There had been no hostile presence over Peeneműnde that day but the end result had been the same. Another burned pilot dragged from the wreckage screaming. No one could doubt the man’s courage; agreeing to fly that thing was like offering to be strapped to a Roman Candle. Possibly the pilot imagined a career elevated to dizzying heights, following a successful display in front of the Reichsmarschall, and perhaps it could have been but not now; and what a terrible price to pay when the test flight ends in failure. Of course, the scientists will go back to their drawing boards but the pilot will never fly again.
Maybe he’d simply been one of that special breed of men who willed themselves beyond natural boundaries, defying God, fate and gravity, to fly higher and faster than any one before them. In a way that would be even worse; for how could such a man ever adapt to wheelchairs and hospital beds, to limbs permanently frozen by burned tendons, fingers melted together by flames?
Galland knew it served no purpose to dwell on such things but, try as he might, he was unable to remove the image of the horribly injured pilot from his mind. By the time the medics reached him the hair had been burned away, along with the eyebrows and lashes, and much of the skin on his face, making him unrecognisable from the fresh-faced, recklessly hopeful youth he’d been moments earlier.
There were operations these days, or so Galland understood, that could make you resemble a man again, after a time. He himself had seen old comrades transformed into walking waxworks, which is why the sight of the ill-fated pilot made him shudder involuntarily. Goering had caught his frown of distaste and misunderstood.
‘He was a volunteer!’ as if that made the smoke-choked screams, as they led the man away, any less pitiful. Before Galland could even consider an answer, Goering rounded on the scientists he blamed for yet another delay to his miracle weapon.
‘What in providence happened? You said it was working!’
‘It was… it did, Reichsmarschall,’ stammered a youthful technician, clutching a clipboard defensively to his chest as if it was a shield, ‘it flew perfectly…’
‘Flew perfectly?’ Goering was apoplectic now, ‘it fell out of the sky like a kite when the wind drops and you say it flew perfectly!!’ Goering brought his swagger stick down on to the nearest desk with such force he almost broke it in two, ‘I demand to know what went wrong!’
‘It’s possible…’ the young scientist looked terrified, ‘it is likely… the plane is still too heavy. At low speed, without altitude, it is unable to cope with the extra weight of the liquid-fuel, rocket-powered engine.’
‘Gaerte said this would happen, he warned me but I chose to ignore him. Instead I listened to you… children! Very well, if you are incapable of providing me with an operational jet fighter we shall relieve you of your duties and you can make your contribution somewhere less comfortable than here.’ For soldiers this was usually code for the Eastern Front and Galland wondered what Goering had in mind for the unfortunate scientists.
‘Get me Gaerte!’ Goering was screaming like a spoilt child, ‘get him here now!!’
While the Reichsmarschall raged, Galland quietly proffered his excuses and made to leave. Nobody seemed to notice his departure. If the injured pilot received half as much attention as Goering’s tantrum he might even pull through, thought Galland. The memory of the disfigured young man would stay with him, as it did whenever one of his brotherhood was killed or maimed.
Goering had been predictably unstable that day and remained a liability to them all but he had been right about one thing. When the new Messerschmitt Me 163 Komet tried to land it tumbled out of the sky. It did not make Galland think of a child’s toy but instead of Icarus, flying too close to the sun and fatally burning his wings. The pilot corrected the worst of the dive and managed a crash landing of sorts but the impact still churned the stomach. The squealing noise, as metal plates and rivets twisted then broke free from one another, made it sound as if the plane itself was screaming in protest as it was thrown down the runway. When it finally came to a halt there was a second’s calm, until the Komet abruptly ignited and the pilot’s fate was sealed.
What could not be denied, however, was the Komet’s prowess in the air before its sudden, untimely demise. In free flight, the plane screeched unstoppably across the sky at twice the speed of a normal fighter. In that regard, it really was ‘the future’.
Galland had come to the not unreasonable conclusion that, if this Professor Gaerte was half as good as his reputation, he might just be able to work out a way to land the Komet safely. If he could accomplish that, it followed logically, then perhaps Germany could still win this war after all. Aerial domination was the key to the conflict. With a few squadrons of Komets, surely even Goering could not mess that up.
Galland did not know it but someone else shared his view; a German officer who did not enjoy the consoling notion of a Luftwaffe miracle weapon. Shegel wasted no time that day. Just like Galland he slipped away unnoticed, for he had an important message to convey. The Komet, cured of its teething problems, could keep Germany in a war it was patently losing. Air superiority could leave her armies safely embedded in France for years. Shegel knew there were other wonder weapons in development and they, in turn, would buy more precious time for their deranged Fűhrer. The longer he remained in control the more likely it was that Shegel’s beloved nation would be dragged down into the abyss.
The imminent arrival of the eminent Professor Gaerte, to replace the naive young fools Goering once favoured, was a startling development. If Gaerte succeeded in turning the Komet into a viable fighting machine then Hitler’s promise of a thousand-year Reich might come true after all and the nation would be lost forever. Shegel had seen the Komet with his own eyes, could easily imagine its effect against conventional enemy fighters. It would be like pitching a squadron of Spitfires into the Battle of Waterloo. So Gaerte must not be allowed to succeed. Shegel was determined to stop him, even if it meant treason, even if it meant death.
As both a Christian and a Prussian aristocrat it outraged Shegel’s sensibilities to see the historic, God-fearing German nation being systematically destroyed by an unhinged, atheistic little corporal. Slowly, over time, Shegel had become convinced there was only one way to save his country; rid Germany of Hitler and all of his gangster friends once and for all. A conditional peace could then be negotiated with the allies from a position of strength, before the whole country was reduced to rubble.
There had always been dissenting voices amongst the officer class but they were few in number and lacked influence while the military campaigns went well. But the tide of war had slowly turned and, following the disaster of Stalingrad, it had been easier to find those with a similar view – that for Germany the war was unwinnable. Some very senior men indeed now agreed; the mad little corporal had to be stopped. A secret line of communication had already been opened with London, through neutral Switzerland. The allies had yet to promise them anything but nor had they rebuffed the plotters. They would welcome the coup when it came, Shegel was sure of it, but a gesture was needed in the meantime, something that would underline the importance of their group, making them a force to be respected and reckoned with.
Shegel would give them the Komet.
Emma flinched as the first shots were fired but Walsh showed no reaction. He was used to being shot at and instinctively knew the gunfire was some way from them, aimed at a less fortunate fugitive.
‘Looks like they have found your young friend.’
‘Better they chase him than us,’ Emma was determined to show no sentiment in front of Harry Walsh.
Walsh snorted. ‘He’ll identify us both. I should have killed him. If they do catch him, he’ll wish I had,’ and he pressed ahead.
They were striding across the damp fields, keeping to the low ground so their silhouettes wouldn’t break the horizon and mark them out to pursuers. Emma was breathless but managing to keep up
with Walsh, belatedly grateful for the hours of PT she had endured in training. The land around them seemed empty but they remained on high alert. When they spoke to each other the words came out quickly in a breathless half-whisper.
‘Harry, what about the plane?’
‘I know the pilot, travelled with him before, got him to bring the flight forward a day. Alan didn’t want to fall into a trap.’
‘So, where is it?’
‘He used an old landing zone, a couple of miles from here and I hitched a ride. We flew in last night, covered the Lysander and laid low. All I had to do was trek back to the original landing zone, stake out the approach road and hope you’d come by before the Germans. I assumed you’d be early.’
‘But how could you know?’ Emma was irritated he could predict her actions so effortlessly.
Walsh seemed amused at her consternation. ‘I didn’t but you’re a cautious one. It was a fair assumption you’d check out the area before the plane came – and you did.’
‘And if I’d forgotten how to be cautious I’d be as good as dead right now?’
Walsh frowned. ‘You could say that about any of us, Emma.’
‘If you hadn’t dropped in to save the day I’d be sitting in a cell waiting for the Gestapo. Is that it?’
‘Probably. You’ve good instinct but the odds were always stacked against you on this one.’
‘But Etienne was vouched for,’ she protested.
‘I know, and when we trace that one back somebody will have to account for it. There’s a traitor, Emma, at least one. Until we find out who it is nobody in the networks is safe.’
‘And the real Etienne Dufoy?’
‘Most certainly dead.’
‘Jesus.’
Walsh grunted, ‘Had absolutely nothing to do with it.’
‘Keep your atheism to yourself, Harry Walsh. At least until we are safely back in England.’
It was as if Emma had inadvertently cursed them with her thoughts of home. As soon as she uttered the words the calm of the night was shattered once more. This time it was the sound of tracker dogs barking in the middle distance.
‘Damn it, come on, Emma. Run.’
3
‘All murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.’
Voltaire
The Lysander was as ideal for this kind of work as it was unsuited to conventional warfare. Nicknamed the Flying Carrot, the little plane was achingly slow. With a top speed a fraction above 200mph it was no match for enemy fighters. However, this two-seater, high-winged monoplane was an indispensable tool for the SOE, because it could take off and land on a five-pound note. The Lysander needed just two hundred yards, sometimes less, to get into the air, turning the smallest field into an impromptu landing strip.
Flight Lieutenant Alan Collins waited nervously by the plane as a silhouette formed on the horizon. It had to be Walsh and the girl, and they were running. Collins cursed, for he had not yet dared to remove the camouflage from the Lysander and it would surely delay their escape. He began to pull the netting free, struggling as it caught on its tail and propellers. He looked back at Walsh, still some way off but waving at him frantically now. Walsh wanted him to start the engine, which meant the Germans must be close. A wave of panic swept over him. It would surely be impossible to get the camouflage netting clear, the engine running and take-off completed in time. The net refused to budge. Collins thrust a hand deep into his pocket, grasping frantically for the knife. He began to slash at the netting in a desperate attempt to free it.
Walsh was running hard now and Emma Stirling started to fall behind. Inwardly, she cursed her lack of speed as Walsh pulled ahead of her.
The dogs had their scent. German voices could clearly be heard as their pursuers closed in. It’s going to be close, thought Walsh, very close. He turned back and reached behind him, grabbing Emma’s arm and pulling her along by her sleeve in a stumbling run. What the hell was Collins playing at? Why didn’t he start the damned plane? Had he not seen the frantic wave? Tell me he’s not asleep, thought Walsh, his anguish increasing with every stride.
Shouting to the pilot was a risk but so was waiting till they reached the plane before revving the engine into life. Walsh could pick out individual German voices as they called to each other in the trees, like huntsmen closing in on a fox. It sounded like half a battalion was out there looking for them. There was no choice, he had to risk it. And so, Walsh called.
‘Alan! Start her up, man! Now! They’re right behind us!’
There was an immediate cacophony from the hunters but no response from the pilot. The Germans heard Walsh’s cry and knew they were close.
Unbeknown to Walsh, Collins was wrestling with the last remaining scrap of netting, which snagged in a tight thread around one of the propellers. The Flight Lieutenant normally subscribed to the adage that more haste led to less speed but now, in his panic, he began to hack the net free with the lock knife. Sweat formed on his brow, for he too had heard the dogs.
‘What’s wrong? Where is he?’ asked Emma, desperate now.
‘Keep going,’ was all Walsh said in reply. It was all he could offer, for he had no idea himself what had gone wrong. There wasn’t even the prospect of an alternative plan. How far could they realistically get in this countryside, with dogs snapping at their heels, if Collins was not there for them? He made his decision then. Letting go of Emma’s sleeve, he ran, leaving her trailing in his wake. Emma felt a surge of panic. He was actually going to leave her behind. They said he was a ruthless bastard.
Then came the crack of the first German rifle. Walsh could still not make out the Lysander in the darkness but he had to be in the right spot. Surely it couldn’t be far now but what was closest, the plane or the Germans?
Finally, gloriously, there was a roar as the Lysander’s 870-horsepower engine suddenly burst into life ahead of them. Walsh and Emma were sprinting flat out. A lone dog was set off its leash at the sound and it burst free, racing ahead to tackle them. Walsh could hear the Doberman’s bark as it drew nearer. The din of the Lysander increased as Collins brought the plane towards them, its door opened invitingly.
Walsh sprinted towards it, reached the plane first, put a hand on the door to steady it, as the Lysander taxied slowly forward, and shouted back at Emma.
‘Come on!’
Emma Stirling ran the last remaining yards flat out. Walsh bent low and put out a hand. Without breaking stride, she planted her boot right into it. Walsh ignored the dark shape careering towards him across the field. Instead, he hoisted Emma into the air and she pitched into the plane head first, landing heavily. Walsh immediately followed her straight through the door just as the dog finally reached him, leaping to snap at his leg. The dog jumped and missed, close enough for him to feel its presence. Walsh was half in and half out of the plane as the dog jumped again. Instinctively he kicked out, his boot connected with something fleshy and the attack dog was knocked senseless. It let out a high-pitched yelp, as Walsh’s blow sent it arcing away from the plane.
‘Go man!’ but Collins needed no further urging. He was already pushing the throttle even as Walsh clambered inside, slamming the door shut behind them. The Lysander set off along the ground as the advance party of soldiers appeared at the edge of the field. A command was hastily barked and the soldiers levelled rifles, aiming at the onrushing plane as it gathered speed.
Collins had brought the plane to them; the right call or the Doberman would have mauled Walsh in the dirt, but there was surely a good deal less than two hundred yards before the trees now. As the shots rang out, Collins pushed the throttle hard, pulling the plane upwards. Its whole frame seemed to shudder as it rose.
A German bullet clipped a wing, another took out a corner of glass from the cockpit but the volley of hastily aimed fire did not prevent the Lysander from slowly risin
g.
Walsh knew the plane had to gain height quickly or there would be nothing left of them for the Gestapo to arrest. At least the end would be quick. Emma and Walsh both held their breaths as trees filled the view ahead of them. It was going to be close.
4
‘The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare’
Winston Churchill’s nickname for the Special Operations Executive
Bullets zipped past the wing tips and the engine coughed alarmingly, making the tiny plane fall momentarily then rise again at the last moment as Collins struggled with the controls. All Emma could see ahead of her, through the misted glass of the cockpit, was the dark clump of trees. They were far too close. There was no way they could make it now and she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable crash.
But Collins had not given up on the Flying Carrot. He gave the plane one last push and its Bristol Mercury engines drove it miraculously clear of the treetops, while the tips of the uppermost branches scraped against the wheels, like hands trying to drag it down. More shots flew harmlessly by as the Lysander left a field full of frustrated cursing Germans behind it.
Emma let her breath out in relief then put her face down into her palms. ‘I really didn’t think we were going to make it,’ her voice was muffled by her hands.
‘If you want the truth,’ said Walsh, ‘neither did I,’ and he exhaled heavily before calling forward. ‘Well done, Alan.’ Collins simply nodded dumbly. He was in his own little world now, peering nervously at the sky around him for enemy night fighters.
Emma shivered involuntarily. ‘Do you still carry that flask of rum around with you? I don’t know why after all that running but somehow I’m bloody freezing.’
Realising Emma Stirling was probably in the throes of shock, Walsh reached into his inside pocket, produced an ancient and battered silver hip flask, unscrewed the top and handed it to Emma. ‘Calvados,’ he said.
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 2