Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

  They edged their way through the trees towards the sound of distant surf. The sky was clear, the moon still bright. Reaching open heathland they saw the main guardhouse amid farm buildings to their right, and a second villa-style house straight ahead. Beyond that, housed in a bunker close to the cliff edge, the ten-foot curve of the radar dish rose against the skyline, while to their left the terrain sloped steeply down towards the village and beach. The parties split up: Timothy’s made for the guardhouse, Frost the villa, Ross for the beach, while Theo and Cox followed Vernon’s group to the radar, awkwardly pushing a folding trolley loaded with Cox’s tools and equipment. At thirty yards Vernon gestured everyone down and they knelt in the snow to wait. A minute later Frost’s whistle pierced the night; instantly shooting and shouts broke out in several directions.

  ‘Come on!’ Brandishing his revolver, Vernon charged the bunker, seven bellowing Scotsmen in his wake. As they drew near two figures emerged. One froze, arms raised high, while the second, stumbling backwards in panic, vanished from sight with a strangled cry.

  ‘Christ, he’s gone over!’

  ‘Leave it! Right, everyone, defensive positions round the bunker. Sing out if you see anything. Cox, you get to work. McHugh, search this Jerry. Trickey, check the cliff for the other one.’

  Theo crept forward, probing the cliff top with his boot, the night air smelling of gorse and sea-kelp. Bursts of gunfire rose from the guardhouse to his right, which meant Lieutenant Timothy’s group was engaging the enemy, while behind came the crack of a grenade from Frost’s party. Sinking to his knees, he reached the brink and peered giddily over. Surf seethed far below; he glimpsed a necklace of white breakers, a gull eyeing him from a ledge, and a figure clinging to a bush, not ten feet away.

  ‘Hilf mir!’ it whimpered.

  ‘Can you climb up?’ he asked, in German.

  ‘Nein!’

  ‘Yes you can. Use the bush, there, then reach up for my hand.’

  Two minutes later he was back at the bunker. ‘His name’s Denkmann,’ he told Vernon, ‘he’s a radio technician from Stuttgart.’

  ‘The other’s a techie too. Ask them about the garrison, and troops down in the village.’

  Theo asked. ‘They don’t know, they were only posted here last week. Denkmann thinks there may be fifty in the village and another fifty or so in the guardhouse.’

  ‘Christ, then it’s going to get busy up here. And where the hell’s Charteris when you need him.’ As if on cue a rapid burst of shooting came from their right. ‘That’ll be Ross trying for the beach, we must hurry while—’

  A flash lit the night, then a second, blinding white, bathing the whole dish like a floodlight.

  ‘What the... Trickey, get down there and tell him to stop!’

  Cox was behind a thin curtain, sitting on a stool before a control console, camera in hand. ‘Hello, Theo, just look at this! Marvellous stuff, Telefunken, top quality. Still warm too – they must have only just switched it off.’

  ‘That’s good, Charlie, but—’

  ‘I’ll just take a few more snaps then we’ll start dismantling.’

  Theo grabbed the camera. ‘No, Charlie! The flashes.’

  ‘Can you see them?’

  ‘Every German for miles can see them!’

  ‘But, Theo—’

  Fresh gunfire rattled nearby, more sustained, closer and louder as bullets ricocheted from the dish. Scottish oaths followed, then thunderous shooting overhead as Vernon’s party returned fire.

  ‘Let’s get on with it, Charlie.’

  ‘Yes. Right. Pass me that long-handled screwdriver.’

  They worked for several minutes, Charlie dismantling while Theo passed tools and held the torch. A collection of smaller components gradually accumulated in the trolley, but the main prize, a large oblong box Charlie called the pulse gear, together with the control console and transmitter, remained stubbornly fixed. And all the while the sounds of warfare grew louder and more intense. Bullets impacted the bunker, more shouting was heard, then John Frost himself appeared at the curtain, Sten gun in hand.

  ‘How’s it going, Cox?’

  ‘Rather slowly, sir, I’m afraid. It’s modular, you see, which is clever engineering, but taking it apart is proving—’

  ‘Use a bloody crowbar then!’ Frost panted. ‘Or an axe if you have to. We’re outnumbered, taking casualties, and Jerry’s bringing in reinforcements. So we’re getting off this cliff in five minutes, and not a minute more. You got that?’

  And he was gone. Theo allowed Charlie a further minute with screwdriver and spanner but then, seeing he was getting nowhere, grabbed a crowbar from the trolley and wrenched the offending module from its base by force.

  ‘Theo, no!’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie, no time. What’s next?’

  ‘Oh, well, the transmitter unit, I suppose, but do be careful with—’

  Five minutes later they were hauling the heavily laden trolley up into the moonlight.

  ‘About bloody time!’ Vernon greeted them. ‘Up here quick. Jerry’s advancing from the guardhouse; we’re to fall back to the footpath and cover Timothy’s withdrawal. Trickey, tell the prisoners to behave; they’re coming too.’

  They set off, dragging and pushing the trolley over the tussocked ground while Vernon’s men returned fire on the advancing Germans. Soon they were descending, then dropping into cover behind a ridge where they met Sergeant Major Strachan and his men. ‘Over here, lads!’ A defensive position soon formed; more Highlanders appeared, running in from Timothy’s group, and Frost’s, some injured among them. Lastly Frost himself.

  ‘Where’s Ross? Is the beach secured?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Strachan replied. ‘I cannae raise anyone on the radio. It’s all to pot down there.’

  As if to confirm it, a furious exchange of shooting rose from below, rifle fire, the stutter of Stens, then heavier German machine guns and the crack and crump of grenades. A lull followed, then a hoarse shout.

  ‘Don’t come down!’ Ross cried. ‘Beach not secure!’

  Frost cupped his hands. ‘What about the boats?’

  A poignant pause.

  ‘No boats.’

  Timothy appeared, hurrying over the ridge with the last of his men. ‘Sir, a lorryload of Jerrys arrived at the guardhouse. One section made for the villa – we held them off best we could... McIntyre’s dead.’

  ‘All right.’ For a second, two seconds, Frost’s expression in the moonlight was indecisive, and close to despair. Then he was striding towards Theo. ‘All right. We’ve one chance. Everyone to me. We’re attacking.’

  ‘Attacking upward?’ Timothy grinned. ‘Or downward?’

  ‘Up. We must buy time for Ross to secure the beach, so we charge the villa with everything we’ve got. With luck we’ll catch Jerry on the hop and push him back to the guardhouse. Get ready. Wait for my signal.’ He drew his service revolver and handed it to Theo. ‘Stay here with Cox and the prisoners,’ he murmured. ‘This is for, in case, you know...’

  Nodding blankly, Theo dropped the pistol in the pocket of his smock, then watched as Frost, armed with Sten gun and flanked by Highlanders, crept up the side of the ridge, his whistle ready in his mouth.

  Just then they all heard it: a yell, from far up the valley beyond the village. More the echo of a yell, followed by others, primal, blood-chilling, like distant wild animals. Or Scotsmen charging tanks.

  ‘My God, that’s Seaforths!’ Strachan exclaimed. ‘That’s Charteris!’

  ‘And not a moment too soon.’ Frost peered up the valley. ‘Come on. He’ll need time to link up with Ross – we charge the villa, push Jerry back, then head down to join them.’ With that he blew his whistle and scrambled over the ridge.

  *

  Twenty minutes later C Company was assembled on the beach below the cliffs. Charteris’s stick had been dropped in the wrong valley, his pilot thrown by the flak, so they’d had to tramp a mile across unknown countryside to reach B
runeval, where they ousted the small garrison before linking up with Ross’s team to neutralize the blockhouse. Frost’s feint on the villa also succeeded, with the Germans falling back to the guardhouse to regroup. Now everyone was together on the beach, the village and shoreline were secure, pickets guarded the perimeter, the injured were attended to, and Charlie Cox and his precious cargo were safely secreted beneath the cliff.

  But the Scotsmen’s problems were far from over. Headlights had been seen heading towards Bruneval, reinforcements for the garrison busy regrouping in the village. And three hundred feet above, Germans were massing along the cliff edge, trying to snipe at them with their rifles. Rocks and boulders were being hurled down, soon followed by the first grenades. Worst of all, despite repeated urgent radio calls and the firing of emergency signal flares, there was no sign of the Royal Navy.

  ‘Where the bloody hell are they?’ Frost stood at the water’s edge, one foot on an upturned rowing boat. Clouds were now obscuring the moon, and fine mist wafted over the water like smoke. ‘Bastards should’ve been in twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Aye,’ Strachan said, ‘and in another twenty it’ll be too late.’

  A thump came from the direction of the blockhouse. They both turned: a moment later a shell exploded not twenty yards away, flinging sand and shingle high into the air.

  ‘That’s mortar. Now we’re for it!’

  ‘Yes and we can’t stay here. Fan the men out, Sarnt Major, and prepare to assault that blockhouse. We’ve got to get off this beach!’

  ‘Aye, sir, only—’

  Shots rang out from a machine gun above, sparks flew at their feet, then Strachan reeled, his hands at his belly, and slumped at Frost’s feet.

  ‘Medic! Medic over here, quick! And get back, everyone, under cover of the cliffs!’

  But there was little cover under the cliffs, and with rifle fire and grenades raining down on them from above, and the flash of gunfire now visible in both directions along the beach, and mortar shells added to the mix, chances of a successful break-out were now zero. All they could do was form a defensive ring around their injured and shoot back as best they could.

  Frost approached Theo. He was on one knee, sighting his rifle along the beach. Behind him Cox and his trolley were pushed flat against the cliff.

  ‘Pistol, Trickey.’

  Theo hesitated. ‘Sir, couldn’t we—’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll do it. Give me the pistol.’

  ‘That old rowing boat there, sir. Maybe we could get Charlie and his gear aboard it. With a strong rower or two...’

  ‘Give me the damn pistol, Private!’

  ‘BOATS!’

  Everyone turned.

  ‘Boats! Look in the mist there!’

  ‘It is too! It’s the landing craft!’

  ‘Thank Christ!’

  ‘Tardy bloody Sassenachs!’

  ‘God bless the ruddy navy!’

  *

  Their extraction was a disorderly rout. The landing craft were supposed to approach the beach in a rehearsed sequence, but in their haste came storming ashore all at once. Chaos ensued. Armed sailors aboard the landing craft to provide covering fire began shooting at anything that moved, including fleeing Scotsmen. The Paras failed to adhere to embarkation orders, but simply dropped everything and ran for the nearest boat. Vernon’s team grabbed Cox and his trolley and threw him aboard one landing craft, the badly injured Strachan, roaring incoherently, was manhandled into another, Theo found himself escorting the two German technicians through chest-deep seas to a third, while Frost’s boat became stranded on rocks, so he had to jump out and help push it off. Everyone was muddled up, there was shouting and confusion, but with the tide falling and Germans advancing from all directions there was no time for orders, or even a proper roll call. With a final anxious scan of the beach and bullets whining overhead, Frost gave the word, the coxswains threw their engines into reverse, backed away the boats, and turned for home.

  Operation Biting was over.

  CHAPTER 2

  Dawn found them in mid-Channel, transferred aboard motor patrol boats for the journey to Portsmouth. The sea was rough, the boats overcrowded, the exhausted Scotsmen hunched into whatever spaces they could find and trying to rest. But the freezing cold and rolling motion denied them sleep, and many were sick – including Theo’s hapless Germans, who, crouching dog-like on the gratings, moaned and vomited in misery. With the coming of daylight the threat of aerial retaliation also became a worry and sure enough alarm spread suddenly when a klaxon went off and shouts of ‘Aircraft!’ were heard from above. Then the shouts turned to cheers and word went round that a squadron of Spitfires had appeared, circling overhead for protection. And as the day wore on their little flotilla began to grow, joined firstly by a destroyer and escort, then a pod of motor torpedo boats which sped round them waving and cheering, then the troop carrier Prins Albert, until by the time they finally docked at Portsmouth late in the afternoon they had amassed a minor armada of supporters. Wearily they stumbled ashore to assemble on the dockside; then Frost and his officers were led off for debriefings, the Germans taken into custody, and Charlie Cox whisked away, together with his precious cargo. Theo and the rest of C Company meanwhile clumped aboard navy buses to be driven back to their Wiltshire barracks and the cramped huts they’d left just twenty-four hours earlier, there to collapse into bed.

  He was awoken late the following morning by Lieutenant Charteris bursting through the door brandishing newspapers.

  ‘Look, chaps, we’re famous!’

  ‘Leave us alone.’

  ‘I’m still a-sleeping.’

  ‘Anyone got a ciggie?’

  ‘No, it’s front-page national news, there’s photos and everything. Trickey, look!’

  Theo struggled to bleary wakefulness, the Sunday Express thrust before him. ‘Um, yes, so it is. That’s Major Frost, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes and there’s more!’ Charteris sat on Theo’s bed reading out the details, which focused entirely on the success of the mission, and omitting any hint of its near disaster. Churchill was quoted praising their courage and daring, Charlie Cox’s booty was already yielding vital information, Germany had been humbled and humiliated, while all Britain cheered. That six men had failed to make the boats and been left stranded, seven were injured, while two, Privates Scott and McIntyre, had been killed, was not mentioned. Much weaponry and equipment had been abandoned too, Charteris murmured, including the radios, which were new and secret. ‘And Brigade isn’t happy about that!’

  ‘What about the boats?’ Theo asked. ‘Why were they so late picking us up?’

  ‘Jerry patrol boat sniffing about offshore apparently. Navy boys couldn’t come near until it cleared off.’

  ‘But another few minutes...’

  ‘And we wouldn’t have made it.’

  ‘No.’

  Charteris lowered his voice. ‘And Charlie Cox would be dead.’

  Theo said nothing.

  ‘Could you have done it, Trickey?’ Charteris whispered. ‘I know what your orders were. Could you? Actually shoot him dead in cold blood?’

  ‘It’s... I find it unthinkable.’

  ‘Me too. Thank God it wasn’t my problem.’

  ‘No.’ He glanced at Charteris, at twenty the youngest officer on the raid. He’d had a difficult night too – yet come through well. ‘It was a great relief, I must say, up on the cliff, when we heard you coming at last.’

  ‘It was a relief to get there! But you know I did a damn stupid thing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Charging down the lane from the village with my section, I came upon this hut. Without thinking I just kicked open the door and stormed in. Six Jerries, fully armed, sitting there wide-eyed with surprise, staring at me, a lone Tommy with a pistol. Bloody idiot. Fortunately the others arrived before they could gather their wits.’

  C Company celebrated, long and hard as only Scotsmen can. Firstly around their Wiltshire traini
ng base, then back at Hardwick and its environs. And everywhere they went they were fêted, for suddenly the Paras were famous. This unknown corps of oddities, men the public knew little of and regular soldiers looked on as outlandish, were now respected and admired as heroes, symbolizing Britishness itself, grit and daring and defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. It did not matter if you had actually taken part in Operation Biting or not: parachute wings on your uniform guaranteed you handshakes in the street, back-slaps on the bus, and free drinks in the pub.

  Heady stuff. And inevitably the Jocks over-indulged. Trained warriors at peak fitness swiftly grow troublesome with enforced inaction, especially Scottish ones, and before long rumours of fighting and drunkenness were circulating, then petty larceny, damage to property and trouble with the local constabulary. Soon the Hardwick guardhouse was filling and the Military Police closing in. Rein in these men, came the warning from above, or arrests will follow. So with no new operations in the pipeline and nothing to train for, C Company was stood down and sent on leave.

  Theo’s first day of holiday was not as imagined. He had intended to head straight for Kingston and the boarding house where his mother lived, but at the last minute decided on a diversion to Wandsworth, the location of Britain’s largest prison. He went there on impulse, arriving at the fortress-like entrance in time for visiting, but with no prior arrangement. ‘Who are you and why are you here?’ the guards asked, studying their lists. I don’t know, he wanted to say, maybe it’s to do with a scientist, and a moonlit beach, and a pistol in my pocket. ‘No matter,’ they said, winking at his insignia, ‘dump your kitbag and we’ll sort something.’ So he waited, standing amid jostling crowds of relatives, mostly women, who cracked jokes and teased him cheekily.

  ‘Saw you parachute lads in the paper,’ one told him, ‘bloomin’ gorgeous!’

  ‘You can drop in on me any time!’ said another. At her side a small boy stared in awe.

  ‘Thank you,’ Theo replied shyly.

  After processing they were admitted to a cavernous hall smelling of cabbage, and set out with tables and chairs. Around him the womenfolk settled themselves with accustomed ease, extracting newspapers, cigarettes and knitting from their bags while their children ran about playing. He took a seat, watching them, and trying to ignore the knot of tension in his stomach. Minutes passed, then doors opened and guards entered, followed by men in prison garb who made their unhurried way between the tables towards their loved ones. Among them, short and spare, with watchful eyes and slicked-back hair, was his father, Victor Trickey.