The Breaking Storm (Innocent No More Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Oh! One of that sort, was he? I’ll deal with him, Stark. I’ll have him transferred to Bomber Command and he can fly as a wireless operator on a Hampden or a Whitley. We’ll see how he likes that!”

  “Not at all, I should imagine. Thank you, sir.”

  “My pleasure – we officers need to stick together. Too damn many of these clever sorts among the NCOs. I’ll have a replacement to you tomorrow.”

  “I’ve made his number two up to sergeant, sir. He was doing all of the work anyway. What would be useful would be say three erks who could give us twenty-four hour coverage in the radio room.”

  “I’ll do that – never know when there might be an emergency come up. I’ll make it four, in fact, so they can have time off as well.”

  Rod smiled his thanks, wondering just where he was supposed to bunk them.

  “Bit of an unusual squadron you have here, Stark, so I’m told.”

  “Mostly foreign, sir. Poles and Czechs and Americans who flew in China and Spain and fancy taking another poke at the Germans.”

  “Flew in Spain? Are they reliable?”

  “As reliable as I am, sir. I made a score of a dozen in Spain.”

  “Whatever took you there? Choice of two evils, I would have thought – not much difference between a Commie and a Nazi, not if you’re living under them.”

  Thomas laughed – it was difficult not to agree.

  “Experience suggests you are right – but she was a very pretty girl. We met when I was on holiday in the South of France, on my way slowly from Australia to England, and she persuaded to me to go back to Spain with her. What she was doing, I never asked. Buying guns or something, I expect. I had other things than her politics on my mind, I must admit, sir. She was killed in the bombing, sir.”

  “Bad luck. Don’t go trying to down every bomber in Hunland to get your own back, Stark. Revenge ain’t a good bedfellow for a fighter pilot – even if she was!”

  They laughed – Thomas deciding that was more polite than to punch the insensitive bastard in the mouth.

  “These weather flights, sir. Do they come over at a fixed time of day?”

  “Funny thing that, Stark. Always the same exactly – to the minute. Cross the border just before six in the morning and take the same route, a circle over the same towns and then back home. I suppose that if they take temperature and pressure readings at the identical spot early in the morning, they can build up a pattern.”

  That sounded like a sensible explanation.

  “Word is that something’s going to happen in the early spring, Stark. We shall build up supplies of petrol and ammunition and spares at each field in anticipation. Four additional planes as well. Won’t be able to find extra pilots, more’s the pity. They’re still in short supply. Be ready for the off, Stark. Were I you, I would send the lads down to Paris for some long weekends this month and next – they won’t get much leave in spring and summer.”

  They escorted the big man back to his plane, as was proper. He turned for a last word as he reached the cabin door

  “Your two Australians, Stark, Dick and Terence. Looked familiar to me. I almost thought they had flown in my squadron for a couple of months, five years ago. Permitted to resign their commissions, as I remember. Keep them out of official sight, if I was you, old fellow!”

  They stepped back as the Dominie moved away, and turned back to the offices breathing sighs of relief that all had gone well.

  Thomas put his head into the ready room.

  “Squadron flying after lunch. Take a look at the locals and discover exactly where the frontier is. Dick, was the brasshat familiar”

  “Squadron leader, Thomas. I thought we might just be in trouble for a few minutes. Did he say anything?”

  “He recognised you both but will do nothing as long as you keep your noses clean.”

  “Hard work, that.”

  “I know. You can get the dirty water off your chests in Paris, not here. There will be long weekend leave to Paris every fortnight, two Flights odd weeks, one on the even. That will be for the whole of February. March is expected to be busy. Rod will organise travel.”

  They cheered and made appropriate gestures.

  “Lorry, Thomas?”

  “Better than trying to use the train services. I’ll speak to Wag and organise local leave for his staff. Do what seems right for yours. How are we off for booze in the mess?”

  “High. The previous squadrons were going back to England so they left all of their stocks against a note from me. It will all work out financially.”

  “Good. Those weather planes irritate me, Rod. See if you can discover any details, will you? Is there still an Intelligence Department at HQ?”

  “Must be. Give me a couple of days, Thomas.”

  Major Curtis, the intelligence officer, arrived on the field on Friday morning, crossing the two thirty hundredweight lorries going out laden with officers bound for Paris.

  “They look happy, Stark.”

  “Weekend leave in the big city. Off to indulge themselves, or so they hope. They should find what they’re looking for in Paris, from all I hear.”

  Curtis grinned and said it was not impossible.

  “You asked about these so-called weather flights, Stark.”

  “I did, sir. Don’t like this business of letting the Hun fly where and when he wants without at least trying to discommode him.”

  “Quite right too.”

  “If we were to be given an indicator of their flight path, and height particularly, it might be possible to run an interception, sir. Given a morning with a bit of high cloud for cover and we could take off early and be sat at thirty thousand waiting for little Adolf to come along on his fixed route.”

  “That is what I thought. Reports from Germany say the planes are fitted with larger than normal wireless aerials – quite distinctive. That gives us to suppose that they are not in the weather trade at all. That notion was leaked by the Italians, in fact – harmless activity, sounding out weather patterns, could be largely ignored. There is reason to suppose that there are German agents in France and equipped with radios. We know that they have a small radio that can be tucked into a leather briefcase, but it has a transmitting range of no more than twenty miles. Were they to make their reports at an exact time of the morning, then the plane overhead would pick up their transmissions and send them any messages from their controllers. They have just two planes equipped for the purpose – rumour is that Fat Hermann Göring objected to ‘wasting his people’s time on silly spying missions’. If he loses one, or hopefully both, he will refuse to give German intelligence any more.”

  “Can I volunteer, Major?”

  “I hoped you might, Stark. I expected you to, in fact. One of the pair is in your area. The other operates over Strasbourg. The French are aware of it and may do something – out of my control or influence. Your target takes off from a field near Luxembourg at about five thirty and climbs to its ceiling of about twenty-seven thousand feet by the time it crosses the French border thirty minutes later. All done at economical speed and rate of climb. One pilot and a radio operator. No guns. No armour plate. Stripped to its minimum to give height and endurance.”

  “I presume it crosses the border at exactly the same point every time, sir?”

  “It does. It takes a line to cross Amiens, where it makes a leg south and then comes back to the east over several small towns and finally heads back home with just sufficient petrol in its tanks to make it.”

  Thomas glanced at the maps on his wall.

  “He could therefore be collecting messages from any, all or none of those small towns but almost certainly is busy over Amiens. The British Expeditionary Force is centred there, is it not?”

  Curtis said that some parts of it were based there.

  “Does he fly every day?”

  “No. at least three times a week – but not predictably. No pattern. Which means I suspect that they have a random set of transmitting days. Spi
n a roulette wheel and record where the ball lands – completely unpredictable. Send a message once a month telling each agent what his days are.”

  “One Flight to climb to thirty thousand for o-five-fifty hours, taking it in turn until we catch him. Dry days only, I presume?”

  “They will fly in heavy cloud but not in actual rain.”

  “A matter of patience, no more. I will lead the Flights on the first three days. After that, they should know what they are doing.”

  “I will leave it to you, Stark. By the way, we obtained absolute proof of Branksome’s activities. He was actually taking money, believe it or not! He had an account in Madrid, the bankers unaware of anything untoward. The bankers contacted the embassy when they heard of Branksome’s death from colleagues in Paris. To inform the family, of course. One of our people appeared with evidence that he was a nephew – the bank knew he was unwed, and why. They provided a full set of statements as well as the cash itself, normal service to an executor of a Will. A series of payments made from Italian sources!”

  “A lot of money?”

  “Substantial. The better part of two thousand pounds a month. He had forty thousand in the account, which gives an idea of when he was bought. Nothing else. No safe deposit box full of papers – that does happen occasionally, you know.”

  “Pity. It might have been useful to pick up a few more names.”

  Curtis grinned.

  “No need. We’ve got ‘em, or so we think. I will admit that we didn’t have Branksome down as anything other than a big mouth so there might be more, but it seems unlikely to us. Any others will be lower ranked. His staff have been split up and posted, mostly overseas – West Africa and Singapore and Hong Kong, which ain’t popular places, especially with a long voyage through submarine waters. At the moment we are poisoning the well with the pro-German mouths we know in London – feeding them false information. When the time comes, the bulk of them will be interned on the Isle of Man, out of harm’s way. The most active spies won’t be put there. They’ll take a shorter journey by way of the gallows at Pentonville prison.”

  “Good. Mosley himself?”

  “Untouchable – we can’t hang him. He will be locked away.”

  “Pity. Money and birth counts for too much in England.”

  “It does. Less than it did. Still too much. I’ll leave you now, Stark. I have a lot to do yet today.”

  Thomas wondered just what he might have waiting for him – how many backs to stab and unsuspecting traitors to pick up.

  “Rod! Can you call Jan, Hank and Tex, please.”

  Red Flight took off early next morning, using flares along the runway, led by Thomas with his lights on for the first thousand feet.

  “Thomas to Red Flight. Lights off. Over.”

  They acknowledged, all four in order, confirming that they were close enough together to pick out each other’s engine exhausts. It was nervous flying in the minutes before dawn but there was no wind to suddenly gust and throw them to one side.

  Sunrise came earlier at height and they were able to spread out into their normal formation after ten thousand feet.

  “Red One to Thomas. Bogeys due north. Over.”

  There were three monoplanes in the far distance, the sun glinting off their canopies.

  “Thomas to Red Flight. Bogeys are in Belgian airspace. Possibly Hurricanes. Over.”

  They had heard that the Belgians had bought a squadron, or two perhaps, of Hurricanes in early ’39.

  They climbed, more slowly as they passed twenty thousand, the Hurricane’s performance falling off rapidly at height. By thirty thousand they were wallowing, the planes distinctly unhappy and heavy on the controls.

  Thomas led them slowly northeast, staring to the side of the rising sun and trying to discover movement.

  “Red Four. Bandit, two-engined, eleven o’clock. Angels twenty-six. Distant. Over.”

  The pilots were instructed to give a mid-range of plus or minus angels two when estimating height – twenty-six thousand meant anything from twenty-four to twenty-eight.

  “Thomas. Roger Red Four. Attack in sequence as ordered. Over.”

  It had seemed likely that an attacker would be slow in pulling out of his dive and returning to the fight. Assuming the target was unhit, it would evade left or right and increase speed. Red One was to be waiting high to port, Red Two to starboard and they would attack as made sense. Three and Four would position themselves, remaining high, to cut off any retreat.

  Thomas dived slowly, safety off on the guns and trying to make a smooth curve down onto the tail of the Junkers. With a skeleton crew, the chances were that they would not see him coming in.

  Directly behind and overtaking at about fifty miles an hour, ideal for his purposes, bringing the target into his sight, filling it, bigger and bigger.

  Now!

  He fired and gently pulled his nose up, saw the bullet stream walk its way along the fuselage, a little offline, into the wing and the starboard engine. Immediate flames as he hit a fuel line. Pulling up hard but still in the dive. Open the throttle and bank away and back up. Jan going in behind him, shredding the wing he had already hit, the Junkers losing all lift, tumbling into a loose spin, falling fast. No signs of parachutes.

  Red Two came down and pulled away, choosing not to waste rounds on a dead adversary. That was well done – not succumbing to excitement.

  “Thomas to Red Flight. Form on me. Watch where he falls. Over.”

  The hope was that the Junkers would crash in France. If it fell in Luxembourg there would be the potential for diplomatic upset.

  They circled for a couple of minutes, amazed at just how long it took a spinning plane to fall. It hit into a hillside and burned there. As far as Thomas could tell it was a good ten miles inside the border. He saw French army vehicles on the road going to investigate.

  “Thomas to Red Flight. Go home. Over.”

  He was determined to maintain formality over the radio, sure that they would lose all meaning if they started to shout in excitement.

  They sat down in the mess to discuss their outing and to inform the intelligence officer, also known as Idiot of all they had done. It was too cold to stand outside and debrief by the hangars.

  “Made contact at two minutes after six just south and west of the Luxembourg border, Idiot. Bandit was observed to be a Junkers 88 with additional radio aerials. Attacked according to plan. I damaged the target, setting the starboard engine on fire. Jan finished it. Noticeable that the gunfire was distributed wide along the fuselage and across the wings. Guns are synchronised in the Dowding Spread.”

  Jan agreed that their fire was scattered loosely on the Junkers.

  “One half apiece, gentlemen.”

  The Intelligence Officer, resigned now to his nickname, retired to write out his report. Thomas went to his office and filled out a message form, sent it to the radio room for the attention of the Group Captain and for Major Curtis, both at HQ.

  He sat with pencil and paper for a few minutes then called for Peter Parmenter, the Armourer.

  “Dowding Spread, Peter

  . Don’t like it. What’s its purpose?”

  “It’s a response to the poor gunnery scores all of the squadrons recorded in ’36 and ’37, Thomas. Dowding laid down that the guns should be set so as to provide a broad box of fire at four hundred yards, the hope being that one or two of the guns might hit home.”

  “Bloody useless! Synchronise the eight guns so that they form a cone at eighty yards. All of them to hit in a man-sized rectangle six feet by two so as to fill a cockpit. If you miss the cockpit the weight of concentrated fire should do some damage to fuselage or wings.”

  “Contrary to regulations, Thomas.”

  “Stuff the regulations! Do it. Do not record the modification. What the brass ain’t told about they won’t worry about.”

  Peter nodded and went about his business, quietly, as was his wont. By the end of the week he had set every Hurricane
up on trestles behind the hangars and had zeroed in their guns to the new pattern.

  Major Curtis dropped by the field, on his way from someplace to somewhere else – he did not specify where. Thomas suspected he enjoyed being a man of mystery.

  “Your Junkers was well splatted and the fragments mostly incinerated, but it was clear that it was carrying non-standard radio equipment, so our guess seems to have been correct. Good work. Spies who cannot send their information home are valueless. The French are stepping up inspections in their post offices under the flight path of the radio plane. Checking for an increase in letters sent out to Switzerland or Spain. Doubt they would write to Italy – it would seem suspicious.”

  Thomas made the right noises, said how glad they were to have struck a telling blow against the Germans.

  “Bullshit, Stark! You fighter pilots are all the same – you just want to shoot down everything else in the sky!”

  “Well, yes, sir – but if we can get the right ones we’re always pleased.”

  “Keep alert, Stark. All of the reports out of Berlin say that they are moving next month – but we don’t know where. Since Venlo we have fewer active agents close to the Dutch and Belgian border areas but we do have a number of sources in Berlin who confirm that something is happening.”

  “Venlo?”

  “Oh, I thought you might have heard of that. Two of ours were lured to the border there and grabbed by the Germans. Neat operation! They screwed everything they knew out of them, of course.”

  “Ah! I see. Did they know of the operations by your people in England, sir?”

  “No. No need for them to. That’s why I’ve never mentioned names to you. Always a chance you’ll be shot down and captured. No reason for them to ask you for information you would not be expected to have. No need for you to know anyway. Were I to mention that a peer who is a member of the Cabinet is very close to being shot, then you might be upset. He won’t be put against a wall, of course, even if he should be – he’ll be sent as Ambassador somewhere. Spain most likely – he’ll feel at home there and be able to talk to Franco on a friendly basis. Failing that, they’ll push him off to Washington – the Americans all love a lord.”