'You will be dropping eighteen-hundred-pound magnetic mines,' Wing Commander Tregear told them, 'in a busy shipping lane off the German coast; here.' His pointer tapped the wall map between the East Frisian Islands and Wilhelmshaven.
The Intelligence officer said, 'Flying at five hundred feet, you will be well below the height at which fighters patrol.'
Other specialists gave other information and opinions. None of these seemed to imply any real danger. The only - and unspoken - one arose from engine failure. Laden with an 1800 lb. mine, a Beaufort at 500ft. would not be able to maintain height on one engine. Nor would it have time to jettison its load before hitting the sea. If it did manage to shed the mine before ditching, it might alight close enough for the aircraft's metal to cause the mine to explode.
'Better than nothing,' Alden said. 'At least we'll be doing something more potentially lethal to Jerry than dumping bundles of humph, like the bomber types.'
'We might even see a Jerry ship blown up, sir.' Dymond-Forbes's eighteen-year-old enthusiasm and optimism anticipated a splendid spectacle.
'We won't be hanging around waiting for one to come blundering into a mine,' Alden said drily.
'We might be lucky and see one go up on a mine someone has already dropped, sir: Bomber Command have been out mine-laying for weeks, according to the I.O.'
'You never know.' Alden spoke like an amiable uncle. The eight aircraft took off at dusk at five-minute intervals, A Flight first. Alden's aircraft was the penultimate one. Courtney was leading the four of B Flight. The time separation would help to avoid collision en route and in the target area. Taking off with full tanks and an 1800 lb. burden for the first time was nerve racking. At 500 ft. the tension was only a little relaxed. Ten minutes after Alden crossed the English coast, committed to a long haul across open water, the gloom was rent by a searing incandescence that flooded the sky for miles in every direction.
He blinked, then looked intently at his instruments to ensure that he had not lost height or involuntarily swerved off course.
The thunderclap of the detonation beat into the cockpit. It had been too far away for the rush of agitated air to disturb the Beaufort.
Nothing had been said at briefing about electro magnetic mines sometimes being detonated, through over-sensitivity, by the earth's magnetic field. Nothing had been said, either, about the soluble capsule, which sea water melted so as to leave the detonator exposed and ready to respond to the magnetic effect of a ship's hull, and was also eroded by rain and by dampness in the atmosphere of a bomb dump.
If the eight Beauforts were in all respects ready for war, at least one of them carried a mine that was in all respects ready to be exploded by the normal magnetic flow around the globe; and had duly demonstrated the fact.
The two hours that elapsed before the first of the Frisians came faintly into view passed very slowly.
A week later, A Flight lost an aircraft in the same way.
Henceforth, mine-laying was poorly regarded as a substitute for the squadrons' real function and no longer spoken of as 'better than nothing'.
Alden went on leave again and Elizabeth agreed to do the same. This time she would stay overnight in London. He booked a room at The Oxford And Cambridge Club, went to London by train and met her at Waterloo. His mental image of her during the intervening three months had become more flattering as time went on. He had to acknowledge, when he saw her, that she was a plain girl and it was unfortunate that she showed no interest in cosmetics; not even the palest lipstick or a touch of rouge and light dusting of powder. But her shape was no less voluptuous than his some times heated imagination had created and her lithe, tennis-champion's gait was every bit as captivating. It was not for her physical attributes, however, that he had sought her company, but for her intelligent companionship.
After they had left her luggage at the Regent Palace they had lunch in Soho and went to a concert at the Wigmore Hall. They had tea at the Ritz, went to a theatre in the Strand and dined at the Savoy.
It was very late in the evening when she said, as though suddenly reminded of something trivial, 'Oh, by the way, Roy is on leave later this week. He's coming down to Bath for a day or two.' Roy was the handsome curly-haired D.F.C. squadron leader, of whom Alden had no wish to be reminded.
'Still instructing?' The condescension in Alden's tone was manifest.
She smiled, in no doubt of his reason for the patronising note and perhaps enjoying what she was about to tell him. 'He's been on a squadron since the end of February.'
'Beauforts?'
'Yes.' She told him the squadron's number.
'Don't bother to remember me to him.'
She laughed. 'I wouldn't be so tactless.'
'You don't think it's tactless to tell me he's chasing you all the way to Bath?'
Her eyes were bright. 'That's different.'
In what way? he wondered. Damned if I'm going to ask, he thought.
In the taxi afterwards he kissed her for the first time. She was readily responsive and her lips were as soft and arousing as he had expected.
When he parted from her at her hotel, he said, 'Don't let… er… What's-his-name's "day or two" blight your leave.' He tried not to sound surly.
Elizabeth chuckled and he wished that they were alone and not in a crowded foyer. He wanted very badly to kiss her again.
The pilots and observers of nine crews from each of the two squadrons crowded the Operations Room, seated on folding chairs facing the wall map. The date chalked large on a blackboard was 5th June 1940. The evacuation of the defeated British Expeditionary Force from Dun kirk had been completed the previous morning. Nobody felt in high good humour, but nobody felt defeated either. The prevalent mood was pleasure that 338,000 British and Allied troops had been fetched safely across the Channel.
The wireless operators and air gunners were being given their signals briefings in the squadron crew rooms by the squadron Signals officers. Alden was always disgruntled by this separation of the crew. It did nothing to foster team spirit. He wondered if they were even being told where they were going.
They would know what they were going to do, though: tractors had been towing trains of bomb trolleys from the bomb dump to dispersals for the past two hours.
Lalabalava, when he saw them, expressed everyone's feelings. 'I thought we were supposed to be a torpedo squadron. For a while I suspected we'd been converted to mine laying specialists without being actually told so. Now I'm confused. It looks as though we're only a back-up to Bomber Command.'
'They'll have us on bloody fighter patrols next,' said Flight Sergeant Jenkins. 'Come to think of it, I reckon we'd do better than the night fighter boys, at any rate. I don't fancy it by day, though; not with our ceiling.'
He was being humorous, wry and sarcastic, but there was a shade of seriousness behind it. While the B.E.F. was being shipped out of Dunkirk and other ports, there had been such a dearth of fighters that Coastal Command Blenheims had been sent to patrol the French coast and attack enemy bombers. The Beaufort's service ceiling was only 16,000 ft., which made it even less suitable than the Blenheim bomber for such a purpose.
'We all know the only kind of night fighting you want to do, Taffy,' someone said.
'That's not fighting, look you: they never put up any real resistance.'
There had been some prurient comments and laughter. Nobody was laughing now, at briefing, with the purport of those bomb trolleys explained.
When they entered the Ops Room there was no hint of laughter or whisper of comment. Eyes immediately sought the wall map as each man crossed the threshold. A strip of red tape ran from East Crondal to the Dutch coast. It was a much shorter distance than to the Heligoland Bight or the coast of Denmark, where the squadrons had been mine-laying. But it would take them close to enemy fighter bases, patroling E-boats and flak ships, and perhaps within range of large calibre -88and 105 mm- flak batteries on shore. It also meant a crossing of the North Sea, even if not at
its widest part, to return home. With a damaged aircraft, that was a great deal less attractive than flying back overland
Group Captain Jameson was at his most bulldoggy. His meaty rubicund cheeks sagged. His eyes were pouched and darkly shadowed. Everyone knew how much he took to heart the loss of lives on both squadrons. Whenever he could find a plausible reason, he flew on such operations as had been going on. He had to borrow an aircraft from one of the squadrons and take over a crew whose pilot was sick, or absent on leave or duty. He did his best to share in the risks that the air crews took day after day, even to flying on navigation exercises. It was, after all, the Beaufort's engines that had accounted for most of the losses. He looked like a man who slept too little, worked too long hours and worried to excess.
He addressed the gathering. 'Our backs are to the wall now, and the enemy is determined to attempt an invasion of our country. Today, more than ever before, an enormous amount depends on the quality of your professional ability and your determination.' He means guts. The thought was present in every attentive mind and brought with it an involuntary internal shudder. 'Barges intended for the invasion are being towed to Calais, Boulogne and Dieppe from Germany, Holland and Belgium; where, as you know, they are used extensively on the rivers. You will hear the details during the Intelligence briefing. I only want to tell you briefly what is the situation of this country and that your target is these barges, the ships towing them, and their escorting vessels.'
Half an hour later, when the crews went out from the close atmosphere of the building to the fresh air and summer sunshine, there was a difference in their bearing from the chattering, apparently unconcerned manner with which they left a briefing for a mine-laying operation. A few walked in thoughtful silence, frankly subdued. The majority showed a calm seriousness, talking quietly with not a sign of the usual macabre amusement and joking comments on what they had just been told.
The two wing commanders were personally to lead their squadrons this time. Only one flight commander would be taking part. On Tregear's squadron, this was Squadron Leader Hanbury. He would lead the second section of three.
The squadron Adjutant was in the crew room when the crews arrived there. He had replaced the incumbent who had greeted Alden when he reported to the squadron nine months previously; and had disappeared on a navigation exercise in January. The new Adjutant had no flying duties. He was a middle-aged Reservist, a Great War observer, who had been recalled from his director's desk in a chain of footwear retailers. An efficient administrator and an avuncular figure to everybody on the squadron, he was going round from locker to locker as people put on their flying clothing. His discreet, 'Anything I can look after for you while you're out?' - as though they were off for a country ramble - came as a great relief to many. They had letters to their parents or wives, already written and stowed away in their kit, for just such an occasion as this. The Adj's tunic pockets bulged with the envelopes that had been silently handed to him.
He wondered, grieving already, how many would be recovering them from him in a few hours' time.
Alden was Number Three in Hanbury's section, flying on the latter's port hand. The Beauforts took off singly and formed up in vies line astern as they orbited the circuit, Tregear's squadron first, at 1,000 ft., and the other at 500 ft. When both were in formation, Tregear led his coastward, ascending to 5,000 ft. and followed to the same height by the second formation, which took station 200 yards astern. Each V was slightly higher than the one ahead, to keep out of its slipstream.
Visibility was excellent, the sea was calm and scintillated in friendly fashion under the brilliant sunshine. Alden rehearsed in his mind what he must do when the barge convoy came in sight and he had chosen his own particular objective. Most of the squadron's practice on the bombing range had been dive bombing. From their present altitude they would make a shallow dive to 4,500 ft., then steepen it to forty degrees and go straight for their aiming point. At 1,500 ft. they would release one or all of their three 500 lb. general purpose bombs, fused to explode on impact. They would turn sharply away as soon as the bombs were clear, still diving. Thus they would avoid being caught in the blast and would be moving away from the flak.
If there were fighters around, these would have to stay outside the flak zone and delay their attacks on the Beauforts until the latter were beyond it. The presence of fighters would make it safer to continue diving to within 20ft. of the water than to flatten out or climb. At that level, fighters could not attack from beneath and would not dare dive steeply from above, for fear of not having room to pull out. Diving might also frustrate the 20 mm and 37 mm gunners, who might not be able to depress their gun barrels enough to keep the aircraft in their sights.
Random thoughts, all irrelevant to the job in hand, kept finding their way into Alden's head. He wondered if this were a protective mechanism, Nature's way of diluting the fear that lurked below the surface of his conscious mind. Elizabeth was prominent among the intrusions. He savoured the recollection of their twenty four hours together in London, not least the recalled effect of her kisses on his disciplined and Spartan character. He wished there were some means, such as Baird's marvellous invention, television, which could present her with a view of him seated heroically in his cockpit. And what of Roy? He emphasised the word in his thoughts with a mental grimace. What was Roy doing this morning? Perhaps his squadron, stationed in the south, was on a short trip across the Channel to prang invasion barges approaching one of their destinations. It gave him no fellow feeling for his rival.
He thought of his brother, already a captain in a smart infantry regiment, his promotion accelerated by heavy casualties in France before the remnants of his battalion escaped via Dunkirk. He thought of his mother, a busy pillar of the Women's Voluntary Service; and of his father, who had been among the first air raid wardens and was now one of the first to join the Local Defence Volunteers (later renamed Home Guard) and drilling his squad 'armed' with broom handles because there were too few rifles available. If the invasion came they would be reduced to facing the Germans with pikes, he supposed, culled from the walls of castles and stately homes - and museums! - all over the land.
A letter left behind for his parents in the event of his not returning from this op would have been a practical demonstration of his affection and sense of duty. But all four of his family were undemonstrative; and needed no overt declaration of their feelings for each other. Still, he wished now that he had overcome his natural reticence and left a few last lines behind.
This melancholy reflection made him bristle. Who says they would be my last lines to them? Of course I'll come through this… unscathed, to employ the favourite cliché.
He searched the sky for enemy fighters and the sea for ships and barges.
'How are we doing, Observer?'
'On course, Pilot. E.T.A. target area, sixteen minutes.' The response was prompt. The C.O.'s observer was navigating for them all. Alden was glad to hear that he was doing it accurately. The estimated time of arrival was not precise. The speed of the convoy was also a mere estimate, thus the point of interception might be four or five miles behind or ahead of the calculated one.
Alden hoped they would find the target without a lot of searching. Get this job over and go home. There was no need for precision in bomb aiming this time. The barges were closely packed in double lines astern of their tugs. They were the primary target. Without them, Hitler could not invade. The tugs and other ships were secondary. A 500 lb. bomb dropped in the midst of a string of barges could sink the lot. Hitting a tug or flak ship - a fishing trawler fitted with anti-aircraft guns - would be much more difficult.
The coast had been in sight for some minutes, but the distance was still too great to discern water traffic along it.
The sun was a nuisance. Alden narrowed his eyes, peering at the sky, turning his head…
'Pilot to crew… fighters, eleven-o'clock, high.'
Twenty seconds later: 'Observer to pilot... I can see
eight of them... and there's a convoy of sorts at one-o'clock, very close inshore.'
Another short passage of time, and then: 'Pilot here... yes, I can see them now.'
So could the C.O.: he was leading the formation in a wheel to starboard.
The Messerschmitt 109s were coming in steeply. The first streaks of tracer slashed across the blue background beneath which, no doubt, people were basking on the beaches, enjoying the hot sun. The occupying enemy could hardly close every inch of beach to the rightful inhabitants. It did not seem practicable. Odd to think of civilians down there, women and children mostly, Alden supposed, picnicking while they watched men killing each other.
'Pilot from observer... two more fighter formations... eight in each, as far as I can see... one at nine o'clock, the other dead ahead… both high and diving.'
Alden had been concentrating on the change of direction. He raised his eyes. He saw the fighters in front. The two other bunches were somewhere behind his left shoulder.
More tracer made trails across empty space. The air gunners ahead were shooting.
It gave Alden a startled couple of seconds when he heard the clatter of Dymond-Forbes's gun. The heady smell of burned cordite drifted into the cockpit.
The Beaufort on the left of the front section dropped its port wing. Its nose slumped. It flicked onto its back. Two of the crew fell from it. Their parachutes opened. The aeroplane was dropping almost vertically and rolling around its longitudinal axis.
The firing from the turret ceased while DymondForbes changed drums. A burst came from the rearward-firing Browning in the belly blister and more cordite fumes and smoke reached the cockpit. Fat chance of hitting anything with a fixed gun and aiming with a mirror! thought Alden. No more than a gesture of defiance and a waste of a good gun. The Browning would have been much more useful in the turret. The Vickers K gun was firing again. Alden hoped his gunner was hitting one of the enemy.
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