previous day, it showed from above what the accompanying notes described as a ‘Pilot-less Aircraft’: According to the notes approximately 30 feet in length with a wingspan of 15 feet, the craft was poised on the end of a so-termed ‘Launch Ramp’ of some 150 feet down which aimed the craft’s sharply pointed nose. To Dom it resembled an elongated bomb, rectangular ‘wings’ extending at right-angles from it, plus a tube of some kind atop and in line with its tail.
There had been reports of such ‘pilot-less’ craft being developed by the Germans since early in the year, reports originating from a place in the distant east of Germany by the name of Peenemünde. The supposed ‘development site’ for these things, it had been bombed just last month, bombed flat according to the photo-reconnaissance reports. Yet here was one of these ‘Pilot-less Aircraft’ photographed only yesterday. In apparent working order and readiness. And not in the far east of Germany but just across the Channel. Dom checked the accompanying map, the location for this particular photograph marked by a blue circle in the Pas-de-Calais region of France.
Dom orientated the photograph upon the map according to the stated compass bearing of the image captured. With a ruler, he then traced a red crayon line down the line of the ‘launch ramp’. As Dom continued to press the crayon along the line of the ruler, its red wax crept the short distance across France to the coast, and on: on over the Channel towards England.
He now took up the second photograph. It showed a craft identical to the first, also poised on a ramp, and with a corresponding blue circle on the map. Orientating this photo in turn upon the map, he drew a red line along
its ‘ramp’ towards England as with the first. Then placed the crayon and ruler aside, and sat back.
The two red lines intersected on the map at a point far across the Channel.
The point was London.
On the Pas-de-Calais section of the map, there were also green circles. These, according to intelligence, corresponded to ‘ Suspected Launch Ramp Sites’. Dom counted seventy-six of them.
Once again he read the name the Germans had given their new creation, according to intelligence out of Peenemünde. An apt name, he thought…
Vergeltungswaffen.
Dom had studied German at school. The English translation of the word was quite clear.
‘Revenge Weapons’.
*
Mick stood close before the nose of the Mosquito Mark FB.VI.
Back to camouflaged upper / pale grey lower paint scheme once again, from its nose protruded four black machine-gun barrels like the fingers of an outstretched hand. From his experience on the Spitfire, he knew these point-303s were a weapon of only medium hitting-power, though with their close side-by-side grouping as here they might do some damage. In any event the combined tracer stream of their bullets would provide him with the perfect aiming pointer for the much heavier armament that lay beneath: In the Mossie’s chin were four large elliptical vents, inside of each, a 20mm cannon. These fired explosive shells. Firing all four of them together, 40 per second.
Mick imagined just one of these shells…
Going through that Gestapo fucker’s head.
*
Mick’s first impression of RAF Sculthorpe was of a God-forsaken place.
It was windswept, the Officers’ Mess was a Nissen hut, and everywhere on the base seemed miles from everywhere else. The joke was don’t bother taking a shower; after the bicycle ride there and back you’d only need another one.
He stood towards the end of its main runway with his new CO. Rickard seemed much as Mick remembered him, if a little wearier. Having driven out in Rickard’s Jeep, they were waiting for a Mossie coming in on one engine – as were the station’s fire-crew trucks and ambulance. About 50 yards off just beyond the far end of the runway a Mosquito of 21 Squadron remained straddling the perimeter hedge after overshooting the runway the night before. Beside it a Mossie from 487 sat flat on it belly after its landing gear had folded up on landing just this morning. And not a casualty to report; everybody had just walked away – something Mick was learning about the Mossie: Its wooden structure was just so ‘forgiving’ – as if it absorbed cruel impact, unlike metal, even its share bullet-strikes. In any case, both unfortunate craft would soon be taken off by crane and tractor, taken over to the hangars for damage assessment and likely repair. Mick had only been at Sculthorpe a week and already had his ‘ex-carpenter’s opinion’ been sought.
‘Here he comes,’ said Rickard.
It was a fate that had not befallen Mick as yet though he’d seen a few done and knew full well you landed a Mossie on one engine at a good 50 miles per hour faster than its normal final approach speed of 120, touching down at more like 170.
‘This had better be good,’ said Rickard.
‘Oh, he’s a good pilot, sir,’ Mick replied.
‘So you say.’
At the far end of the field, here came a Mosquito down the glide-slope, the three blades of one propeller visible as they were perfectly still. But he was coming on fast…
Lower.
Lower…
Now his main wheels touched gently down, and stayed there, full flaps down, the aircraft hurtling perfectly straight down the runway on one engine – a beautiful job of control. Now his tail lowered, and touched – still straight. And he kept on coming.
They could see him fish-tailing slightly side to side as he applied his wheel brakes, smoke issuing from them. And he kept on coming.
Now Mick could hear the squeal of brakes – If he stood on them too hard the Mosquito could nose forward and flip clean over onto its back. The squealing grew louder, the Mossie closer, and closer: 50 yards, its remaining engine now stopped, 20 yards, cockpit roof escape hatch thrown off as the Mossie passed them and kept on towards the perimeter, hatch skidding along the runway like junk in its wake.
Mick shut his eyes – more squealing – then in his ears a resonantly wooden CRUNCH. Opening his eyes he saw the Mossie had wholly mounted the 487 Squadron aircraft, automatic engine fire-extinguishers billowing clouds of white mixture into the air. As a figure appeared up through the canopy emergency exit, and climbed out, followed by another, fire-crew members actually clapped.
Rickard turned to Mick, though seemed to address his shoes. ‘Y’know,’ he said, ‘I think I ought to be allowed to shoot one of my officers per week. Minimum.’ His eyes lifted to Mick’s. ‘Whaddya say, Squadron Leader?’
‘Well, sir,’ Mick managed, ‘I have heard it said any landing you can walk away from is a good one…’
Rickard turned back to the wooden wrecks – his shoulders betraying a chuckle. ‘That it is, Squadron Leader. That it is.’
The pilot, satisfied his navigator was alright and after a comment to a fire-crew member, began his flying booted trudge towards Rickard and Mick. Approaching them across the grass he pulled off his leather flying helmet.
‘’Ow ya doin’?’ hailed Dave Matthews. ‘ This 464 Squadron then?’
*
The ‘Officers’ Club’ at Sculthorpe was, as with everything on the station, simply a Nissan hut. Though in the early evening the place did hum with members of 140 Wing – assorted Brits, New Zealanders and Australians…
‘’Ere! ’Ave a go at these, will ya?’ Beer tankard in hand, Dave Matthews held up both cuffs of his tunic, the double bands of his new Flight Lieutenant rank freshly sewn on.
‘Long overdue, mate,’ said Mick.
‘Too right,’ beamed Matthews.
‘Extra responsibility, y’know… You’ll be leading B-Flight.’
Matthews winked. ‘Piece a’piss.’ Though he paused. ‘Thanks for askin’ for me, mate.’
They clinked their tankards, Mick peering at the wooden signs hung up behind the club bar before which they stood: three ‘squadron crests’ – including that of the Mosquito squadron Mick now led.
This crest featured the red within gold crown of the King atop a gold-rimmed ring of black, around this, gold lettering: 464 SQUADRON, ROYAL AUSTRALIAN AIR FORCE. Centre of the ring was a black and white Magpie, the bird’s black wings fanned out and up, its beak as if mid-screech, at the base of the crest a golden scroll displaying the squadron motto. Mick mouthed the words.
‘“Aequo Animo”.’ He angled to Dave Matthews. ‘What’s that mean?’
Matthews took a sip of his beer. ‘It’s Latin.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. “Of steady spirit”. …Equanimity.’
‘Eh?’
Matthews peered up at the Magpie. ‘Unflappable.’ Though now his eyes darted to the hut entrance, through which Group Captain Rickard stepped. ‘…Here’s trouble.’
‘Gentlemen,’ offered Rickard on approach. He signalled to the barman, then faced the pair. ‘Heaven knows why but congratulations are in order: Flying Officer Fraser is to be awarded the DFC. Plus a Bar to each of you.’
Matthews swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘Cripes.’
‘Cripes indeed,’ followed Rickard, ‘in light of your penchant for wrecking my aircraft, Flight Lieutenant… Anyway it’s for your work in the Battle of the Rhur. Over Hamburg particularly.’
‘Well,’ grinned Matthews, ‘finally me day at the Palace.’
‘I’m afraid not, Flight Lieutenant,’ said Rickard now with a sip at his own tankard. ‘140 Wing will be far too busy over the next few weeks. In fact if I were you chaps I’d have an early night. Still, next round’s on me.’
*
Eindhoven, Holland
Piet Vanderheyden had never been so inspired.
Since that day back in December, canvas after canvas after canvas had f
lowed. And work not just prolific but good. Very good. Piet’s best ever. Just days ago one of the old crowd had agreed, Marius standing in the centre of Piet’s room, his eyes aglow at the new paintings that hung all around the walls. They lived, Marius had said, these paintings that captured forever the moment which had signalled to them all that victory must surely come, that the German occupation of their beloved Holland was merely a moment passing. In fact, Marius himself had been inspired: inspired to admit to Piet that he had just recently joined the Dutch Resistance. Piet should consider joining too, he had said; all the old crowd had. Piet should join, Marius had joked; his doing so would render these paintings all the more valuable on the day of liberation, and Piet would then not only eat but have champagne. They all would. They would all drink together. To victory. And to one day becoming old farts who had once been young and radical. Though, Marius had vowed, these paintings and the name of Piet Vanderheyden would outlive them all.
Yet now Piet heard the thundering up the stairs, the sound of many jackboots along the corridor, and his door bashed open wide, German soldiers with rifles and sub machine-guns barging through it.
Werner Gruber stepped in behind them.
He stood there quite still and silent for long moments. Looking only at the giant images covering every inch of the four walls. Images of the Philips factory sprouting fireworks. And ablaze.
He gave the signal to one of the soldiers, Piet took the rifle butt in his face, and knew no more.
*
Paris
In the Place de la Sorbonne, Jacqueline Orval stared up at the spired dome, monumental stone columns, arches, statues and grand main entrance of the building outside of which she was a prisoner. Close on her right was a line of cafés at whose outdoor tables sat German soldiers. At a glance she recognised some of them as her own recent customers.
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