Butterfield asked the next question: ‘Why is this er … operation … necessary?’ He looked about him. ‘Am I allowed to ask that?’
Major Pitt was watching carefully. The young pilots eyed him momentarily and then turned their attention back to Miller. ‘Yes, sir,’ said another. ‘Why are we doing it?’
Miller said bluntly: ‘Because it’s an order. It will give you the confidence of flying over Nazi-occupied territory so that when the big night comes you will at least know that you’ve done it before. It will just be a taste of the real thing.’ His mind went back to Devon and the men who died in the sea. ‘Even exercises have an element of risk.’
Butterfield asked: ‘When, sir? When do we go?’
‘Depends on the weather. Maybe tomorrow.’
There was silence, a long silence it seemed to Miller. He said: ‘This time, of course, there will be no passengers, no paratroops.’
‘It might give them … experience also, sir,’ said one of the pilots.
Pitt intervened: ‘Let’s not get too clever, son. The top command has sanctioned this show. There’ll be no cargo. Any further questions for Captain Miller?’
It was Butterfield who said to Miller: ‘Are you coming with us, sir?’
‘Sure I am. I need the experience too.’
Pockets of the next morning’s mist had edged away by the time they walked across the airfield towards the Dakotas. If it had not been for the circumstances it would have been a nice day. One aircraft had its two bulbous engines stripped down, looking oddly naked, so only eight were going. Major Pitt came from his office as they assembled below the wing of the leading plane. Even at a distance there seemed to be a lightness in his step and he was waving a square of paper.
‘We got our escort,’ guessed Caldy, the one who had asked about it.
‘A World War One biplane,’ said Butterfield and they all laughed, some of it from relief.
‘Okay, fellas,’ said Pitt. ‘The US Air Force is giving us an escort. Three mustangs, so they say. But maybe only one. The best aeroplane in the sky. Anyhow, between one and three. They aim to rendezvous with you in mid-English Channel, as you approach Jersey. They’ll see you’re okay.’
Two of the airmen were standing a few paces apart, as if keeping quiet, and were not in their flying suits. ‘You guys on leave?’ he said. He glanced at Miller.
‘We don’t have a plane, sir,’ said the first youth. The other nodded to the aircraft being repaired. ‘That’s our cow.’
Pitt grimaced, then said: ‘Get yourselves ready. You can go as passengers. There’s plenty of room. You can tell the others what to do.’
Disconsolately, the pair turned back towards the huts. ‘Maybe they figured on cleaning up the garden,’ said Pitt. He turned to Miller: ‘They could fly with you.’
‘Sure, major.’
‘There’s plenty of space in the back now we don’t have the soldiers,’ said Butterfield.
Miller changed his mind. ‘Maybe I should fly with somebody else. I’ve already had a trip with Butterfield. How about you, son?’
He pointed at Caldy who said: ‘Okay, sir. There’s room.’
Mechanics had been fussing around the blunt-nosed white-striped transports. The two men returned wearing their flying gear and the major, having shaken each man’s hand, turned and strode back to the perimeter. He stood contemplating them as they boarded the aircraft and the clumsy propellers began to turn with their initial puffs of smoke. The rustic Suffolk morning was rent by the harsh sound of the engines warming. Then the planes began to move into a queue for the runway like obedient circus animals.
Caldy was chewing gum. ‘It’s going to be great,’ he said over his shoulder to Miller. His navigator was already muttering into the mike at his mouth. ‘He’s called Blumenthal,’ said Caldy. He laughed. ‘I can’t always say it early in the morning.’
‘I’m glad you’re feeling good,’ said Miller. ‘It will be okay.’
‘I didn’t sleep much but I’m real glad about the escort. Once I actually see those mustangs on our wing-tip I’ll be even happier.’ He glanced back at Miller, his young face full of doubt. ‘I’m not a naturally brave guy, sir,’ he said.
‘Who is?’ asked Miller. ‘If only brave men had to fight a war there wouldn’t be enough to have one.’
They were third in line to take off. The engines were grunting strongly. ‘Butterball’s going,’ said Caldy. They had to raise their voices, sometimes to the point of shouting. The first Dakota, as though gathering itself for the attempt, gave a couple of clumsily playful jumps on the runway and then roared confidently towards the morning sun.
The second plane hesitated, then straightened itself out and followed Butterfield’s lead into the sky. Caldy took the third aircraft off easily, almost lazily, as if tempting a stalled engine. Miller was once more aware of the differences in styles, in temperament, in technique, of pilots and the aircraft themselves. They were never the same.
‘England sure looks pretty today,’ said Caldy, chewing gum like a machine. ‘So green and not so crowded.’
‘From here,’ agreed Miller. They were taking a course north of London, then to the south-west and eventually turning south over Dorset and across the widest breadth of the English Channel. ‘This place we’re going, Jersey, was named after Jersey in the States,’ suggested Caldy. ‘Right?’
‘The other way around,’ said Miller mildly. ‘Since ours is New Jersey.’
‘They follow us in everything else,’ said the young man. ‘This country was way back a hundred years out of date, before Uncle Sam got here. I think they’ve learned a few things from us.’
‘Probably so,’ said Miller. ‘Jitterbugging, hot dogs, chewing-gum.’
‘I can’t wait to get home,’ said Caldy, looking over the nose of the plane. ‘To good old Nebraska. To Omaha.’
‘Never been there,’ said Miller. He was watching Butterfield’s aircraft in the lead. The others had spread in a fan formation. The day continued clear and he could see for miles.
‘Insurance,’ said Caldy proudly. ‘Omaha, the insurance capital of the United States of America, which means the world, I guess. That’s what I’m going to do. Go straight into insurance. Make a few bucks.’
‘Get married?’ suggested Miller.
Caldy sounded surprised. ‘Maybe married. After a while.’
‘Have any of you guys got British girlfriends?’
‘They’re the best thing about this cold, wet place. They’re so … well, willing. I’ve got a great girl. In Sudbury. Doris. It was quite some while before I could figure out anything she was talking about. I didn’t know whether she was saying “yes” or “no”. But we’re okay now. She wants to come back to the States with me.’
‘Are you going to take her?’
Caldy chewed thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. Maybe not. I think it would be all too big for her. She says I talk like a movie star. I haven’t told her I don’t have no fancy apartment like she imagines and that I’ve never been within a hundred miles of New York City. We live in a wooden house thirty miles from Omaha. Somehow I don’t think she’d fit in there. We got dogs.’
‘There’s going to be any number of mistakes made after the war,’ said Miller. ‘Misunderstandings.’
He looked through the small triangle of window available to him. The navigator had said nothing in his direction, only muttered into his mouthpiece and sometimes spoke briefly to Caldy. They were flying over the northern outskirts of London.
Caldy nodded downwards. ‘This must be the view the Nazi bombers get. My girl has never visited the city, and she says she don’t want to go. She says it’s full of sin.’ He grinned. ‘And is she right! I spent my last leave there and I know. That’s some place. Almost as good as Omaha.’
Miller could see the two leading Dakotas and he knew that the others would still be arranged around them in the fan shape. The morning continued lucid, the toy fields below, rivers reflecting
the pale sky, and, when they had cleared the London suburbs, the spiders’ webs that were the small towns and villages of England.
‘About here we should turn to port,’ said Caldy casually. He glanced at the navigator who pretended not to hear him but after an interval said: ‘Any moment.’ It was the leading aircraft, Butterfield’s plane, which gave them the signal, banking unhurriedly to the left. The formation obediently tilted behind him. Now they were heading south-west, the land below brightly green with small puffs of cream clouds making shadows on the ground. After twenty minutes the coastline appeared in the distance, a wriggling edge, with the pale sea beyond.
‘We won’t have such a pretty ride on the night,’ said Miller.
Caldy caught the inference and, chewing furiously, turned and looked directly at him. ‘You’ll be coming, captain? On the real show?’
‘I certainly hope so,’ said Miller. ‘I don’t know yet whether they’ll let me jump. I’m qualified but I get the feeling that they’re scared I could screw up the whole invasion. I’d have to know the exact drill, the tactics on the ground, the target area – all that detail. Unless they can release me from my present assignment and I can get a few practice jumps, and learn what the other paratroopers know, then I don’t think they’ll even give it a thought. The last thing I want is to be a handicap.’
They were flying over Southampton, its glinting harbour tightly packed with sea-going craft, warships slim and grey in the sunlight. Miller went on: ‘But if they won’t let me jump, then I want to be up front with you guys. I don’t take up much space.’
Caldy laughed nervously. ‘You can take my place, sir. I’ll head home to Nebraska.’
Miller patted his shoulder. ‘It’s going to be okay, son. Everything is.’
‘Do you think they’ll just fold up, the Nazis?’ asked the youth. ‘Run away? Go down in a heap?’
‘None of those things,’ said Miller. ‘They’ll fight, they’ll fight like hell, but they’ll lose in the end. We’ll be stronger.’
The navigator said his first conversational words: ‘They got the Russians one side, and everybody else closing in, they should quit now. Where the hell do they get the men to keep getting killed, taken prisoner? And how do they get hold of the gasoline?’
‘Why don’t you ask them yourself?’ Caldy pointed: ‘Those Nazis are right ahead of us.’
All three men leaned to peer through the bevelled glass. From that altitude France was misty, the Channel Islands mixed with the mainland; then a flash of sunlight came like a signal from some window or windscreen. ‘There they are,’ said Miller. ‘Jersey is the big one.’
Caldy gave anxious stabbing looks around him. ‘Where’s the escort?’ he muttered.
It was only by chance that the Messerschmitt 109 was on the tarmac at Jersey airport. The wonderfully agile fighter plane had proved itself throughout the war, but only for a few minutes at a time. Even during the blitzkrieg summer of 1940 it could only escort German bombers over England, or join in dogfights with Spitfires, for half an hour before turning back to France. Its fuel tanks were tight.
Luftwaffe captain Berthold Rainer was well aware of the Me. l09’s shortcomings and the previous evening he had come in to land at Jersey, in preference to trying to reach his base in northern France with a fuel gauge showing empty. Now in the lucid Channel Islands morning he waited while his machine was refilled. He considered what a pleasant place the islands were, in the front line and yet a peaceful backwater. He had a French girlfriend in Amiens, ten years younger than his wife in Düsseldorf, and he hoped to have her company that night.
He was in his flying kit, his helmet strap loose about his chin, sniffing the day and mentally approving of the airport which in 1940 had been conveniently delivered almost new to the occupying Germans. An airman came from the central building and approached him at a trot, saluting even as he halted. ‘Captain, a formation of American transport planes is approaching Jersey from the North. There are eight, flying at three thousand metres.’ He handed over the transcript of the message. Rainer’s face glowed. Quickly he began to fasten his helmet and shouted at the mechanic refuelling the plane to hurry. ‘Transports?’ he said to the messenger. ‘You’re sure they are transports?’
‘Correct, and they have no escort, captain,’ said the grinning man.
At that moment the formation of Dakotas announced itself with a steady celestial roar. The Germans looked up. The planes were outlined like crosses in the sky.
‘Eight,’ counted the Luftwaffe pilot calmly. ‘What a beautiful sight.’
They had encountered their first anti-aircraft fire as they crossed the Jersey coast. It appeared to be coming from a ship in St Helier harbour and was exploding far below them, a group of harmless dandelion puffs. Caldy looked concerned but then realised and gave a whoop. ‘Wow! I’ve seen action. I’ve seen combat! I’ll get a citation.’
‘There’s some more,’ said Miller, nodding ahead. ‘But they’ll never hit us like that.’
‘Can we go home now?’ asked Blumenthal solidly.
Miller laughed. ‘Before they get our range, you figure?’
‘I mean now, sir.’
Caldy was still searching for the promised escort. Then he thought he saw a plane, circling above them, vanishing from their view into cloud. ‘Is that a mustang?’ he repeated several times. ‘Is it?’ Then they realised it was not. The black crosses below the diving wings were clear. ‘Christ, it’s a Nazi!’ squealed Caldy so loud through his mike that Blumenthal clutched his ears. ‘Okay, okay. Quit screaming, will you.’
Horrified, Miller traced the yellow-nosed Messerschmitt as it rolled above the leading Dakota, easily, even lazily, as though sizing it up, smacking its lips. It began a steep climb. ‘He’s going for Butterball,’ whispered Caldy. He looked wildly around. ‘Where’s the fucking mustangs? They promised. The colonel promised us, didn’t he?’
The German fighter, as if delighting in showing off, rolled on to its back and then smoothly swooped in on Butterfield’s aircraft, coming from behind and hammering it with machine-gun fire. Smoke spurted from the transport.
‘He got him,’ muttered Blumenthal. He turned his shocked face to Miller. ‘He got Butterball.’
‘He couldn’t miss,’ said Caldy. He, too, turned and stared at Miller.
Miller knew they were going to blame him.
Then a second shadow fell across them, and a third. ‘It’s the escort,’ Miller said, knowing it was too late. ‘They got here.’ Two US mustangs, showing their white star emblems, flipped over them and went for the Me. 109 like starving dogs at a pigeon. The German saw them coming and curled up and away into the sky.
‘Get him, get him,’ Miller was muttering. ‘Go, get him.’
‘Kill the bastard,’ said Caldy.
‘Butterball is going down,’ said Blumenthal in an almost conversational tone. ‘He’s burning.’
Caldy said: ‘Four of our guys.’
The sky was stained with smoke. The noise of the fighter planes drowned even the Dakota’s own engines. Then there was an orange explosion high above.
‘They hit him,’ said Miller. ‘Look, he’s falling.’
The German plane descended, slowly and grace-fully it seemed; pieces fell away from it, and then a finger of fumes came from behind it which spurted into bright flame. It dropped past them.
They turned to see what had happened to the Dakota. It was coming down, belching smoke, but in a steady descent as though making a controlled landing. Then one of the engines dropped away.
Underneath his flying goggles, Caldy began to weep like a boy. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. The other aircraft were wheeling away, in no particular formation now, heading back as fast as they could fly.
As he almost bent the plane around Caldy snivelled. ‘Look, there’s a parachute. It’s going down into the sea.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Look, there’s a parachute,’ said Sergeant Fred Weber. ‘It’s goin
g down into the sea.’
Gino attempted to see over his own shoulder but then splashed the oars to rock the little boat around. They had not caught many fish that morning. Their hearts were not in it because Weber was going and it could be their final time. They were about to pull back to the harbour.
Now they could both look. The parachute was at about two hundred feet and was descending sedately into the sunny waves. Weber searched the sky as though the plane might still be up there. ‘Too small for an invasion,’ he said. ‘One parachutist.’
‘It only took one German to capture Jersey,’ Gino reminded him. ‘But I think you are right, Fred, it’s no mass landing.’
The man on the end of the parachute could have been surveying them. They were only two hundred yards away when he splashed into the sea. They heard his shout as he hit the chill water. Gino turned the boat fully in that direction and began to row.
Butterfield was floating, trying to get rid of the parachute. He cut the cords, then swam three strokes to the side of the boat and asked: ‘Are you going to shoot me?’
‘We haven’t got a gun,’ said Weber.
They almost fell into the sea themselves as they hauled him over the side of the boat and extricated him from the rest of his harness. Weber made room for him on the seat. The big, blond, soaking wet American slumped forward with a subdued sob. Weber patted him and Gino began to pull on the oars. Butterfield looked up. ‘Are you Nazis?’
‘German,’ corrected Weber.
‘Italian,’ said Gino.
‘American,’ said Butterfield. ‘If you’re not going to shoot me I’d better give you this,’ he said, pulling a long and ominous-looking knife from his flying boot.
Weber accepted it as if it were a ceremoniously surrendered sword. ‘That’s very nice,’ he said. ‘For a knife.’
‘Good for gutting the fish,’ said Gino. He looked at Butterfield. ‘Can we keep it?’
Butterfield said: ‘I guess so.’ His cheeks quivered and he began to weep. Weber again patted his soaked flying suit. ‘My buddies,’ said Butterfield. ‘Three guys. They went down with the Dak.’
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