He felt everyone in the room staring at him, his black eye making him feel even more self-conscious.
‘Sergeant Taylor will be the section leader,’ Captain Williams said. ‘In other words, during operations, he is in charge. So, try and keep in his good books!’
Each of the men introduced themselves before Fosdyke stood up again.
‘Right, gentlemen. We have precious little time for you to get acquainted,’ the captain said. ‘You fly in less than thirty-six hours on your first mission. So, we had better get cracking.’
Audible gasps erupted around the room. We leave the day after tomorrow? Henry’s stomach knotted at the thought of it.
‘Right, lads,’ Williams said. ‘Lunch has been provided in the room next door.’
As everyone rose to leave, the major beckoned Henry over.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Fosdyke asked as he approached.
‘It sounds intriguing, Sir’ he commented.
‘Sorry, about all this cloak and dagger stuff, but we had to ensure word didn’t get out. The very existence of this unit is classified. The only way for us to be certain about secrecy was to wait until general mobilisation before we got you guys together,’ Williams explained. ‘Other than a few of the top brass, the only people who know about us are based in Whitehall.’
‘These are some of the most talented soldiers in the British Army, and with your leadership, I believe you can achieve anything,’ Fosdyke added.
‘So, we need to optimise our use of the time we have,’ Williams said. ‘It must be a little daunting, but once you’ve put your lads through their paces and they have shown what they are capable of, you’ll feel a whole lot better.’
Henry nodded but was not reassured.
‘The files for all the men are in my office,’ said Major Fosdyke, sensing the sergeant’s uncertainty. ‘Pop by later. I’ll let my secretary know you’re going to drop in. From what I can gather, she’s taken a bit of a shine to you.’
Lunch was an awkward affair, a mixture of polite conversation and niceties, but anxiety and anticipation bubbled under the surface. Tommy Rogers, one of the corporals in the group, tried to relieve the awkwardness by asking Henry how he’d obtained his black eye. He paused before replying, ‘Oh, some woman in a pub. You know how it is.’
His comment was met with wolf whistles and table slapping from the small audience, lightening the mood slightly.
After lunch, the newly formed Bravo Section had their first fieldcraft exercise. Decked in full kit and camouflage, Henry and his men were taken via truck to Wanborough Woods, the site of Henry’s victory over the Grenadier Guards. He had ascertained he had two corporals under his command: Tommy Rogers, who appeared to be keen and enthusiastic, and Robert Scott, an excellent linguist, who was quite handy with a Lee-Enfield rifle. Then there was the medic, Patrick O’Shea, the explosives expert; Alf Morrison; and two infantrymen, Joe Mayberry and Malcolm Porter.
Henry felt self-conscious giving orders to his men under the scrutiny of the major. Dividing the unit into two teams, each led by one of the corporals, they took turns defending a hill from the onslaught from the other team. Both groups performed well, and Henry’s anxieties were swiftly dissipating. Being ‘in charge’ still felt strange, although, to be fair, his orders were obeyed without question. The two corporals, Tommy Rogers, with his blond floppy-locks, and the lanky Robert Scott interacted well. What Henry found most challenging was being called ‘Sarge.’ He kept looking over his shoulder to see if there was someone more important standing behind him.
That evening, the team moved into their new dormitory, down the corridor from Henry’s new room. As they were soon leaving on an operation, the unit was now required to stay in the barracks. This was a shame, as Henry thought a trip to the local pub would have been a worthwhile team-building experience. Another sign of their impending mission was the presence of armed guards. They stood silently outside the dormitory door, preventing unauthorised people entering or the men inside from leaving. Despite their apparent incarceration, the usual lighthearted chitchat of soldiers continued to fill the air. On several occasions, they asked Henry about the destination of their imminent mission, but he had to admit he did not know.
‘What? They haven’t even told you?’ Mayberry asked.
‘Nope, I’m just as much in the dark as you guys are,’ he said honestly.
‘I reckon they’ll send us to Berlin to kill Hitler,’ one of the others hypothesised.
Henry hoped not. That would be a tough destination for their first mission. The chances of success would be next to nothing.
The following morning was dull and overcast. Henry walked across the parade ground under the watchful eyes of their guards, his sleep-deprived thoughts continuing to buzz around his head. He was the first to arrive in the lecture room, and he started pacing back and forth nervously. Slowly, the other men of the Bravo Section trickled in.
Captain Williams entered the room at precisely zero eight hundred hours.
‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ he said.
‘You are all probably wondering about the nature of tomorrow’s mission and, indeed, you will find out in due course. What I can tell you is you will be parachuting into enemy territory in the early hours of tomorrow morning. Now, British armed forces have never parachuted into a war zone before. So, you, gentlemen, will be lucky enough to be the first. I am aware none of you has any jump experience, so we will practice this morning.’
Henry felt sick at the thought of flying, let alone jumping from a plane several thousand feet up. He did not like heights but was going to have to hide this from the others.
After being suspended feet above the floor in parachute harnesses, he and his men spent forty-five minutes in the gymnasium learning how to land safely on a giant mat without injuring themselves. Next, they were taught how to use the various toggles and pull cords. Henry had especially disliked the teaching on what to do if your parachute did not open. Still, at least he now knew what to do if this situation arose.
As the truck trundled towards the airstrip, an uncomfortable nervousness gripped the group. The bravado and banter had disappeared. Instead, each man stared at their feet, avoiding eye contact.
The seven of them boarded a small, twin-propeller plane through a hatch in its underside. Wearing full jump-kit, they were crammed into the carcass of the aircraft, followed by the jump-master who was coordinating the occasion. He instructed them to clip their parachutes onto the static line, then to sit on the floor between the legs of the man behind.
The propellers started with a jolt, and soon the plane was taxiing along the airstrip. Henry’s anxiety, together with the erratic motion, made him feel queasy. They slowed and turned through one hundred and eighty degrees before coming to a standstill at the end of the runway.
The hold of the craft was unlit. Henry felt the pilot increase the throttle, making the engines roar. There was a clunk as the brakes were released and the aircraft began to speed along. After fifteen to twenty seconds, they lurched into the air. The whole plane rattled momentarily before banking steeply to the left. Henry swallowed hard to stop acid rising into his mouth.
After what felt like an eternity, the tone of the engine changed. A red light came on, casting a strange glow over the men. This was the signal for each man to check the kit of the man in front of him.
‘Number one, okay,’ shouted Malcolm Porter, trying to make himself heard above the external noise.
‘Number two, okay,’ bellowed Tommy Rogers as the cry passed down the line.
The shouts continued along the length of the aircraft. Once everyone’s equipment had been checked, the jump-master opened the hatch, filling the plane with daylight. The wind howled through the open door with a deafening roar, causing the straps on Henry’s goggles to flap painfully against his face.
The red light changed to green, and the jump-master shouted, ‘GO, GO, GO!’
With a brief moment of hesitation, Malcolm
Porter launched himself from the plane. From the back of the queue, Henry watched his men jump through the door into the grey sky beyond. His heart raced as he edged nearer the door. Finally, it was his turn. Standing at the door, he could see the chutes hanging below him. He took a deep breath, then jumped.
The next few moments were a blur. As Henry left the plane, a blast of cold air winded him, making him forget his training. The jolt of the parachute opening brought him to his senses. Looking up, he was thankful his canopy was open and nicely rounded. Relieved, he hung there, suspended in tranquility above the beautiful Hampshire countryside. Below, the observers were tracking the jumpers with binoculars. Henry was reassured by their presence, although, not entirely sure what they could do if he got into difficulty.
The ground was approaching at a fair rate of knots. Henry brought his knees up in anticipation for the impact. As he landed, he rolled onto his side, and his canopy settled loosely on top of him. With a feeling of elation, he jumped to his feet and unclipped his chute. Around him, men were cheering and leaping around in celebration. He walked over to one of the observers.
‘Is everyone down?’ Henry asked.
‘All the chutes opened, but we’ve lost Mayberry. He’s floated off towards Farnham. We’ll have to send someone to pick him up.’
The jump-master was the last to land. After he had unclipped himself from his harness, he walked from man to man, congratulating them on their successful landings. With no time to rest, they were given another parachute and told to board the plane again for another jump. Thankfully, Henry’s second attempt was straightforward. This time, he remembered to count his descent, and his landing was perfect.
Unfortunately, Malcolm Porter landed heavily, injuring his left ankle. Other than that, the rest of the men were down, except Mayberry, who had still not been located from the previous jump. Jubilant at their parachuting success, they were loaded onto a truck and taken back to their barracks. Meanwhile, Porter was transferred to the medical station for a doctor to examine his rapidly swelling ankle.
In sharp contrast to the journey out to the airstrip, the trip home contained much more noise and laughter. Almost all of the jokes were about the unfortunate Mayberry who was still missing. Henry thought the young man had better be prepared for some extensive ridiculing when he was located.
As soon as they had climbed down from the truck, they were ushered into the mess hall, where afternoon tea was waiting for them. They sat down and tucked in. Half an hour later, as the men of the unit were finishing their meal, Mayberry entered the room to rapturous applause and cheers. He took a seat at the end of the table, like a triumphant king returning from conquest.
Captain Williams appeared in the doorway and waved Henry over.
‘I have some bad news,’ he said in hushed tones, standing in the corridor. ‘Porter has broken his ankle. He won’t be fit to go with you tonight.’
‘That leaves us a man down, doesn’t it?’ Henry asked.
‘Kind of. As you know, all the troops have been shipped overseas. The only men available are those in sickbay.’
Henry looked at him curiously.
‘Look, there’s one chap who’s well enough to go with you,’ Williams said awkwardly. ‘His name’s Travers. He’s just getting over chickenpox. The doctor says he’s no longer contagious.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? Can’t the operation be postponed until a suitable replacement can be found?’
‘The mission must go ahead as planned,’ the captain insisted.
‘Does he have any parachute experience?’ Henry asked, knowing what the answer was likely to be.
‘No, but if you’re happy for us to proceed, we can fit in some jump-training for him now.’
‘If that’s the only alternative, then I guess we ought to take him.’
‘It’s your call,’ said Williams. ‘I’ll understand your decision either way.’
Henry followed the captain into an office. Sitting on a chair was a lad in his late teens, his face still peppered with a few crusted spots. The youth appeared pleasant enough, but he did not look old enough to even shave, let alone fight on the front lines. What would the other men in the unit think?
‘Let’s go and meet the others,’ he said.
Henry walked into the mess hall with the lad trailing behind him.
‘May I have your attention, please?’ said Henry, raising his voice. ‘I’m afraid Porter’s broken his ankle.’
Audible groans came from the men around the table.
‘So, we have a new member for our team.’ Henry froze, unable to remember the lad’s name. ‘Why don’t you introduce yourself?’
‘Hello! I’m Terry Travers,’ the teenager mumbled, clearly intimidated.
The group of men looked on, no one speaking.
‘Have you eaten, son?’ said Robert Scott, breaking the awkward silence.
The lad shook his head.
‘Well, come and sit here,’ Scotty smiled. ‘There’s enough to go around.’
The unit introduced themselves to their newest member; Mayberry and Travers shared a common friend, helping to break the ice.
Over the next couple of hours, some of the men shared their expertise in workshops. Alf Morrison talked about explosives, Tommy Rogers taught man-to-man combat techniques, and O’Shea demonstrated life-saving battlefield medicine procedures.
The final session of the afternoon was spent on the rifle range. Robert Scott showed off his advanced marksmanship skills, giving a breathtaking demonstration of long-range shooting, and explained the mysteries of the telescopic sight.
The unit then practised, aiming at paper targets pinned to straw bales positioned at various distances from the firing line. To everyone’s surprise, Travers made the highest score of the afternoon. Henry congratulated the teenager before a few of the men hoisted the young lad onto their shoulders and carried him around.
At the end of a long day, dinner was served in the mess hall with Captain Williams and the major joining them. At the end of the meal, Fosdyke scraped back his chair and addressed the unit.
‘It is eighteen hundred hours. For you gentlemen, the next two hours are free,’ he said. ‘I suggest you get some rest. The mission briefing will start at twenty hundred hours in the lecture theatre.’
4
The secretary stood as he entered the room.
‘The major said I could view the files of the other soldiers,’ Henry said.
‘Why, of course, Sergeant,’ she said playfully.
She opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and rummaged around for a few seconds before slamming it shut.
‘I have the keys to the office opposite if you want somewhere to study them,’ she said.
‘Yes, that’s very kind of you,’ he replied, slightly flustered.
She held out a bundle of manila folders which Henry gathered awkwardly.
‘My name’s Susan, by the way,’ she said, turning on the light in the small room. ‘If you want anything, just ask.’
‘Thank you, Susan,’ he said. ‘But I think I’m fine for the moment.’
With that, she left, leaving him to thumb through the folders.
After reading for over an hour, Henry could not believe his eyes. Understandably, there was no folder on Travers, but the rest of the men in the unit seemed outstanding. He was surprised that Alf Morrison had worked for the foreign office as a freelance German interpreter before joining the Army. Mayberry had graduated top of his year when he completed basic training. They all had commendations and exemplary records of achievement. With all these accolades, Henry started to feel rather inadequate.
‘They’re not a bad bunch of lads, are they?’ said the major from the door. ’Normally, we don’t let sergeants look at these folders. But, you’ve had very little time to prepare, so we thought you’d better have all the information available to you.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ he said, startled by the voice. ‘They’ve performed well toda
y, haven’t they? I was impressed.’
‘Yes, it was quite encouraging, but you’ll need to keep an eye on them over the next few days. They may be excellent individuals, but they’re not yet used to working together as a team,’ Fosdyke replied.
‘I have one other concern, Sir.’
The major raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
‘It’s Travers, Sir. He’s a little bit inexperienced, don’t you think?’
‘After watching him today, I think he’ll be just fine. Your corporals appear to be taking him under their wings.’
‘But he’s had no parachute practice.’
‘He managed one jump. The jump-master was satisfied, but I agree, it’s far from ideal. Nonetheless, we must make the most of the situations we find ourselves in, don’t you think, Taylor? Now, shall we go to the briefing?’
Without another word, he bundled the folders together and returned them to Susan in the office opposite, before following the major towards the lecture theatre.
Captain Williams was waiting for the men to assemble. Once everyone was inside, their ubiquitous armed guards locked them in the room.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ Williams began. ‘As you are aware, Germany invaded Poland and the Army is rapidly advancing across the country with unprecedented speed. We need to do all we can to slow their advance. So, in the early hours of the morning, you will be flying out to Poland with the sole intention of restricting their capability in the area. You will be dropped a few miles south of Danzig at around zero six hundred hours. Now, worryingly, intelligence tells us that the German Fourth Army currently occupies the city and the surrounding region. This will make your job a little bit harder. At the moment they’re busy trying to contain the local militia and what’s left of the Polish Resistance. So, if we strike now, we can achieve our objective and get out before they know what’s happened.’
‘So, you can see why we have emphasised the importance of secrecy,’ Fosdyke said. ‘I know you chaps have not had as long as you would have liked to prepare for this mission, but for it to be a success we had to ensure the element of surprise. If the Germans get the slightest whiff of this, then your safety will be in jeopardy.’
The Danzig Corridor Page 3