By nightfall on 23 April, the Hurricane force had virtually ceased to exist. In a series of strafing attacks that lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour, more than thirty Me 110s pounced on Argos airfield and destroyed thirteen Hurricanes on the ground. At first light the next day, the last seven aircraft were ordered to fly to Crete.
It was the end. What was to become known as the Greek fiasco had cost the Royal Air Force 209 aircraft of all types — 72 in combat, 55 in attacks on the ground and 82 destroyed or abandoned during the evacuation because there was no fuel to fly them out or because their airfields were too heavily cratered.
Over 50,000 men were brought out of Greece and evacuated to Crete and Egypt by a fleet of vessels — 32 warships, mostly destroyers, 19 transports and many smaller craft. Two destroyers and four transports were sunk by enemy aircraft.
Greece and the comparatively calm waters of the eastern Mediterranean were a long way from the stormy seas of the North Atlantic, but when he learned of the German invasion on 7 April, Armstrong knew full well what it would mean. The Royal Navy would now be compelled to divert more warships from the Atlantic arena in order to retain superiority in the Mediterranean, which would mean fewer escorts for the Atlantic convoys. The Germans must surely choose this moment to make an all-out onslaught on the merchant fleet. It was an opportunity they could not afford to pass over.
Chapter Seven
Armstrong had been back at Crosby-on-Eden less than a week when an urgent telephone call caused him to pack his overnight bag again. The caller was Air Commodore John Glendenning, a staff officer at the Air Ministry to whom Armstrong was directly responsible for all operational matters.
“Have you flown a Hudson, Ken?” Glendenning wanted to know. Armstrong replied that he had. One of the Lockheed patrol bombers had been temporarily attached to the photographic reconnaissance unit in which he served earlier, and he had taken the opportunity to have himself checked out on it.
“Good. In that case, I’ve a job for you. A very important job. Report to Tangmere the day after tomorrow. You’ll be briefed at ten a.m. Oh, and bring that French-speaking flight commander of yours along. The Polish chap, what’s-his-name.”
So it was that Armstrong, greatly mystified and accompanied by Kalinski, the latter’s sniffles now cured, flew down to RAF Tangmere, near Chichester on the Sussex coast, on the morning of Saturday the thirteenth of April — not a good day to embark on anything perilous, Armstrong thought, but at least it wasn’t a Friday.
As soon as the Harvard had rolled to a stop its two occupants were spirited away by armed RAF police, not to the briefing room, as Armstrong had anticipated, but to a picturesque cottage opposite the aerodrome’s main gate. Glendenning was waiting for them, and as the policemen made themselves scarce he showed the newcomers into a comfortable parlour furnished with armchairs, a table and a sofa. Covering the whole of one wall there was a map of France and the Low Countries. A tea urn stood on the table, with some cups and a plate of biscuits nearby. They helped themselves gratefully.
“I’ll come straight to the point,” Glendenning told them as they drank. “I want you to fly to France, tonight, land there, drop off some people and fly back again. Simple, really.”
Armstrong gaped at him, teacup poised halfway to his lips. The taciturn Kalinski acted as though he hadn’t heard.
The air commodore indicated the wall map. He found Rennes and moved his finger westwards until it stopped at a small blue patch a few miles north of Pontivy. “This is a reservoir,” he explained. “Immediately to the north of it there is a flat expanse of ground. It’s clear of obstacles and, so we are informed, firm enough to take a Hudson.”
Armstrong wondered just who Glendenning’s informants were, but made no comment.
“There’ll be a reception committee waiting for you,” the air commodore went on, “and they’ll light a flarepath for you as soon as they hear your engines. You’ll cross the enemy coast here, midway between Cherbourg and Le Havre; Bomber Command will be carrying out diversionary attacks on both places, so you’ll be going in under cover of those. The plan is for you to fly due south until you are abeam Rennes, then turn west and approach the target area from inland. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about your passengers, but it’s vital that you deliver them safely. A lot depends on the job they have to do.”
Armstrong could not help noticing that the landing ground was about forty miles from Brest, and guessed that the passengers’ mission, whatever it was, must have something to do with the German warships there.
Glendenning did not enlighten him, but said, “Take-off is scheduled for twenty-two hundred. That will get you to the landing zone shortly after midnight GMT, well inside the hours of curfew imposed by the German occupation forces. All the maps you will need are in this, and also the weather forecast for tonight.” He fished in a briefcase and pulled out a buff folder, which he laid on the table. “Your wireless operator will be joining you in half an hour; I suggest you get your flight plan sorted out, then spend a couple of hours this afternoon practising short landings and take-offs. The Hudson is in number two hangar. You won’t be carrying a navigator — there isn’t room. You’ll have to manage the navigation between you.”
“I’ll be happy to stay at home,” Kalinski said, and meant it. Glendenning looked at him unsmilingly. “We need you along because of your language ability,” he told the Pole. “Your passengers have no more than a smattering of English. Besides which, you are a pilot; if anything should happen to Wing Commander Armstrong, you will be able to take over. Now, are there any questions?”
Armstrong had dozens, but he knew that he would not get answers to them. One aspect, though, was puzzling him.
“Wouldn’t it be a lot easier to parachute these people into France, sir?” he asked. “A lot less risky, too, I should think.”
Glendenning nodded. “It would, but it’s out of the question. Your passengers will be carrying certain equipment with them, and it’s too fragile to drop. Well, that’s about all, except for me to wish you good luck. You’ll be eating here; I’ll arrange for transport to take you out to your aircraft later on.”
The air commodore put on his gold-braided cap and departed without another word. They heard him start his car and drive off. Armstrong opened the folder and spread the maps out on the table top. Glendenning had thought of everything; he had also provided a navigational computer, the type that could be strapped to one’s knee, a protractor, a ruler and some pencils.
They had almost completed their preliminary flight planning when there was a knock at the door and a man wearing the rank braid of a pilot officer entered the room, saluted Armstrong and introduced himself as Wilson, their wireless operator. They stared at him in amazement. For one thing, he wore no flying brevet; for another, he sported thick-lensed spectacles.
“I’m a specialist,” he explained. “Not proper aircrew at all. I’ve got certain tasks to carry out, you see. I do hope I shan’t be in the way.”
He spoke as though he were about to be setting out on a Sunday school outing, rather than an operation which might end in death for all of them or, even worse, in a Gestapo torture cell.
It turned out that Glendenning had thought of that eventuality, too. A little later, a medical officer arrived bearing a carton. He delved into it, produced a handful of small, transparent packages, each one marked with a different colour, and held them up in turn.
“Just in case things don’t quite work out as planned,” he remarked in what Armstrong thought was an unduly cheerful tone. “These are pills to resist fatigue, and these produce a high fever and every symptom of typhoid. If you should be taken prisoner, they could well get you out of a tight fix by persuading the Germans that you belong in a hospital rather than a prison cell, from which escape would obviously be a good deal more difficult. And finally, we have these.”
He opened one of the little packages and a glass capsule rolled into his palm. He held it out so they could se
e it.
“Concentrated arsenic,” he said mildly. “Inside the capsule it’s quite harmless; you can keep it in your mouth and even swallow it. But break it between your teeth and you’re dead in less than a minute — about forty-five seconds is the average for a normal, healthy person. It’s not a pleasant way to go, but preferable to some of the alternatives, should you fall into enemy hands. Well, I think that’s all. Do help yourselves to these.” He counted out three sets of packages, laid them side by side in a neat row on the table, gave a beaming smile and went away.
“Well, that’s cheered me up no end,” Armstrong muttered, resolving to have nothing to do with that particular form of self-execution. Wilson, it seemed, felt the same, but Kalinski picked up his. Sensing the others looking at him, he said: “Oh, it’s not for me. But if we do end up in the bag, it might come in handy for dropping into somebody’s coffee.”
They were forced to agree with him. Changing their minds, they picked up their little packages and put them in their pockets.
After they had eaten an excellent lunch of steak and chips, they were driven out to the Hudson by their police escort. The aircraft was parked outside a hangar that was set some distance apart from the rest; at first sight it looked like any other Coastal Command Hudson, with its dark grey upper surfaces and pale green belly, but then Armstrong saw that the gun turret had been removed, presumably to save weight and add to the aircraft’s range. Canvas ‘bucket’ seats had been fitted to either side of the fuselage interior, and the wireless operator’s table was crammed with equipment of a type neither Armstrong nor Kalinski recognised. Wilson hesitated by the table as Armstrong and Kalinski made their way forward towards the Hudson’s glazed nose, then settled himself into his seat and began to make rapid notes on a pad.
As Armstrong taxied out to the take-off point a few minutes later, the radio specialist’s voice sounded over the intercom.
“Sir, I wonder if you could alter the night-flying test a bit and take the aircraft up to twenty thousand feet over the coast? I’d like to check out some of my equipment, and it works best from that altitude.”
Armstrong agreed with some reluctance, as he wanted to practice his short landing and take-off techniques, but he sensed that Wilson’s job was an important one. The Hudson’s twin Wright Cyclone radial engines roared healthily as it lifted away from the aerodrome and settled into a long climb, its pilot turning west over the Isle of Wight. Over the radio, Armstrong had made sure that the coastal defences were aware of his movements; this was a highly sensitive area, and people were understandably trigger-happy.
From 20,000 feet the view across the Channel was magnificent. Over Lyme Bay, Wilson asked Armstrong to fly a series of courses while he made some fine adjustments to his radio gear. It was quite comfortable in the Hudson’s roomy cockpit, and from his position in the nose Kalinski kept up a running commentary, drawing the pilot’s attention to shipping far below and to a pair of Spitfires, which appeared from nowhere and formatted with the Hudson for a while before disappearing in the direction of Cornwall; but Armstrong, conscious of the dangerous and difficult mission ahead of him, was glad when Wilson announced that he had completed his checks.
Returning to Tangmere, he spent an hour on the aerodrome circuit, practicing take-offs and landings at various flap and power settings, approaching to land and climbing away at different angles until he found the optimum. At length, he decided to call it an afternoon and taxied in, shutting down the engines. The RAF police escorted the crew back to the cottage; there was nothing to do now but wait. Wilson appeared tense and tried to immerse himself in a book, feeling envious of Armstrong and Kalinski, who settled down in comfortable armchairs and promptly fell asleep.
*
“Coffee and sandwiches, sir?”
Armstrong came awake with a start to find an airman standing by his chair, bearing a tray laden with food. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. The clock on the mantelpiece told him that he had been asleep for four hours. He glared reproachfully at Kalinski, who grinned at him through a mouthful of corned beef and bread. ‘Bully beef’, rather surprisingly, had become one of the Pole’s favourite foods.
“You shouldn’t have let me sleep for so long,” Armstrong said. Kalinski merely shrugged.
“You looked as though you could do with it,” was all he said.
Armstrong had to agree with him. The short sleep had done him a lot of good, and he felt substantially refreshed. He took himself off to the bathroom, washed away any remaining tiredness, then returned to attack the coffee and sandwiches.
Afterwards, he and Kalinski made a final check of their flight plan. Armstrong had no worries about finding their objective — he knew that Kalinski was an expert navigator, as well as a highly skilled pilot, and for the outward leg of the flight they would have the benefit of a waning moon, which would set shortly before midnight.
Armstrong glanced at the clock: it was 2115. He wondered where their passengers were, and presumed that they would be taken straight out to the aircraft.
“All right,” he said finally, “let’s get kitted out. It’ll soon be time to get the Hudson wound up. Don’t forget your flight rations.”
The latter had been made up for them. Some paper bags on the table contained more sandwiches, a couple of cold sausages wrapped in greaseproof paper, chocolate, barley sugar and chewing gum. Although it seemed unappetising now, it would all be eaten on the return flight, for their appetites then would be sharpened by adrenalin.
A few minutes later, their police escort arrived to ferry them out to the aircraft. As they alighted from the vehicle, they noticed a small group of people, huddled beside the Hudson’s fuselage to derive some small shelter from the stiff and chilly wind. Kalinski spoke in French to a man who was apparently their leader, then ushered them aboard the aircraft and showed them how to strap themselves into their uncomfortable seats. Wilson was already fiddling with his radio equipment and Armstrong was in the cockpit, waiting to start up. Kalinski settled himself into the navigator’s position and laid out his maps on the small plotting table.
The passengers made themselves as comfortable as possible as the aircraft taxied out on schedule. Armstrong ran up the engines to full power at the end of the runway, pulled back the throttles so that the motors idled for a few moments, then opened up to take-off r.p.m., released the brakes and let the Hudson have her head. After a few seconds the rumble of its undercarriage ceased as Armstrong lifted it from the runway with a steady backward pressure on the control column. He turned on to the heading Kalinski had given him as the Hudson crossed the coast and climbed steadily towards the selected altitude of 15,000 feet, the height from which the bombers would be making their diversionary attack.
They flew on over the Channel, and as the enemy coast drew closer Armstrong was beginning to worry in case the bombers had let them down, even though he reassured himself that there were still five minutes to go before the attack went in as planned. Then, right on cue, searchlights stabbed the sky over Le Havre and Cherbourg, at opposite ends of the Seine Bay.
“Very obliging of them,” Kalinski commented. “Now we’ll go straight between the goalposts.”
Armstrong pointed the Hudson’s nose at the darkened coastline midway between the two French ports, above each of which a fierce flak barrage was rending the sky. He could see the twinkling flashes of bomb bursts on the ground. As the coast crawled under the Hudson’s wings he called Wilson over the intercom.
“Tell the passengers I’ll be starting a rapid descent shortly. Use sign language if you have to. Try to make them understand that if their ears pop, they have to hold their noses and blow.”
“Very well, sir,” the radio specialist said politely. “But sign language won’t be necessary. I speak quite passable French.”
“You might have told us that earlier,” Kalinski grunted from the nose. “You could have saved me a trip.”
“All right, let’s get on with it,” Armstrong ordered as the H
udson began to lose height. “You’d better start your running commentary, Stan.”
From now on, the success of the mission would depend on Kalinski’s map-reading skill as he led the pilot from one landmark to another.
“Okay,” the Pole said, “I’ve got it. Caen is dead ahead. Don’t go below three thousand feet, skipper; there’s quite a lot of high ground beyond.”
Following Kalinski’s instructions precisely, Armstrong made a detour around Caen and, picking up the grey, winding ribbon of the river Orne, followed it southwards for twenty miles until Kalinski located a railway line that also ran conveniently southwards through Mayenne to Laval, where he instructed the pilot to turn right on to a new heading of two eight zero degrees.
“Ninety miles to the landing ground,” Kalinski announced. “Rennes should be coming up in thirteen minutes.”
The Pole was only seconds out in his estimate as the Hudson thundered past Rennes, where the blackout was practically non-existent. In fact, Armstrong had noticed, it had been poor all along the route. The Germans might have succeeded in imposing a strict curfew during the ten months of their occupation, but they had not succeeded in compelling the French citizens to extinguish their lights. It was, he realised, a small gesture of defiance, but a far from insignificant one when it came to RAF aircrews navigating to their targets with the help of these small beacons scattered over France.
The unmasked lights of vehicles, too, helped Kalinski to pick out the road that ran westwards, the road that would lead them to their objective. He was grateful for the unwitting help of these unknown drivers, for the road passed through wooded country and in places it was difficult to detect. He continued to transmit a steady stream of position fixes to the pilot, counting off the miles to the landing zone as he did so.
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