Operation Cobra E-Book

Frederick E. Smith

• Herausgeber: Thunderchild Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: 633 Squadron
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 362

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Spring 1944: In a fortified chateau hidden deep in the valleys of France, the Nazis are in the final stages of developing a terrifyingly deadly new weapon. Success would mean sure destruction for much of England and would dash all Allied hopes for a Normandy invasion. It’s up to the daring fighter pilots and crack navigators of the 633 Squadron to penetrate German defenses and, in the black of night, blast the doomsday project into extinction. Against incredible odds, this is the 633’s Operation Cobra...failure could forever alter the future of the free world.

Frederick E. Smith (1919-2012) joined the R.A.F. in 1939 as a wireless operator/air gunner and commenced service in early 1940, serving in Britain, Africa and finally the Far East. At the end of the war, he married and worked for several years in South Africa before returning to England to fulfill his lifelong ambition to write. Two years later, his first play was produced and his first novel published. Since then, he wrote over forty novels, about eighty short stories and two plays. Two novels, 633 Squadron and The Devil Doll, were made into films and one, A Killing for the Hawks, won the Mark Twain Literary Award.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

OPERATION COBRA

Copyright Information

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

OPERATION COBRA

Frederick E. Smith

Copyright Information

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1982 by Frederick E. Smith.

Published by arrangement with the Frederick E. Smith literary estate.

All rights reserved.

Edited by Dan Thompson

A Thunderchild eBook

Published by Thunderchild Publishing.

First American Edition: 1982

First Thunderchild eBook Edition: December 2017

Dedication

To Barry and Rita with love.

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to give credit to the following sources:

Bekker, The Luftwaffe War Diaries (Macdonald);

Constable and Tolivier, Horrido! (MacMillan);

Adolf Galland, The First and the Last (Methuen and Co.);

Richards and Saunders, Royal Air Force 1939-1945 (H.M.S.O.);

Sir C. Webster and N. Frankland, The Strategic Air Offensive Against Germany 1939-1945 (H.M.S.O.).

Chapter 1

The barometrically-fused flare exploded at its preset height of 2,500 feet. As its parachute broke free, the magnesium candle burst into blinding luminescence.

The effect was as dramatic as an arc light illuminating a stage. Below was a sleeping airfield, the shadows of its hangars, control tower, and billets jet black in the icy light. Like winged insects caught at rest, the shapes of aircraft carrying RAF rondels could be seen at their dispersal points. Neat arable fields surrounded the airfield and a row of poplars marked its southern boundary. Its northern boundary was a road containing a single, slate-roofed building. The navigator of the Messerschmitt 410 that had dropped the flare gave a shout. “There’s our marker, Major! The Black Swan.”

A second flare added its brilliance to the scene. With a word to his bombardier, Major Ernst Neumann, the gruppe commander, put his 410 into a dive and made for the northwest corner of the airfield. As the road and airfield perimeter met in his cross wires, the bombardier released a target indicator. Falling less than fifty feet from a gunpost, the marker burst with a splash of green fire.

Levelling out, Neumann made for the northeast corner while on his left a second 410 laid markers on the two southerly corners. The lack of response from the gunposts suggested that the immunity given to RAF airfields during the last year had impaired the efficiency of their crews. Releasing his second target indicator, Neumann climbed to 5,000 feet. By this time the parachute flares had burned out, but the green splashes of fire at each corner of the airfield defined its limits perfectly to the orbiting German aircraft. Protected by Junkers 88 night fighters, the 410s dived down one by one and released their bombs.

The result was devastating. Many of the 410s and 88s were carrying 1500-kilo bombs and they tore through the soft-shelled buildings like bullets through butter. Great explosions ripped hangars apart; administration buildings and billets erupted into matchwood; the control tower was hurled to the ground. More salvos of bombs blasted holes in the runways and ripped the dispersed aircraft into cardboard fragments. When the last bomber had swept over, the airfield resembled little more than a huge rubbish heap on which the remains of buildings and aircraft were burning pathetically.

With his mission completed Neumann led his exultant crews back into the darkness. With a last look at the burning airfield Neumann’s navigator, Rudi Ulrich, gave a chuckle. “What are the Tommies going to call it, Major? Caught with their trousers down?”

Neuman smiled. “Don’t count your chickens, Rudi. Their night intruders could still take their revenge.”

Ulrich was clearly enjoying the mission. “I don’t think they’re going to make it tonight, Major.”

Back at the gruppe’s base in Holland the landing lights switched on and off briefly as the aircraft landed. A few minutes later the crews filed into their Intelligence Room. Behind a large table two high-ranking officers were talking to the Fliegerhorstkommandant of the station, Martin Lemke. One was a Generalmajor in the Luftwaffe, a tall man with a good presence. The other officer, shorter in stature, was a Obergruppenführer in the Gestapo. On seeing Neumann enter the hut, Lemke waved the young gruppe commander towards him. Lemke was smiling. “I understand the mission was successful, Ernst?”

Neumann, a dark, lean, good-looking man, smiled back. “I don’t think we left much standing, sir.”

“Good.” Lemke turned towards the stocky Gestapo officer. “I don’t believe you have met Obergruppenführer Welter. Herr Obergruppenführer, this is Major Neumann, our gruppe commander.”

The Gestapo officer had close-cropped ginger hair and a harsh Saxon accent. His eyes, small and curiously unblinking, assessed Neumann as the younger man came to attention and saluted him. “Your station commander tells me you have expressed curiosity over your mission, Major.”

Seeing Neumann’s hesitation, the tall Luftwaffe Generalmajor answered for him. “I think I understand Neumann’s problem, Obergruppenführer. When I was asked to form this unit, I was under the impression myself that its purpose was to punish the English for their terror raids on our cities and to damage their industrial production. I had not expected one of my best gruppes to be diverted and used in this way.”

The stocky Gestapo officer, fully acquainted with the Generalmajor’s brief, shrugged at the implied criticism. The formation of Fliegerkorps IX, on paper a force of some 550 aircraft, was the brainchild of Hitler himself. Infuriated by the incessant night and day pounding of his cities by the RAF and the United States 8th Air Force and yet adamantly refusing the advice of his senior Luftwaffe officers to give the utmost priority to his fighter defences, he had given Fliegerkorps IX the task of retaliation. The officer put in charge of this formidable task was Dietrich Magnus Peitz, an extremely experienced and capable officer.

“The Little Blitz,” as it was popularly called, had begun quite successfully. Using the Pathfinder technique developed by Bomber Command of marking their targets with flares and then dropping their bombs in the shortest possible time to keep losses to the minimum, the Junker 88s and Messerschmitt 410s of Fliegerkorps IX had bombed London, the Home Counties, and towns on the southern coast with some degree of success. The raids had started on the night of January 21, 1944, and on average had consisted of 50 to 170 bombers. Yet in spite of never flying during the full moon periods, Peitz’s losses had never been less than ten percent and by this time, mid-April, Fliegerkorps IX was beginning to show the strain. With losses so high, it was hardly surprising that Neumann had been puzzled when his squadron was withdrawn from the fray three days ago and was given specialized training. Now, as the stocky Gestapo officer motioned the officers out of earshot of the crews, Neumann wondered whether he would hear the reason at last.

The man’s unblinking eyes fixed on Neumann’s face which still bore the imprint of his face mask. “What I am going to tell you must not be told to your crews, Major. It is not necessary and it would be politically unwise. Do I make myself clear?”

Neumann almost said no, then changed his mind. “I understand you are speaking in confidence, Herr Obergruppenführer.”

“Then I shall explain.” The Gestapo officer spoke for over two minutes during which time neither Peitz nor Neumann took their eyes off his face. “You will both now see,” Welter finished, “that in attacking this particular squadron, Number 633, you are attacking not only an RAF unit, formidable though this unit is, but also you are attacking a new concept of war which, if it were to succeed, might greatly hamper the political arm of the Third Reich.”

“You say such attacks have already been made?” Neumann asked.

“Yes. There was one at Amiens and another in The Hague. Not by 633 squadron but even so both were relatively successful. Certainly successful enough for the enemy to call in this special unit of Mosquitoes. As yet, because these attacks require a high degree of skill and experience, we don’t believe the enemy has many other squadrons to call on. But clearly if 633 squadron gets results, it will be used as a seedbed for others. For all these reasons it must be destroyed on your first strike. The enemy is no fool and if you were unsuccessful he would make certain there was no repeat performance. How soon can you be ready?”

Pelts glanced at Neumann. The younger man shrugged. “I suppose we are ready now, Herr Obergruppenführer. All my crews, including the reserves, had a good workout on that mock airfield tonight. But we shall have to wait for the next moon free period.”

Welter frowned. “Why?”

Peitz answered the question himself. “We cannot make an attack of that nature in moonlight of any kind. The enemy’s night fighters and defences are far too efficient.”

“Surely darkness does not make all that difference?”

Peitz’s voice was dry. “It makes all the difference in the world and, as you’ve just pointed out yourself, we can’t afford to fail.”

The Obergruppenführer’s small eyes moved from Peitz to Neumann before he gave a nod of displeasure. “Very well. If a moonless night is so important, then you had better resume normal operations with the Fliegerkorps until the first one arrives. But remember this. When it does arrive, you do not waste another moment. This enemy unit could be brought into action at any time and the damage it might do could be out of all proportion to its size.” True to his kind, Welter felt it judicious to end with a threat. “If that were to happen, questions would almost certainly be asked why you and I were too dilatory in carrying out our orders.”

Although it was mid April and the sun was bright, the wind that blew from the Massif de la Vanoise had the cutting edge of a razor. Snow still covered its peaks and lay in hollows down the mountainside. The small town that spread along the foot of the narrow valley looked subdued by the bitter cold. It was fed by two access roads, one winding in from the west, the other from the east.

A girl was taking cover behind a pile of icy rocks. In her mid-twenties, she was tall and supple, with grey eyes and an attractive, intelligent face. She was wearing a fur lined coat and her dark hair was covered by a thick scarf. As the wind keened again, bringing up a flurry of snow, she turned to a young man at her side. She spoke French without an accent. “When did the last convoy arrive?”

The man, Pierre Delacourt, was twenty-seven years old, slim and eager, with good Gallic features. “Tuesday,” he told her.

“Tuesday. So that’s two convoys in four days?”

As the Frenchman nodded, the girl lifted a pair of binoculars. She was watching three German transports escorted by motorcycles and sidecars moving along the western road towards the town. “Have they all been this size?”

“Yes. Four transports is the most I’ve seen in a convoy.” The young man was showing both curiosity and admiration for the girl. “What’s your real name?”

Her voice turned curt. “You call me Lorenz. The less you know about me the better for your safety. Tell me more about your friend Jean—the one who recognized Professor Werner.”

Delacourt shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell. He was a student of chemistry before the war and Werner came to give them a few lectures. When he recognized Werner in Gestapo uniform coming out of the Institute, Jean felt it was something we should know about.”

The girl had turned back to the town as she was talking. A large modern building, set in spacious grounds, stood somewhat incongruously in the centre of the old town. “You did well to tell us. It might be very important. When was the Institute built?”

“In 1936. Three years before the war.”

“Was there much fuss when your town was chosen?”

The young man gave another shrug. “There was some. No one likes an animal vivisectional centre right among them. But it soon died down. Most people here work the land and they’re not as sentimental about animals as townspeople. I suppose that’s why they built it here.”

Nodding, the girl held out her hand. “Let me see the photographs your friend took.”

Slipping off a glove, Delacourt fished inside his coat and drew out three prints. All were photographs of an open German staff car with two officers sitting in the rear seat. Two prints were blurred, but the third was in good focus showing one young officer and the other elderly with a lined but distinguished face. Both men were wearing Gestapo uniforms, the older man’s bearing the rank of Standartenführer.

The girl slipped the prints inside her coat. “I’m keeping these, Pierre. They must go off to London at once.” Before the eager young Frenchman could question her again, she countered his curiosity by nodding at the bleak mountainsides around them. “Didn’t you say you had a relative who is a hill farmer?”

Delacourt nodded and pointed at a stone cottage lying inconspicuously in a corrie at the far side of the valley. “That’s his place. He’s my wife’s brother.”

“Who lives there with him?”

“No one. He’s a bachelor.”

The girl eyed the cottage with renewed interest. “He can survey the entire town from there. Is he to be trusted?”

“Etienne? He hates the Nazis.”

“Then can you arrange for a twenty-four-hour watch to be kept on these convoys? I want to know everything: how many come in, if there is any pattern about their arrival, anything, in fact, that might be useful to us.”

Delacourt hesitated. “I’ll have to get Jean to help. I’ve got my job to do and Etienne has to attend to his animals. Michelle can help too. She often comes up to visit Etienne, so no one will suspect her. Don’t worry. We’ll work something out.”

The girl had given a start. “Have you told Michelle what you are doing?”

The young Frenchman gave a self-conscious laugh. “I had to. We’ve only been married a few months and she was beginning to think I was seeing another woman. But it’s all right. She’s as eager to help France as I am. She won’t give anything away.”

“You do realize what would happen to her if she did? The Gestapo would stop at nothing to make her talk.”

In the bitter wind Delacourt’s face looked chilled. “We know that. But we can’t just sit back and do nothing, can we? Don’t worry. I’ll tell her to be careful.”

The sharpness left the girl’s voice. “Very well. But you bring in no one else. Remember that if our suspicions are correct, there’ll be spies and informers everywhere to check there are no leaks. Don’t try to contact me directly. You’ll be told how to pass messages on.”

The couple talked for another minute, then Delacourt started back down the mountain. The girl waited until he had disappeared round a rock shoulder, then raised her binoculars again. The transports, whose canvas covers were tightly laced down, had now reached the research centre and were passing through a huge steel gate. As it swung closed behind them, the wind came sweeping down the valley, agitating the trees and whipping up the pockets of snow. This time the bleakness of the scene brought a shiver from the girl as she turned away.

Chapter 2

It was a fine spring morning when Air Commodore Davies’ Miles Master appeared over the southern perimeter of Sutton Craddock. To be precise, it was 0915, April 17, 1944. Already forewarned of the event, “Pop” Henderson, the station C.O., and Adams, the station Intelligence Officer, were both seated in a jeep at the base of the control tower. As soon as the aircraft appeared, Henderson gave Adams a nod and sent the jeep bounding over the grass parallel to the north-south runway.

The point of the exercise could be seen a half-minute later. The Master, as light as a ballerina, circled the airfield once and then floated over the hangars and settled down on the runway. Spray rose like smoke from its wheels as they touched down: there had been a shower of rain just after dawn. However, the sun had taken full command now, and dew was sparkling on the grass. The few clouds still present on the northern horizon had lost their winter gauntness and a couple of larks were trilling in the sky. To Adams, a southerner, spring had come to Sutton Craddock after a long hard winter, although there was no doubt that the locals, with their customary Yorkshire caution, would have dampened his optimism with the warning that only a fool casts his clout before May’s out.

With its short landing run completed, the Master had already swung around on the runway and with blipping engine was taxiing back. Seeing the approaching jeep, Davies swung the aircraft towards a nearby dispersal point. As the engine was switched off, a bleary-eyed corporal appeared at the door of the hut. Giving a look of horror at recognizing Davies, he turned and yelled at an ACII who was sprawled asleep on one of the duty crew’s beds.

Scowling at the absence of a ground crew, Davies shrugged out of his parachute harness and threw it over the port wheel of the Master. Wearing only his service uniform, he was a small, spry figure with sharp features and eyes as alert as a sparrow’s. As the jeep halted alongside the Master, Davies made towards it.

Henderson jumped down from the driving seat and saluted. The CO was a big, brawny Scot with a good-natured face and a voice that contained just a trace of Highland brogue. “Good morning, sir. You’re right on time.”

Giving a grunt, Davies jerked a thumb at the two red-faced mechanics who, to avoid his eyes, were making a great fuss over the parked Master. “It’s more than you can say for those two characters. What’ve they been doing? Drinking methylated spirits?”

Henderson hid a grin. “Everyone’s been up half the night, sir. The boys had to do that marshalling yard job this morning.”

Glancing round the airfield Davies noticed for the first time that only a few aircraft were standing at their dispersal points.

“Christ, yes, I’d forgotten. Any news yet?”

Henderson exchanged a furtive glance with Adams. To put it mildly, it was unlike the small Air Commodore to forget the movements of the special service unit of Mosquitoes that he himself had created. Moreover, he had sounded uncharacteristically depressed when he had phoned the previous evening. “No, sir, it’s too early yet,” Henderson pointed out. “We don’t expect them back before 1045.”

“In that case you’ll probably miss their return. Sorry, but it can’t be helped.”

Along with his curiosity, Henderson was feeling resentment. It was almost unheard of for a Station Commander to be absent when his squadron returned from a mission. Before he could protest, Davies turned towards Adams who also had climbed out of the jeep. There was an air of enforced cheerfulness about his greeting. “Hello, Frank. How are you these days? Recovered from Operation Valkyrie yet?”

The bespectacled Adams, a somewhat portly officer, winced slightly at the reminder. It was barely six weeks since the squadron had carried out its spectacular feat of destroying the last of the German heavy water stocks in Norway, and Adams, who had conceived the daring operation, was still suffering sleepless nights with the memory. Forced to ambush and kill young German soldiers to prevent them from reporting the squadron’s hiding place, Adams found it more than ironical that the deed which still haunted him had earned Davies’ supreme accolade, the use of his Christian name.

“I’m fine, thank you, sir,” he said. “Will you be wanting breakfast before we go?”

Davies shook his head. “No, there won’t be time. But I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

Adams stood aside for the Air Commodore to climb into the jeep, then took the rear seat. As Henderson accelerated out of earshot of the mechanics, he turned to Davies. “Couldn’t this meeting wait until the boys get back, sir?”

“Not a hope, Jock. They’ve even got Staines up here.” Davies’ tone changed. “Anyway, it’s out of my hands. A joker from Special Operations Executive has taken over. Lock, stock, and barrel.”

At first Davies’ meaning did not register on Henderson. “You mean Brigadier Simms?”

“No. This joker’s senior to him. He’s a Brigadier called MacBride and it’s he who’s called this conference.”

As the penny dropped, Henderson slowed down the jeep. “You’re not saying he’s taken over the squadron?” When Davies nodded, even the Scot’s phlegmatic temperament could not hide his dismay. “But how can that happen? I thought we were a specialist unit under your direct command.”

Although the jeep was still in the middle of the airfield, Davies took a glance around before replying. “It’s this bloody invasion that’s coming, Jock. New units are being formed, squadrons are being shifted about—it’s all a shambles at the moment. I’ve fought it like hell but they’ve attached 633 Squadron to the 2nd Tactical Air Force under Coningham and he’s loaned you to SOE. I stay as liaison commander and advisor but I take my orders from this SOE character.”

Behind the two men, Adams was sharing Henderson’s concern. Special Operations Executive seldom concerned itself with straightforward military objectives. With General Staines of the U.S. 8th Air Force also participating, there seemed little doubt something big and complex was brewing. Adams leaned forward in his seat. “How long is this arrangement to last, sir? Do you know?”

Davies scowled. “Christ knows. Possibly until the invasion.”

“But that might not be until next year,” Henderson protested.

“Not a chance, Jock. It has to be soon or the Russians will go on strike.”

As Henderson halted the jeep outside the Officers’ Mess, Davies made an effort to lift the general gloom. “So you’re back at full squadron strength again, are you?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve even got a couple of reserve crews standing by.”

Davies managed his gnome-like grin. “Is that a fact? You’ve been having it too good, Jock. Your boys must be getting bored.”

Henderson did his best to respond to the banter. “With all these randy Yorkshire lasses about? My problem’s making sure the young sods get enough sleep.” His tone changed as he switched off the engine. “It’s a pity we can’t take Moore along with us, sir. It’s always useful to have his views.”

Davies gave a grunt of impatience. “It’s no use, Jock. The meeting is scheduled for 1000 hours and that’s the end of it. We can put Moore in the picture later.”

At that moment the zestful wind that was blowing the cotton-wool clouds across the sky swept around the officers’ mess with a rush. Davies, the only man not wearing an overcoat, gave a sudden grimace. “It’s not as warm as it looks. Let’s get inside and have that cup of coffee.”

In spite of Davies’ comment about the weather, High Elms was showing distinct signs of spring that morning. Birds were singing their hearts out in the tall trees that gave the old country house its name and the rhododendron bushes that lined the paths of the estate were thick with buds. In the library, which had been the scene of many a momentous conference, the sun streamed through the French windows, enriching the panelled walls and giving an extra sheen to the large polished table. Three men, basking in the sunshine, were chatting quietly when a young lieutenant tapped on the door and led Davies and company inside.

“Air Commodore Davies and his staff, sir.”

The soldier the lieutenant addressed was an elderly brigadier named Simms of distinguished appearance with a small grey moustache and sensitive features. Dwarfing him was a massive two-star American general with spiky hair and a granite-like face. Staines had once played quarterback for his college and even now one could feel sorry for his opponents. Both men were well known to Davies. The Brigadier had been his executive officer during 633 Squadron’s sacrificial assault on the German heavy-water plant in the Swartfjord the previous spring. General Staines had joined the committee for the next three challenges that had faced the squadron: the Rhine Maiden rocket plant in Bavaria, the radiolocation station in France, and the remainder of the heavy water stocks in Norway.

The third man, however, was a stranger to all of Davies’ party. He was a brigadier in his middle forties, a good six foot two in height, with an out-thrust jaw, black hair, and beetling eyebrows. To Adams he looked like a heavyweight boxer who had run slightly to seed.

Punctilious and courteous as always, the elder brigadier introduced all three airmen in turn. “MacBride, let me introduce Air Commodore Davies. Davies, this is Brigadier MacBride who asked me to convene this meeting.”

As the junior officer of the party, Adams was the last to step forward. Although the crushing handshake he received made Adams wince, MacBride was showing no cordiality. Instead, his deep-set eyes were running over Adams as if questioning why a mere squadron leader should be present. Adams, incurably sensitive about his non-military appearance, liked neither the man’s abrupt manner nor his rough-edged voice and was relieved when the introduction was over and Staines’ gravelly greeting enabled him to turn away from the soldier’s stare.

“Hiya, Adams. Is your frostbite better yet?”

Adams smiled at the big, grinning American. “Yes, sir. It wasn’t very serious anyway.”

“You did a great job over there, Frank. Congratulations.”

Embarrassed though he was, Adams knew it was a moment he would never forget. “Thank you, sir.”

Staines turned to the beetle-browed MacBride. “In case you never got the details, he spearheaded the Valkyrie operation six weeks ago. Then he ambushed a half-dozen Heinies who’d discovered the squadron’s hideout. I guess you can say that if it hadn’t been for him the whole unit would have been destroyed and those IMI stocks would have gotten through to Germany.”

It was all too much for Adams’s modesty. “I doubt that it made any difference at all, sir. They still found out we were there.”

Staines’s eyes twinkled. “Stop being so goddamned English, Frank. You did a great job.”

Adams was reduced to another mumbled ‘thank you, sir.’ MacBride was giving him a second look. Although fully conversant with the Valkyrie operation, he was clearly wondering if the American was pulling his leg about the Intelligence Officer’s role. With the tact for which he was famous, the elderly brigadier intervened.

“We have asked you to join us today, gentlemen, because Air Marshall Sir Arthur Coningham has kindly loaned us your services until the invasion. After the admirable feats you have performed for us we are not strangers to one another, but as it is the first time you have been directly attached to us, Brigadier MacBride expressed the wish to welcome you personally and to explain your duties. As he also wants to give you details of your first mission, I will ask him to take the chair.”

The tall SOE officer moved to the head of the table. Something in his expression gave Adams the feeling he was enjoying his brief and he wondered how much the presence of an American general was adding to that enjoyment. Inviting his audience to sit, MacBride gazed at each man in turn. His forceful voice seemed ideally suited to his aggressive personality.

“All right, gentlemen, I will get to the point straight away. It will be no surprise to any of you—in fact, it will be no surprise to the enemy either—that some time this year we are going to invade Europe. Because of the defences Jerry has put up, we know it’s going to be a hell of a fight. Therefore, it is critically important that we pin down as many of his combat troops as we can in the areas well away from the invasion beaches. For this purpose we in SOE have been dropping arms to resistance groups in all the occupied countries and urging on them the importance of giving us all the support they can when the invasion begins. As soon as they receive our orders we want sabotage on a massive scale. We want arms dumps blowing up, bridges destroyed, rolling stock sabotaged, everything possible done to prevent Jerry rushing up his reserves to the beaches we have chosen to invade. To put it briefly, we want Europe in flames.”

Prone to irrelevant thoughts in moments of high importance, Adams, who secretly prided himself on recognizing accents, was trying to place MacBride’s. The northwest was his guess, although he suspected a touch of Irish too. Pulling himself together, he listened to the gruff, forceful voice.

“It is obvious we must provide leadership for such a campaign if only to see that it is properly coordinated but it is no easy task. We send over all the agents we can but they are limited by the weapons they can carry and also by the tactics of the Gestapo. As you might know, they shoot ten or even a hundred hostages for every German soldier killed or for every act of sabotage committed. This causes problems for our agents and for resistance leaders because if too many civilians are executed, a backlash might develop against members of the Resistance.

“But even the Gestapo can hardly use this weapon of terror if our own armed forces are seen as the agents provocateurs. That, gentlemen, is your first brief: to use your aircraft in every possible way that can aid and abet the resistance movements in Occupied Europe.” When Henderson opened his mouth to speak, MacBride anticipated his question. “No, you won’t be doing cloak-and-dagger stuff at night. In any case, your aircraft aren’t suited for spy-dropping. You are going to provide support, encouragement, and sometimes direct intervention, according to the circumstance. With Winston’s permission, we have already tried an experiment or two. The results have convinced him and us that by using a unit of your skill and experience we can add a new dimension to the underground war. That is why we have been given your services until the invasion begins.”

As Henderson showed some relief, MacBride turned back to the attentive Davies. “Now to your second brief. This could involve you in a mission as important as any you’ve carried out so far. I can’t give you any details today because as yet our suspicions haven’t been confirmed. But I can say that if they are, you won’t find your talents wasted.”

Davies was frowning. “You can’t give us a hint what it’s about?”

“Not at the moment. But you can say that from today your squadron is declaring war on the Gestapo.”

Chapter 3

MacBride paused to gauge the effect of his words. Staines was looking both puzzled and quizzical as if enjoying some secret joke. Davies, alerted by the possibility of another large-scale mission for his beloved squadron and resentful at his temporary loss of command, was doing his best to grin and bear it but was being markedly unsuccessful. Adams, who like the others was still uncertain what the squadron’s new role entailed, was limited by a personal reaction. By nature disliking aggressive men, he also disliked name-dropping. As MacBride’s relationship with Churchill was almost certainly nothing more than a servant-master one, he found the use of the Prime Minister’s forename ridiculous. Indeed, he wondered if it accounted for Staines’s quizzical expression. Henderson was clearly apprehensive. In the past, although he had often made protests against Davies’ overambitious schemes for his ace squadron, he at least had known that behind those schemes there was a genuine affection for the unit. Now Henderson was gaining the impression it was in the hands of a man who saw it purely as a tool and would therefore use it ruthlessly. When MacBride paused to light a cigarette, the Scot seized the opportunity for a question.

“Taking our first brief, sir, exactly how do we give support to the Resistance?”

From their expressions it was clear that Staines and Davies were equally curious. MacBride’s gaze settled on Henderson. “Do you know anything about the Danish war effort, Henderson?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Then I’ll enlighten you. Until now, mostly for political reasons, the Danes haven’t shown the same resistance to their occupation as other countries. Another reason is they’ve thought the Germans too powerful to be defeated. Yet with a determined underground they could hold down a half-dozen enemy divisions, maybe more. Knowing this, their resistance leaders have suggested a way of overcoming their apathy. Every April the Jerries put on a parade in Copenhagen to celebrate Hitler’s birthday. It’s a big show with brass bands and full trappings and the Danes have come to see it as a spectacle. In addition there’s a rumour their Quisling leader, Scavenius, might attend this year. Now supposing a flight or two of Allied aircraft were to join in the fun and games by flying low and dropping leaflets. The Jerries would drop their drums and trombones and dive for cover and the news would be all over Denmark in a few hours. Result? The Danes would take new heart and start flocking to join their Resistance.”

Henderson was looking aghast. “You’re saying they want us to put the squadron at risk just to disrupt a birthday parade, sir? Do they realize how far we are from Copenhagen?”

MacBride’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “We can all read maps, Henderson.”

Equally shocked, Davies came to his subordinate’s assistance. “You surely haven’t agreed to this?”

He received the Brigadier’s aggressive stare. “I have. You’ve got to remember, Davies, that war isn’t just a matter of shooting down enemy aircraft and hitting his production lines. It has a psychological side that is just as important. If we can put heart into the Danes and make them resist, we’ll be doing more damage to the enemy than a month of air raids.”

Davies’ face was a study as he received this lecture on matters military. Adams was feeling sympathy for the Danes. A fun-loving people overrun by the mighty German Army, they were showing good sense, it seemed to Adams, in keeping their heads down until the world found its sanity again. At the same time Adams allowed that he could be prejudiced. In the days of his puberty his parents had taken him on holiday to a small hotel in Bournemouth where a young Danish girl had been staying with an English family. A beautiful nubile creature, she had shown an interest in Adams and the shy, idealistic boy had immediately imbued her with every virtue in the female calendar. As she was the only Dane he had ever met, Adams had found himself thinking well of her country ever since.

Noticing Davies’ expression, the elderly brigadier made one of his tactful interventions. “I don’t think Air Commodore Davies is concerned only about the distance involved, MacBride. I believe I am right in assuming the parade takes place at midday. This means the flight would have to be made there and back in daylight.”

MacBride’s curtness to a man almost old enough to be his father heightened Adams’s dislike. “We’ve taken all that into account, Simms.” He turned back to Davies. “Wasn’t it your squadron that carried out a daylight raid deep into Bavaria?”

“That’s right,” Davies said. “But we had over a hundred B-17s giving us radar cover almost to the target. I doubt if we’d have gotten through without them.”

MacBride’s glance at Staines said the obvious. The huge American gave a laugh of disbelief. “A force of B-17s to bust up a birthday party! You can’t be serious, MacBride. Do you have any idea what it costs to lay on a B-17 mission?”

The army officer did not retreat an inch. “I’m fully aware of what it costs in money, General. But I’m also aware of what it will cost in British and American lives if German reserve divisions are not diverted from the invasion beaches.”

Staines shrugged impatiently. “No one’s disputing that. I wouldn’t have left my Air Force back in East Anglia for the day if I didn’t think it was important to help the underground movements. But Jesus, this is only speculation. The Danes might just split their arses with laughter and go back to making butter.”

“This squadron still has to carry out the mission, General. And we haven’t long. Hitler’s birthday is on the twentieth of April.”

Two red spots, warning signs Adams knew well, were burning high up on Davies’ cheeks. “Where do these orders come from?”

“That depends on the circumstances. Sometimes from higher up, sometimes from my own Committee.”

“And where does this one come from?”

MacBride’s tone made it clear he was answering Davies’ questions as a favour rather than as a right. “Because it is, in part, a political decision, it comes from higher up.”

Fully aware of the ambiguity of the expression ‘higher up,’ Davies was showing suspicion as well as defiance. “My boys are the best, as you well know. But they’re not miracle workers and I don’t intend sending them to certain death now or any other time. I hope your Committee realises that.”

The look he received would have withered lesser men. “Regrettably, such decisions have been taken out of your hands for a while, Davies. In a way your squadron has only itself to blame. If it hadn’t such a record for carrying out difficult missions it wouldn’t have been chosen in the first place.”

There was a grunt of disbelief from Staines. Davies was showing bitterness. “You’re saying 633 Squadron has to pay a price for its success?”

“For God’s sake, Davies, no one intends sending your boys out to certain death: we value their skills too highly. But at the same time, certain missions are necessary and must be carried out.” Here MacBride glanced at the frowning Staines. “Knowing some missions will have to be carried out in daylight and aware the Americans have become expert in daylight operations, we thought it good sense to ask for their cooperation. However, if for reasons of their own they feel unable to give that cooperation, then we have no choice but to go it alone.”

With the ball put firmly in his court, Staines was breathing hard. “Let’s get this straight, MacBride. I’ll cooperate when I think your schemes make sense because we’re in the same war. But brass bands and birthday parties—no!” His expression changed as he turned to Davies. “Sorry, Davies. But that’s how it is.”

Davies was given no opportunity to reply. The jut of MacBride’s jaw made Adams concede that whatever else the man might be, he was a fighter. “You have the right to pick and choose, General. But if you give us a chance, I think you’ll find out our schemes aren’t as bizarre as they first sound. Apart from having a great deal of experience, we take advice from resistance leaders as well as our own agents, as in the case of this mission to Denmark. And it’s hard to deny they know their own people better than we ever can.”

From the way Staines opened his mouth, then closed it again, Adams felt MacBride had won a point. Growling something under his breath, the Texan turned to Davies. “Did you come up in that Miles Master of yours this morning?”

Davies looked surprised at the question. “Yes. Why?”

“I’d like your offer of a lift back today. That’ll give me the chance to have a beer and to meet Moore and your boys again.”

Realizing it was the American’s way of telling him he wanted a private talk, Davies nodded willingly. “Yes, sir, of course. We’ll be delighted to have you. The boys should be back by then.”

“You mean they’re out on a mission?” When Davies nodded, Staines glanced across at the fidgeting Henderson. “Then what’s Jock doing here?”

Davies slanted a glance at the burly MacBride who was showing impatience at the cross talk. Without hesitation, Staines turned back to the soldier. “Are you going to need Henderson and Adams much longer, MacBride? Any CO worth his salt wants to be around when his boys get back.”

MacBride, as shrewd as he was aggressive, was wondering if Staines’ request of Davies suggested a change of heart. With no wish to prejudice the possibility, he shrugged. “Not if Davies is prepared to brief them on anything else we might discuss.”

Giving Staines a grateful look, Henderson rose to his feet. “Thank you, sir. But I’d like to ask one question before we go. How will orders come down to me?”

MacBride nodded at the elderly soldier alongside him. “We shall transmit them to Brigadier Simms and he will contact Air Commodore Davies. He will then brief you as before.” The man’s gaze moved on to Staines. “Naturally you will be informed of our every move, General, so that you can cooperate when you approve a mission.”

Unsure how much sarcasm was packed into the comment, the usually good-natured Staines gave a noncommittal grunt. “Leave out the birthday parties and we might get somewhere.”

Wasting no time, Henderson and Adams were already at the door. Seeing the elderly brigadier motioning to them, they waited. Drawing them out of the room, Simms said something in a low voice that made them both start. “That’s good news, sir,” Henderson said. “It’ll cheer him up no end to hear it.”

The Brigadier smiled. “I know it will. But tell him to keep it to himself.”

“Don’t worry, sir. He will. Thank you for telling us.”

With another glance at his watch, Henderson started down the polished corridor. Hurrying after him, Adams found he could not match the Scot’s long strides and fell behind. At the doorway that led to the courtyard, Henderson paused and stared back. “What the hell are you doing, Frank? If we hurry, we might still get back in time.”

Without waiting, he ran down a flight of steps towards his waiting car. Cursing the fate that had made him as he was, Adams scampered after him.

Chapter 4