by Ted Bell
In April of this year, Germany had attacked Denmark and Norway. Britain immediately sent troops to Norway, but they had quickly retreated because of a lack of air support. Chamberlain’s government fell soon after, and on May 10, King George VI asked Churchill to form a new government. On that very same day, the Nazis rolled into Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. And now France had fallen. The much-vaunted Maginot Line having simply been ignored by Hitler, who sent masive Panzer divisions through the Ardennes forest. Newsreels were full of Nazi battalions marching up the Champs-Elysée in Paris.
Never had a national leader taken over at such a desperate hour. Churchill, in a speech to Parliament, had said, “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat.”
Would it be enough?
“Well, Uncle,” Hawke said, taking a sip of tea, “we bring news from another front. Our beloved Channel Islands.”
“I heard reports about the atrocious civilian bombing of Saint Peter Port. Barbarians. What in the world were the Nazis thinking?”
The prime minister pronounced the word “Nar-zees.” Nick, deciding if it was good enough for Churchill, it was good enough for him, pronounced it that way himself from that moment on.
“I think the Luftwaffe didn’t realize all our troops had been withdrawn, sir,” Hobbes said, taking out his sheaf of Nick’s photographs. He handed over three or four shots of the trucks lining the quay earlier that morning. Churchill began to study them intently.
“You’ll see from young Nick’s recon photos that—”
Churchill looked up from the pictures and said to Hobbes, “You don’t mean to say that this young man took these photographs! Is it true, Nick?”
“Yes, sir. You see, I’ve rebuilt my father’s old Sopwith, learned how to fly it, and Commander Hobbes has mounted a special camera underneath.”
“And these trucks on the quay. What were they doing?”
“Waiting to unload their shipments of tomatoes, sir. I do think the German pilots believed the trucks were all carrying troops.”
“Remarkable evidence of German war crimes, Nick!” Churchill said. “Let me see the rest, will you, Commander, our propaganda chaps will have a field day.”
Hobbes passed the entire portfolio to the Prime Minister.
“Look at this, will you?” Winston said. “The close-ups of this minelayer! It looks like the Jerries have designed an entirely new type of naval mine! I need to get these all over to the photo intelligence section immediately.” He turned to a steward standing silently behind him. “Summon my private secretary, will you? Tell him I need to see him at once.”
“I’m glad I could be helpful, sir,” Nick said.
“Quite extraordinary, Nick,” Churchill said. “And very dangerous work. Does your father know you’re doing this?”
“Yes, sir. I informed him. He’s happy for me to do my part. My mum is, not . . . not fully aware of the extent of my wartime activities.”
“Uncle Winston,” Hawke said, “I’ve told young Nick here that you’ve summoned Hobbes and me to London for the special operations commando unit. Nick has agreed to work with Baroness de Villiers to keep the steady stream of intelligence flowing out of the islands.”
“Very good of you, Nick. I know we can count on you in difficult times. I’m dreadfully sorry about the state of affairs in your islands.”
“What do you mean, sir?” Nick asked.
“I tried to get the bloody government to defend your islands, gentlemen. But, as you can see, I failed miserably. But that does not mean I won’t try to take them back when the opportunity presents itself. So, Nick, your continued efforts are not only deeply appreciated, but they will be vital when plans are being formulated for retaking these small islands, the oldest of the Crown Dependencies. It’s the first time the Germans have occupied English soil, and if I have anything to say about it, it will be the last!”
The four continued eating in silence, all with their private thoughts about what the Prime Minister had been saying. Finally, Hobbes spoke up. “Prime Minister, I’ve been curious about something, and I hope you don’t mind me asking a personal question?”
“Not in the slightest. Please, fire away.”
“I’ve been wondering how you felt when King George summoned you to Buckingham Palace and told you, at this desperate hour, that the fate of our entire nation was now resting on your shoulders.”
Churchill sat back and lit a fresh cigar. “A good question, Commander Hobbes, and I’ll tell you how I felt. I felt as if I were walking with destiny, and that all my past life had been but preparation for this hour and this trial.”
Hawke was about to speak, and then realized he was speechless. And so was everyone else at the table.
Churchill got to his feet, indicating that the luncheon was at an end.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me now. It’s back to business as usual, I’m afraid. But I want to leave you all with one very important thought. We face an implacable foe with resources far beyond our own. Victory is uncertain. It will be uphill all the way, I assure you. But there is one great hope. And that is America. If I can persuade President Roosevelt to join us in these desperate hours, we can, and will, win. But without the Yanks, I see very, very dark days ahead for England.”
“Like the First World War Yanks who came over, sir?” Nick said.
“Yes, Nicholas, exactly so. Only this time, our situation is far more dire. We’ll need not just American soldiers, sailors, and airmen, but their ships, their tanks, and their bombers as well—if we’re to stand any chance at all against this Hitler.”
And on that somber note, the prime minister said goodbye to them all and hurried off, with his secretary trailing feverishly in his wide wake.
Hawke stood and put a match to his own cigar.
“He’ll save the world if he can,” Hawke said to his two friends. “But until, and if, the Yanks come into this war, it’s going to be up to ordinary Englishmen like the three of us to stand by the Prime Minister and help him in any possible way we can.”
He looked at Nick, whose emotions clearly seemed about to overwhelm him.
“Captain McIver,” Hawke said, looking fondly at Nick, “it’s high time I got you back to your new secret airbase. And, besides, I promised your mum I’d have the squadron leader home in time for supper!”
18
CODE NAME: BLITZ
· Greybeard Island—July 1940 ·
Gunner arrived bright and early at the barn (now officially called Squadron HQ) only to find young Nick already hard at work. He was seated at the long worktable, going over glossy black and white photographs with a magnifying glass.
The newly repaired and repainted Sopwith Camel stood ready and waiting in the shadows. At one end of the table stood the new wireless radio set Hobbes had promised. There was also now a brand-new two-way radio, installed in the Camel’s cockpit. It gave Gunner a great deal of comfort knowing he could now stay in constant contact with the boy when he was out on a mission.
“Morning, Cap,” Gunner said.
“Morning,” Nick replied, not looking up.
“Come outside, lad. I’ve got something to show you. You’re going to like it.”
“Just let me finish here, then I’ll be glad to.”
“What have ye got there, Nick?”
“A packet of reconnaissance photos, just arrived from Guernsey by fishing boat.”
“Who sent them?”
“Flower. She’s going to be sending them over weekly.”
“Flower?”
“That’s only her code name. Her real name is Fleur de Villiers.”
“How come we don’t have code names?”
“Do you want one?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Anyway, Flower’s the person over on Guernsey who has been the primary contact with Lord Hawke. They’re great friends, apparently. Seems she’s been spying on Guernsey for him from the very beginning of the Bird-watchers.�
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“She take all these photos herself?” Gunner asked, flipping through a sheaf of them.
“Some of them. She’s got a lot of help. She’s the ringleader of the Guernsey Society of Birdwatchers.”
“So, how’s she get her pictures over here?”
“It changes. Right now, a fisherman meets her in a cove every week, takes delivery, and ferries the packet over to Greybeard under cover of darkness.”
“What’s that picture you’ve got there, then?”
Nick handed Gunner the magnifying glass and said, “Take a look. That’s the airfield at Guernsey. Look at all those Messerschmitts lined up on the tarmac, Gunner. Have to be fifty of them. And, look, here, see these four airmen? There are many shots of them. They’re using those handcarts to ferry ammunition and bombs out to the fighter aircraft. And they’re getting the ammo out of this large corrugated steel shed, right here next to the control tower.”
“How did the Guernseymen get all these pictures without getting shot?”
“Concealed cameras. In a satchel or a lady’s handbag. Dangerous work.”
“If that big corrugated shed ain’t a target for our poisonous apples, I don’t know what is.”
“Right. The shed and of course the fighters on the ground as well. I’d imagine they kept them fueled up, wouldn’t you? In case they have to scramble? A few Messerschmitt fuel tanks blow and we could cause serious trouble.”
“Aye. But look here, boy. All around the shed and all along the perimeter of the fence line. Those look like antiaircraft emplacements to me.”
“They sure do.”
“You got some plan to avoid getting blown out of the sky? Your old Camel ain’t much of a match for a Messerschmitt or an ack-ack gun.”
“Fast, aren’t they, those Messerschmitts?”
“Commander Hobbes told me they had 1,200-horsepower engines and top airspeeds of over 300 knots. Four machine guns, mounted in the cowlings and the wings.”
“Right, that’s a problem.”
“But you’ve got a plan, I’m sure. Always do.”
“I do. I plan to take off well before sunrise, at 0400 hours. Arrive over the field at 0430. There’ll be a few guards walking the fence line. But everyone else on the base will probably be asleep. I’ll go for the shed first, then take out as many fighter planes as I can. I should be headed home by the time those Messerschmitt pilots even warm up their engines.”
“How about the ack-ack gunners?”
“Look at this picture. Here, here, and here. Those are searchlights. The only ones I can see. I’ll try to take all three of them out first. But I plan to be halfway home before the antiaircraft gunners are out of bed.”
“Yer own little Blitzkrieg, sounds like.”
“Blitzkrieg?”
“What the Nazis did in Poland. Means ‘lightning war’ in English.”
“I like that word. Maybe that could be my code name. Blitz. Lightning.”
“Awright, then, Cap’n Blitz, come with me. I’m going to show you something that might come in handy in this oneman war of yours.”
They stood at the edge of the airstrip overlooking the bright blue sea. Gunner handed Nick a pair of powerful binoculars and showed him where to look.
“Brilliant!” Nick said, looking at Gunner’s surprise, “absolutely brilliant!”
“So you know what it’s for?”
“Of course. Practice. With my Vickers machine guns. Lovely idea, actually.”
“Thank you, M’lord.”
Gunner had been worried about how to get Nick comfortable with the twin machine guns mounted just forward of the cockpit. His brainstorm had come during the middle of the night and caused him to sit straight up in bed. All he needed, he figured, was a small boat, a bunch of red balloons, and a canister of helium gas. He towed the little dory out off Hawke Point behind his old fishing boat and anchored the dory. Then he climbed down into the boat and filled a dozen or so big and small balloons, letting out a couple of hundred feet of string for each one and securing them at different locations around the boat. After that, he chugged back into Hawke Lagoon and went to the barn to fetch Nick.
Nick now had a dozen fresh targets to practice his twin Vickers machine guns on.
“How’d you figure this out?” Nick asked.
“Simple. Gunners need practice. Practice takes targets. You aim to try to hit a moving target up in the air, ain’t much better target to do that with than a balloon blowing in the wind, is there?”
“Brilliant.”
Gunner frowned, “I ain’t brilliant. I’m a gunnery officer. Two things to remember. It ain’t like firing a gun at a stationary target, both standing on solid ground. You’re firing at a moving target from a moving platform traveling a hundred or so miles an hour. The balloons are just to give you a feel. Your target’s not a sitting duck, either. If you’re shooting at aeroplanes, they’ll be moving three times as fast as you are.”
Nick realized the enormity of what his friend was saying and said quietly, “Anything else?”
“Aye. You’re flying at night. You acquire night vision after a while. Your pupils dilate and you take in a lot more light. Which is good. But the second you open up with those machine guns, the muzzle flashes will blind you. You won’t be able to see a thing except the color red.”
“Just red?”
“Right. The eye will still pick up red. That’s why all instruments on aircraft and ships are red, y’know.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Still a lot to learn, boy.”
“It’s beginning to sound a bit more difficult.”
“Nick, what you’re doing is brave and worthwhile for your country. If any boy can pull it off, it’s you. But it’s also very dangerous. Your father has allowed this, and it ain’t my place to second-guess anybody. Your mother, I doubt she knows a thing about this, and that’s probably for the best. But you do something stupid, let your mind wander for one instant, you’re going to wind up dead. I don’t want you to forget that for a second.”
“I’ll be careful, Gunner. I promise you that.”
Nick turned and started racing back to HQ.
“Let’s go flying!” he cried.
“Boy thinks he’s going to live forever,” Gunner grumbled to himself. I remember the feeling.
As Gunner had warned him, firing the twin Vickers machine guns at swirling red balloons dancing, bobbing, and weaving some two hundred feet above the ocean was considerably more difficult than shooting ducks in a pond.
A lot more difficult. The noise, for one thing, was deafening when Nick pulled both triggers simultaneously. The side-by-side guns were belt-fed, one ammo belt to either side, and the rate of fire was amazing. Still, he’d made five or six diving passes, getting the balloons dead in his sights, and he’d yet to score a single hit. The gusting wind was causing the balloons to dip and dive and swing so wildly on their tethers, he was beginning to think hitting one was impossible.
He did a tight turn and came in for another pass.
“Blitz, this is HQ. Do you read?” He heard Gunner’s voice crackle in his earphones.
“Loud and clear, HQ. Over.”
“How many kills on that last pass, Blitz?” Gunner asked. He was in the barn on the radio and couldn’t watch the practice session through his binoculars.
“Zero, HQ. Haven’t scored a single hit yet. This is a lot harder than I thought it would be. Over.”
“Are you shootin’ at ’em?”
“Of course I’m shootin’ at ’em. What do you think? Over.”
“Stop shooting at them or you’ll never hit one. Your bullets will all arrive at where the target used to be. Not where it is. Over.”
“Understood. So what do I shoot at? Over.”
“You shoot where you think the target is going to be. Over.”
“And how do I know that?”
“You don’t. You estimate. You guess. Based on what you’ve seen a target do before. How it mo
ves and why. Where you think it’s headed. You lead the target and fire where you think it will be when your rounds arrive. Watch the wind direction. See which way the balloons are moving. Up, down, sideways. And then shoot there. Where are they going to be? Shoot there before they move there.”
There was a long moment of radio silence as Nick thought that one over for a few seconds. “Roger, HQ. I think I know what you mean. I’m going to climb up and circle at about a thousand feet, watch the targets’ movements from above. Then I’ll make a dive right through the middle of them, see how many I can take out on one pass.”
“Best of British, as they say.”
“Roger, HQ. Here I go!”
Gunner heard the powerful Bentley roar over the speaker and knew Nick had gone into a steep climb. He smiled to himself. Before the sun set that day, Nick would know how to fire a pair of Vickers machine guns. Not expertly, no. But at least enough to defend himself if he had to.
Gunner picked up the magnifying glass again and studied the Nazi fortifications and the Messerschmitts out on the tarmac at the aerodrome. If all went well and according to plan, the boy could deal the enemy a serious blow and escape with his life. However, military missions, in Gunner’s experience anyway, seldom went according to plan.
The bombing mission was two days away, at 0400 hours in the morning. He had all of tomorrow to practice his gunnery.
If all did not go well, Gunner knew he would never forgive himself.
19
NICK EVENS THE SCORE
Two days later, Nick McIver walked into the barn at 0330 hours, his leather flying helmet and goggles in one hand, a half-eaten apple in the other. His long white silk scarf was draped round his neck.
Gunner was beside the Sopwith, standing atop the step-ladder, loading the second basket of “apples” into the cockpit. Nick would have exactly twenty handmade bombs when he arrived over the Saint Peter Port aerodrome one hour from now. He looked over at Nick, saw him take a bite out of his apple, and smiled.