Operation Crucible E-Book

Frederick E. Smith

• Herausgeber: Thunderchild Publishing
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Serie: 633 Squadron
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 360

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Autumn 1943: An angry American press has blamed the RAF for heavy U.S. B-17 losses over Europe. To restore confidence, joint Allied operations are planned by RAF and 8th Air Force top brass. 633 Squadron, whose Rhine Maiden mission success has won them a glorious reputation, is called in to launch Operation Crucible. It is to be a Dieppe-style landing by the Americans, supported by the aces of 633 Squadron. Their hazardous role: to give ground support to troops against overwhelming firepower and totally unforeseen odds...

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 CRUCIBLE

Copyright Information

Dedication

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

OPERATION CRUCIBLE

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 © 1977 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: 1977

First Thunderchild eBook Edition: November 2017

Dedication

To Mac, Boy, Pat and Monica

with love and happy memories of Clifton

Chapter 1

The 21 cm rocket struck the B-17 full on its starboard inner engine. The explosion was followed by a ball of black smoke. A few seconds later the wing sheared away and the Fortress began spinning earthwards. Three parachutes blossomed out into the tracer-streaked sky. With seven men still trapped inside, the B-17 disappeared into the clouds that hid the earth.

The clear sky above was filled with the frenzy of battle. Over 150 B-17s, flying in three tight boxes, were pouring out contrails that spread back as far as the eye could see. Darting in front and around them like swifts avid for food were countless German fighters. Black threads of tracer criss-crossed the sky like some surrealistic spider’s web. Columns of smoke, ephemeral monuments to shot-down comrades, shredded the winds of the stratosphere as the remaining B-17s fought for survival.

The enemy units attacking them, products of experience and German ingenuity, were formidable. The 21 cm rockets, designed to create havoc among tightly-packed formations, were carried by Me 110D “destroyers”. Mixed in with them were veteran units of Focke Wulf 190s heavily armed with 20 mm cannon. Formidable enough on their own, these units were augmented by aircraft from the 3rd Air Force based in France. The Americans had made another penetration deep into the heart of the Fatherland. Every effort was being made to punish them for their temerity.

A new wave of destroyers was sweeping head on towards the B-17s. At 1,000 metres lances of smoke and flame darted from their wings. No attempt was made to aim at specific Fortresses: the enemy pilots knew, as with duck-shooting, that the laws of chance guaranteed some hits among such a dense target.

Struck just ahead of the pilot’s cockpit, one B-17 swung off course like a blinded animal and crashed into the starboard -wing of a companion. Locked in a tangle of broken spars and sheared metal, the two huge aircraft went spinning helplessly down. No parachutes emerged from the wreckage and a massive explosion before the aircraft had fallen two thousand feet made certain none would.

A second B-17 had ten feet of its port wing severed. Lurching perilously, it seemed about to slide to certain death when its desperate pilot brought up the wing by strength and prayer. Ignoring the danger of collision, his comrades on either side closed in to give him protection.

Since leaving their fighter escort on the Franco-German frontier the B-17s had been under constant enemy attack and during the long morning over half of them had sustained damage. Jagged holes let in icy blasts of air that froze bare hands to metal. Oil ran like black blood from severed pipe lines and formed slippery pools on the metal floor. Soot and blackened metal showed where frantic men had extinguished fires. As gunners strove to follow the lightning turns of the German fighters, their feet slipped on hundreds of spent shells. Above oxygen masks, paths of sweat ran whitely through the stains of cordite and oil. A few men found relief in cursing the leaders who had sent them against such massive odds. Most men, numbed by their discomfort and the fury of battle, fought on mechanically and doubted if safety would ever be reached. They had, they felt certain, already fought a thousand years.

Yet, in the way of air combat, the end came suddenly. At one moment the sky seemed full of deadly hornets, in the next it was empty as the German pilots, sighting the eager Spitfires and Thunderbolts at their rendezvous, withdrew out of range. Cowardice played no part in their withdrawal. Aware that the Allies were attempting to bleed them to death by attrition, the Luftwaffe was under the strictest order to avoid contact with enemy fighters unless the occasion was justifiable.

Justification was clearly impossible here. A continuance of the attack that had carried the German fighters within range of the Spitfires and Thunderbolts would have resulted in as many losses to the Luftwaffe as to the Allies, and the mathematics of 1943 did not permit such extravagance. With the Allies still possessing no long-range fighter that could escort the USAAF on its raids into Germany, it was better sense to wait until the B-17s once again ventured into the Fatherland. The hundreds of B-17 wrecks that already littered Germany bore witness to the success of this policy.

Yet although the German withdrawal brought relief to the hard-pressed crews, for some the ordeal was not over, as wounded men fought to keep crippled aircraft flying. Back at an airfield in East Anglia two men were out on the field watching the grim assembly of crash wagons and ambulances. One of the men, bearded and wearing a greatcoat with the shoulder flashes of a war correspondent, was Ernest Lambert, American novelist.

A middle-aged man, short and stocky of build with a square aggressive face, Lambert’s appearance did nothing to suggest he was one of America’s lions of literature. His rise to world fame had been extraordinary. Until 1936 his name had been unknown to the public at large. Then MGM had filmed his fifth novel, The Rains of Rajapur. The film had been a massive success and from then onwards every book of Lambert’s had received rapturous acclaim. With his work extolling the virtues of self-reliance and manliness, it was hardly surprising that the Hearst newspaper empire, for a fee that was said to be astronomical, had claimed his services for the duration of the war. The fact that most of Lambert’s syndicated articles to date had either implied or stated that America’s Allies were not pulling their weight appeared in no way to have affected his standing with the Hearst empire. Indeed suggestions had appeared in the American Press, brave suggestions because Lambert was a formidable adversary, that this very chauvinism was the real reason for his engagement.

His companion was the Station Intelligence officer, George Hodgkinson. New to his appointment and awed by Lambert’s reputation, Hodgkinson had felt it incumbent on him to offer Lambert a seat on the mission. His vague surprise at Lambert’s curt retort that he had more to do than sit on his ass over Germany had not been assuaged by the constant sight of the correspondent propping up the Mess bar.

With the massing of the crash wagons and ambulances along the runways complete, an apprehensive silence had now fallen over the airfield. Taking his eyes off the eastern sky, Lambert turned to Hodgkinson.

“Why aren’t they getting Mustang support?” His voice had the abrasive accent of a New Englander.

Hodgkinson, stringy in build and aware of it, showed some discomfort at the question. “We find they’re underpowered, sir. The Alison engines only develop 1,150 h.p.”

“I know that. But what about those fitted with Merlins?”

“They’re O.K. In fact they’ll outfly a 109. But we haven’t enough to provide a worthwhile escort.”

He received an aggressive stare. “Maybe you haven’t. But what about the British?”

Hodgkinson misunderstood him. “They’ve been providing escorts, sir. They’re doing it now over France.”

“What the hell’s the use over France? It’s over Germany we need them.”

“Their Spitfires haven’t the range, sir. They were built for Metropolitan defence, not escort duty.”

“That’s why I’m asking about Merlin-powered Mustangs. The British have enough by this time. Why aren’t they using them?”

Hodgkinson, who had no idea and in any case had a couple of drinking buddies in the RAF, was grateful for the siren that took away the need for an answer. Harsh and portentous, it caused an apprehensive stir among the onlookers who were standing beside the crash wagons. Engines began revving and a green Very light soared up from the Control tower.

Fifteen seconds later a far off drone could be heard. It grew heavier and men pointed at the eastern sky. Black specks, some trailing smoke, had appeared and became larger by the second. With at least half their number damaged, the intact B-17s began to orbit the airfield to give them landing priority.

The air was now shuddering under the impact of fifty engines. The first B-17 had gingerly manoeuvred to the western side of the airfield and was settling down to land. Airfoils whining, it swept past the two watching men and set its wheels on the runway. As its tyres screamed and screamed again, spray came up in clouds from the wet tarmac. As the pilot applied the brakes the B-17 slewed to the left and ran into the grass. It was the moment for two crash wagons and an ambulance to speed across the runway and halt alongside the smoking engines. Within seconds foam was spraying on to them and the danger of fire averted.

With a nod of approval Lambert turned his attention to the second B-17 which, wobbling perilously, was settling down on the same runway. As it drew to a halt, an ambulance and a crash wagon raced up. Asbestos-clad figures climbed into the rear gunner’s shattered cupola and hacked their way inside. A minute later they lowered something in a sheet to the medical orderlies below.

The third B-17 was a grotesque sight. Half of its tail fin was shot away, huge holes gaped in its fuselage, and the entire port wingtip was missing. Moreover its undercarriage was hanging down like a bird’s broken claw. Both men ducked as its shadow slanted obliquely over them. Frantic red Very lights from the Control Tower were calling for a second approach but the wounded crew, with a shattered radio, were in no condition to respond. Fighting pain, loss of blood, and an aircraft that seemed held together only by will power, they had reached home and could do no more. As the wheels missed the runway and touched the grass there was a scream of shearing rivets as the undercarriage collapsed. The aircraft was thrown into the air by impact, only to crash down as heavily again. For fifty yards it skidded forward, throwing off mud and pieces of metal. Then its nose dug in and the huge machine stood on end. For a moment it appeared about to somersault, then the fuselage crashed back with an impact that shook the ground. As Hodgkinson muttered “Oh, my God”, there was a coughing roar and a fireball that hid the entire wreck from view.

“Oh, my God!” Hodgkinson said again and began to run forward. Lambert caught his arm.

“Forget it. There’s nothing you can do.”

The fireball was swelling like a giant balloon. Incredibly, thin screams could be heard through the thunder of engines and the howl of sirens. Hodgkinson looked as if he were going to be sick. “Some of them must still be alive.”

Looking as shaken as the Intelligence officer, Lambert turned away. “I want to use your Communications Room. Right now.”

Hodgkinson looked embarrassed. “We never allow outside contact until the de-briefing is over, sir. It’s standard procedure throughout the Command.”

“I’m an official war correspondent, Major. That means I have a priority on communications.”

Hodgkinson’s glance in the direction of the Control Tower was a plea for help. “They’d never let you in without the C.O.’s permission, sir.”

“Then get his goddamned permission. I’ve got a story I want in tomorrow’s papers.”

Hodgkinson’s eyes were drawn back to the B-17 inferno. “He’ll be busy right now. But I’ll do my best.”

“You do that, Major. Because there’ll be some hard questions asked if this story isn’t sent.”

Smoke from burning rubber and oil made Hodgkinson gag as he hurried away. Lambert watched him for a moment, then started towards the Signals Centre. His walk suggested an incensed and revengeful bantam cock.

Chapter 2

The camouflaged staff car pulled up outside the Administration Block of RAF Sutton Craddock with a squeal of brakes. The Air Commodore who jumped out was a small man with the alert movements of a squirrel. Wearing no overcoat although there was a chill in the late September wind, he nodded to his WAAF driver and marched briskly up the neat path that led to the door. A sergeant and a corporal, watching him from the safety of the Guardhouse, grimaced at one another. The appearance of Air Commodore Davies at Sutton Craddock rarely failed to denote trouble of one kind or another.

Trousers flapping round his legs, Davies hurried down a corridor. An Aircraftman Second Class, on his knees scrubbing the linoleum floor, saw him coming and hastily drew his bucket aside. Ignoring his salute, Davies strode past and halted outside the C.O.’s office. Seeing the door was ajar, he gave it a single rap of his knuckles and pushed his way inside.

There were three men inside the office and it was clear they were all expecting Davies. The big, broad-shouldered man who stepped forward was Henderson, the Station C.O. Nicknamed “Pop” by the squadron at large, he was a middle-aged, benign Scot who had taken command of the station after the death of Barrett in the Swartfjord. He was experiencing his usual ambivalence at the sight of the choleric Davies. The Air Commodore’s terse phone call that morning had by implication warned him that Davies was coming up with some specialist mission for the squadron. Henderson could find no complaint in that: his élite unit of Mosquitoes existed for that purpose and Davies brought with him a devotion to duty and a single-mindedness that the Scot, a professional airman himself, could only commend. His one reservation was that sometimes Davies could be over-zealous in achieving his objectives.

The other men were a contrast in types. The portly officer in his middle-forties was Frank Adams, the Station Intelligence officer. With his build and thick-lensed spectacles he could not be accused of looking a military figure, a fact the self-critical Adams had long accepted. Not a professional airman, and blessed or cursed with a vivid imagination, Adams’ feelings towards Davies were more loaded. Although he shared Henderson’s respect for the man’s drive and enthusiasm, he occasionally deplored the ruthlessness that could weigh success against the lives of men who were his friends. At the same time Adams knew it was those very objective qualities that made Davies such an effective field commander.

The third man, considerably younger than his two fellow officers, was Ian Moore, Squadron Commander. With a small combat scar on his right cheek, Moore was slimly-built with a fresh complexion and fair, wavy hair. As always his uniform was immaculately tailored. The recent inheritor of his father’s chain of footwear shops, Moore was not short of money and more than a penny of it went into keeping him the best dressed officer on the station. Yet his was no case of the frills outmatching the package. Moore was an ex-Pathfinder and the ribbons of the DSO and Bar, and DFC, and the more unusual American Legion of Merit medal beneath his pilot’s brevet testified to his outstanding combat record. Davies, by pulling strings as only the wily Air Commodore knew how, had worked his transfer from Pathfinders and given him command of 633 Squadron after its near annihilation in Swartfjord. Although at this time internal strife had been bringing the squadron to the point of disintegration, by the use of charm that could only be described as charismatic and leadership that had been inspired, Moore had welded the squadron into an élite unit again that had eventually destroyed the notorious Rhine Maiden establishment in far-off Bavaria. It was a feat that had gained for Moore a respect from the crews that had previously been given only to Roy Grenville, the leader of the Swartfjord raid who was now a German prisoner of war. The destruction of the Rhine Maiden plant had also earned Moore and the squadron the gratitude of American bomber crews who were only too aware of the losses they would have suffered had the proximity-fused rockets ever reached production.

Henderson’s voice had a slight Highland burr. “Good morning, sir. You’re looking well.”

It was not Davies’ way to indulge in formalities when the pressure was on. Pulling a newspaper from his briefcase he slapped it down on the desk in front of the Group Captain. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen this, have you, Jock?”

Henderson picked up the newspaper curiously. “The New York Daily Mirror? No, I haven’t. They don’t stock it around these parts.”

Davies ignored the gentle sarcasm. “Take a look at page three.”

As Henderson opened the newspaper, Moore and Adams saw him give a slight start. As he began reading, Davies moved impatiently forward and tried to regain the paper. “You can read the details later.”

The big Scot was not a man to be hurried when he chose otherwise. With his eyes still on the print, he moved away from Davies. A full six inches shorter than the Scot, Davies realized that in a confrontation of this kind he was outclassed and, like the good soldier he was, he turned his attack elsewhere.

“You two have heard of Ernest Lambert, haven’t you?”

Both officers nodded.

“Did you know he’s become a newspaper correspondent?”

Moore answered him. He had a laconic, cultured voice. “Yes, sir. Doesn’t he have a roving commission?”

“Too right he has. And he’s roving around the U.K. at the moment.” From the corner of his eye Davies saw Henderson lift his head and was on him like a flash. “Well! Have you finished?”

Henderson relinquished the paper at last. “Not all of it. But I’ve got the drift.”

“Bloody disgraceful, isn’t it?” Davies demanded.

The big Scot gave an indifferent shrug. “Isn’t it just the usual sensational rubbish the newspapers dish out?”

Davies stared at him. “You know who Lambert is, don’t you?”

“Yes. He’s an American novelist.”

“Do you know what books he’s written?”

Henderson was beginning to look resentful. “Yes. They filmed one of them a few years back, didn’t they?”

“They’ve filmed damn nearly all of his work, man. He’s the biggest name in the business.” Davies transferred his stare to Adams. “You must have read his books, Adams?”

Noticing Henderson’s expression, the highly-sensitive Adams shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve read one or two, sir.”

“Which ones?” Davies demanded.

Cornered, Adams tried to avoid Henderson’s aggrieved eyes. “I think one was called The Rains of Rajapur. Another was something to do with the Middle East.”

“The Desert of God?”

Adams brightened. “That’s the one.”

Davies gave an impatient grunt. “Stop being so coy, Adams. You’ve read the lot and so has Moore. Even I’ve read three of ’em. And to be fair they weren’t bad.” He turned back to the red-faced Henderson. “He’s known as the hairy-chested novelist. Hard, tough, but also literary. I suppose that’s why he’s been enrolled for the duration, so he’ll keep the lads marching and the factories humming. The only snag is, if he keeps this up America won’t have any Allies left.” Seeing the other two men’s curiosity, he thrust the newspaper at Moore. “The article’s a direct attack on the RAF. He’s sniped at us before but this time he’s gone too far for us to ignore it.”

With Adams peering over his shoulder, Moore was trying to get the gist of the article and to listen to Davies at the same time. Thirty seconds later he handed the paper to the curious Adams. “I assume it’s the political implications you’re worried about, sir?”

Davies nodded. “You can say that again. There are always plenty of people on both sides of the Atlantic eager to find faults with the other, and this character’s playing up to both. Only this time he’s working on a particularly sensitive nerve. I don’t suppose any of you have heard of Operation Pointblank that the Heads of State drew up at Casablanca early this year?” When all three men shook their heads, Davies continued with a grunt: “Nor should you have done. Basically it set out two principles. One was that Allied operations should start in North Africa to take pressure off the Russians. The second—and this is the one that concerns us—the strategic bombing of Germany was to be intensified. In June this year this order was broken down into specifics. Both Harris and Eaker were told to seek out and destroy factories devoted to enemy aircraft production. You know something about that—the B-17s who gave you cover on your way to Bavaria last month were after the Messerschmitt factories in Regensburg.”

Seeing he had fully captured the attention of his listeners, Davies walked over to a large map of Western Europe that hung on the office wall. “This new directive didn’t please Arthur Harris. As you must have gathered by this time, he believes area bombing can win us the war by itself. The Yanks have different views: they think they can hurt Jerry much more by bombing specialist targets in daylight. How much these different views are governed by necessity I’ll leave you to guess. In the early years of the war we suffered so heavily in daylight raids that we turned to night bombers and now, with our factories tooled to produce them, we’ve no alternative but to continue their use. The Yanks are in exactly the opposite position. Lacking our experience of ’39, ’40, and ’41, they came into the war as we did, believing the day bomber could always get through. Which is true as far as it goes but, as we learned the hard way, only at a hell of a price. So they’re as committed to their B-17s as we’re committed to our night heavies and neither side can turn back now.”

The faces of the three listening men were a study as Davies paused. As in any war in history, unit commanders in 1943 did not enjoy the confidences of their Commanders-in-Chief, and overall strategy could only be guessed at by intelligent observation. That Davies, a stickler for military security, seemed prepared to lift a veil or two made the moment one of high significance. Adams found himself giving a nervous cough as the Air Commodore continued.

“I’m not going into all the pros and cons because most of ’em don’t concern you. But there’s no denying that until recently the Yank daylight raids have pleased the boys at the top because one of the objectives of Pointblank was to destroy as many fighters as possible before the invasion, which we all know must come soon. Jerry’s being clever in not committing his fighters to our own fighter sweeps over France but when the Yanks penetrate in daylight into Germany and attack big cities or vital factories he is forced to react. Of course he attacks our night forces just as energetically, but at night and with our .303 armament we can’t hope to destroy as many of his fighters as the Yanks can with their ten .5 Brownings per aircraft. In theory, then, the Yanks can do heavy damage to his numerical strength but in practice they’re the ones who are suffering the most. You know what their losses were the other day? Thirty-five B-17s with another fifteen damaged beyond repair. And sixty partially damaged. All that out of an initial force of one hundred and sixty aircraft.”

Henderson let out a shocked whistle which Davies answered with a grim nod. “Terrifying, isn’t it? Eaker’s blaming the losses on insufficient front-line strength and he’s probably right. Eight hundred or a thousand B-17s in one raid could probably out-gun Jerry fighters. But let’s get back to Lambert. One of his bleats is that Harris should be co-operating more with Eaker in twenty-four-hour raids on specific targets. That way he argues the German defences in each area would be overstretched. But now he’s grinding another axe. Rumour has it that General Arnold over in the States is complaining our Fighter Command isn’t doing enough to defend the B-17s and Lambert is making the complaint in public. In fact, as you see, he’s saying our intransigence is costing American lives.

“We know Fighter Command’s problems—the Spitfire was designed for short-range interception and even with wing tanks and modifications it can’t reach further than the German frontier. But Fighter Command do have a number of modified Mustangs and Lambert’s also complaining we’re not releasing enough of them to the 8th Air Force. I can’t say how true or false this is, but I do know the RAF has been receiving bad publicity in the States recently and for all kinds of reasons this is causing both Portal and Eaker headaches. Something must be done quickly to bring back the old love affair and you’re the unit chosen for the job.”

The atmosphere in the office was one of high expectancy as Davies’ eyes moved from one man to the other. “It’s not difficult to understand why. Firstly, you’re not part of Bomber Command whose policy of area bombing has lost favour with the Yanks. Secondly, you’re not associated with Fighter Command either. Thirdly, and the best reason of all, your Swartfjord raid and your recent destruction of the Rhine Maiden Project made you the blue-eyed boys of the Yanks.” Davies, whose comments on the Americans had so far been a model of objectivity, backslid for a moment into jingoism. “And so it bloody well should. If you hadn’t wiped out those anti-aircraft rockets, Christ knows the state they’d be in by this time.”

It was Henderson’s turn to cough. “Can I ask a question here?”

Davies frowned. “If you want to.”

“Are these criticisms of the RAF coming from the American crews themselves or only from General Arnold and his staff officers? Because we’ve not found any resentment among the American boys we know.”

Disliking interruptions when he was in full flow, Davies tended to slide into sarcasm. “I thought I’d just explained that. Next to Betty Grable, you’re the Yanks’ favourite pin-ups. It’s the poor bloody artisans of Bomber and Fighter Commands who’re taking all the stick.” Seeing Henderson’s expression, Davies modified his tone. “No, I don’t think the average Yank crewman thinks any of this. He knows we’re just doing the job we’re told to do, the same way he does his. But who is he compared with the Pentagon, Ernest Lambert, and the public at large who don’t know an aileron from a joystick? Our job is to discredit Lambert by showing the American public how wrong he is.”

Henderson was looking doubtful. “And you’ve got an operation for us that can do this?”

“I’m expecting to have, Jock, if things turn out the way we’re hoping. And I ought to know that by Friday at the latest. In the meantime don’t be surprised if you get a visit from our newspaper friend. Rumours are going around he wants to see the set-up here.”

The Scot looked horrified. “Lambert? Here?”

Davies grinned. “Why not? He can hardly visit RAF units without taking a look at us, can he? Don’t look so worried. Give him plenty of whisky and you might even win him over without a shot being fired.”

“I’ll get some warning when he’s coming, won’t I?”

“Oh, Christ, yes. I’ll contact you as soon as they request permission for his visit. In the meantime you can stand your boys down. Not that I want ’em swigging beer in the Mess all day.” Davies switched his gaze to Moore. “Get ’em on the ranges and give ’em plenty of low-level practice.”

Henderson’s ears pricked. “Low-level?”

Davies picked up his briefcase from the desk and took the newspaper from Adams. “No luck, Jock. Security’s as tight as a bull’s arse in fly time on this one. It has to be; there are Allied lives as well as our own involved. You’ll get all details as soon as permission is given.” The spry Air Commodore moved to the door where he grinned again. “Cheer up, Jock. If we pull this off, you might get Veronica Lake sent over as a squadron mascot. And the rest of us might get a spare tin or two of Spam.”

With a wink Davies disappeared, leaving the three officers staring at one another.

Chapter 3

Millburn grinned at the girl behind the desk. “Hiya, kid. How’s life this morning?”

The girl, a pretty WAAF with freckles, eyed the dark, tousle-headed Millburn with some caution. Of Irish descent, the good-looking American had a reputation with women that was a legend on the Station. “Life’s fine, thank you—sir.”

“It is? That’s great. Let’s keep it that way.” Millburn lowered a leg over the corner of the desk. “How about doing a movie with me tonight?”

The girl drew hastily back. “No, thanks.”

The American slid another six inches across the desk. “What is it, honey? You still holding a torch for that Limey boy friend of yours?”

“What if I am?” she asked defiantly.

“It’s a waste, honey. He’s two thousand miles away in Africa. You’re losing precious flying time.”

“And it wouldn’t be a waste if I went out with you?”

Millburn’s grin broadened. “That’s for sure, honey. You’d be getting experience. And that’s money in the bank for a girl.”

The girl opened her mouth, glanced at the closed inner door, and dropped her voice into an exasperated whisper. “Tommy Millburn, you are the most conceited man I’ve ever known.”

“You’ve got the wrong word, haven’t you, honey? You mean confident. There’s a world of difference.”

“Not to me there isn’t.”

The grinning Millburn lifted his six-foot, well-proportioned frame from the desk. “You’ll see the light sooner or later. And when you do, you know who’ll help you.”

The girl gave a sniff. “That’ll be the day. Will you see the Wing Commander now? Or have you something more important to do?”

Millburn waved an indulgent hand. “No. If he promises to hurry it up, I guess I can fit him in.”

Hiding her smile, the girl opened the door. “Squadron Leader Millburn is here, sir.”

Moore, who was sitting at his desk signing papers, glanced up and smiled. “Thank you, Tess. Show him in, will you?”

Millburn’s entry typified the informal atmosphere of an RAF operational squadron. “Hello, skipper. Teddy Young said you wanted to see me.”

Moore indicated for him to draw up a chair. “Yes, there are a couple of things. Did Teddy tell you that we’re standing down for a few days?”

“Yeah. What’s the reason? Have we something big coming up?”

“We might have. But there’s nothing definite at the moment. So if your boys start asking questions, let them think they’re being given a rest.”

Millburn grinned. “They’re not fooled as easily as that.”

“All right, tell them they’re getting sloppy and need some practice. Take them over the gunnery range and let them have a go at the low-level targets.”

Millburn looked disappointed. “How many sessions?”

“Just the mornings. You can take the rest of the day off.”

“Great. They’ll think it’s Christmas.” The American pushed a packet of Lucky Strike across the desk. “What’s next on the list?”

“I’ve had news of Harvey. He phoned me this morning. He’s made such a good recovery the hospital’s discharging him in a couple of days.”

“You’re kidding. He’s had three operations, hasn’t he?”

Moore nodded. Although busy lighting his cigarette, he was studying the American’s expression. “He has to convalesce for a while, of course, but he ought to be back with us around the middle of October.”

“That’s great,” Millburn said. “I wonder if the nurses down there have mellowed him.”

Moore smiled. “I wouldn’t think it’s likely, would you?”

“Not much. He’ll probably give me a bollocking as soon as he gets back for not keeping his office tidy.”

Moore exhaled smoke. “You do realize I’ll have to give him his flight back?”

To his gratification the American looked surprised rather than upset. “What else? Hell, he practically destroyed that rocket plant single-handed. You know something? The boys’ll be pleased. He’s a better mother hen than I’ll ever be.”

“We all agree he’s a fine flight commander. But you’ve done a good job yourself. That’s something else I want to talk about. You’re a cert for the job if you do what the Yanks want and move over to them. In fact, with your experience you might get a squadron command. I know you’ve flattered us before by staying here but this time the situation’s different. We can’t hang on to you at personal cost to yourself.”

Millburn’s affability turned to wryness. “Let’s get it straight, skipper. Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Don’t be a damn fool. I’m trying to be fair to you.”

Looking embarrassed and defiant in equal parts, the American took a few seconds to respond. “One thing I’d like to make clear, skipper. I think my guys are doing a great job.”

Guessing what was coming, Moore tried to hide his amusement. “So do I. So do we all.”

With that important point made, Millburn’s tone changed. “So it’s not that. It’s just that a guy gets used to one unit.” Terrified of appearing sentimental, Millburn searched for a more harmless reason and found one. “What about girls? A guy can lose out if he’s always moving around.”

“That’s true. Mind you, there are plenty of girls in East Anglia. And from the stories I hear, they don’t exactly dislike the Yanks.”

“But the ones I’ve got here are house-trained. And that saves a man a lot of time.”

Moore lifted his shoulders expressively. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

Millburn grinned as their eyes met. “So I stay. O.K.?”

The young squadron commander made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. “Of course you stay. The last thing I want is to lose you.”

“Then do me a favour, skipper. Don’t do me any favours. Just let me soldier along as before.”

Moore’s laugh reached the WAAF in the anteroom. “All right. But don’t let me hear you moaning when Harvey gives you that bollocking. And don’t get prickly when one of your war correspondents asks you what a clean, upright American boy is doing in the RAF.”

“War correspondent?”

“Yes. We’ve got one visiting us any day now. Ernest Lambert, the novelist.”

Millburn whistled. “Lambert? Has it to do with the Rhine Maiden job?”

Realizing he could say little about Lambert’s visit without endangering security, Moore prevaricated. “If it is, he’s a bit late. The dust from that settled a month ago.”

“Maybe he’s just getting round to it.”

Moore nodded. “I suppose it’s possible.” Changing the subject, he picked up a form from his desk. “I see you’ve put through McKenny’s request for leave. You don’t know he’s still got two months to go?”

“Yeah. Only he’s been pressing me hard and he’s been hitting the bottle recently.”

“What is it? Girl trouble?”

“Search me. He won’t talk about it.”

“Has the M.O. seen him?”

“I made him take a medical last week. The M.O. says there’s nothing wrong with him physically. He says he’s a bit highly strung but then who isn’t?”

Moore glanced down at the form again. “If I authorize this I’ll have every man jack on the squadron slapping applications in. Try to find out what’s troubling him, will you, and then we’ll see what we can do.”

“Fair enough. Anything else?”

“No. That’s the lot for the moment.”

The American nodded and stubbed out his cigarette. As he reached the door and the WAAF appeared, he turned. “You know the real reason I’m staying here, don’t you, skipper?”

“No. Tell me.”

Millburn winked and patted the cheek of the girl who was holding the door open for him. “It’s Tess here. She’s driving me wild, skipper. A woman like her’s worth anything. Even flying with a tribe of Limeys.”

The girl’s expression told she had forgotten the presence of the laughing Moore. Before she could vent her feelings, the ebullient American had pulled the door closed and vanished.

The small officer standing beneath the naked light bulb that hung from the billet roof was trying to put a shine on his service cap badge. Halfway through the operation he turned and scowled at Millburn who was lying full-length on one of the beds. “If you used Harvey’s quarters instead of still kipping in here, maybe that lazy young sod Wilkinson would give me better attention.”

Millburn lifted his head. “It’s not rank that does it, mush. It’s personality.”

“What do you mean—personality? You’ve got more cash to bribe him with, that’s all.”

“Jealousy’ll get you nowhere, my little Welsh blinder. Why don’t you accept that some guys have it and some don’t? Anyway, what’s all this moaning about? I thought you’d be happy to get a couple of days off duty.”

The small officer was in no mood to be placated. “Don’t worry; we’ll pay for it. I saw Davies coming out of the Admin Block this morning. When he pays us a visit there’s always trouble.”

Johnnie Gabriel, nicknamed Gabby or The Gremlin because of his wiry frame and sharp features that could look either comically old or young at will, was one of the Squadron’s characters. Somewhat older than his aircrew colleagues, with a thirst for excitement that was insatiable, he had enlisted in the Thirties as a fighter pilot for the Government in the Spanish Civil War. Before crashing into enemy territory he had shot down three Fascist planes. Threatened with execution by the Falangists, Gabby had volunteered to fly for Franco and by some miracle of persuasion had been accepted. On his first solo mission he had flown straight out of Spain into France.

On the outbreak of World War Two he had not unreasonably expected the RAF to accept him as a trained pilot. Instead his offer to fly had been rejected and he had been kept waiting eighteen months before he was offered training as a navigator. His disgruntled acceptance had eventually led him to a Mitchell squadron where he had become Millburn’s navigator. Set alongside the powerful American with his devil-may-care features and shock of black hair, the Welshman looked more like a gnome than ever. Yet the two ill-assorted characters had become inseparable friends and notorious in every squadron in which they had served for their mad pranks and tireless pursuit of women. To date they had been in 633 Squadron just over four months. In spite of their wild reputation on the ground, they were a highly capable crew and had been an almost automatic selection to lead A Flight after Harvey had been wounded and hospitalized.

Millburn yawned. “What’s wrong with a bit of trouble?”

“What are you looking for?” the Welshman gibed. “Another DFC to show those Yank buddies of yours?”

“Coming from you, that’s really something,” Millburn grinned. “Who’s the guy I once found polishing a scratch on his arm with a toothbrush so he could show it to his dames?”

Gabby, who had been wounded during the Rhine Maiden operation, gave a sniff of indignation. “Some of us have had more than scratches, mate. You forgotten I was a stretcher case when we got back from Bavaria?”

“You’ve never let anyone forget. From the line you shot in the hospital, the nurses thought you’d captured Hitler and brought him back in the bomb bay.”

“So what? I got some dates for you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did. And I haven’t got over ’em yet.”

Back on his favourite topic, Gabby tried blandishments. “Change your mind and come tonight. Both of those kids have fallen for you.”

“Not a chance, mush. You’re on your own.”

“But Betty’s friend’s not that bad. A bit skinny, perhaps, but she’s got good legs.”

“A bit skinny? She’s like Olive Oyl in one of those Popeye movies. I know why you want me along. So you can use my car.”

“It’s not that at all. Four’s more company than two.”

“You mean more company than three. I’m on to you, you little bum. That dame of yours won’t go out with you unless Olive Oyl tags along and I don’t blame her. So I’m supposed to provide the car and pick up the bills.”

Gabby looked hurt. “You’ve got it all wrong. We’ve just more fun when we’re out together, that’s all.”

“More fun for who?”

“At least you could lend me the car,” the Welshmen muttered.

“That’s more like it. Well, I could but I won’t. I’m going out myself on a recce after dinner. So the car’s out.”

“Sod,” Gabby muttered, putting on his forage cap. Millburn guffawed as he watched him set it at a jaunty angle. “You’re wasting your time, mush. With Olive Oyl keeping a beady eye on you all night, you’re never going to make it.”

“I’d do it for you, Millburn. You know I would.”

“Like hell you would. What about the time I picked up that dame in Scarborough? You ran out on me as soon as you saw her friend and I was stuck with the two of ’em for the rest of the day.”

“That was different. She had bad breath and bow legs.”

“At least she had legs. This dame walks on sticks.”

Gabby had a last try. “So I’ve got to take the transport into town?”

“That’s right. And back. You’ve got a tough night ahead of you.”

The small Welshman quivered with indignation. “I’ve never picked up a girl yet without asking if she had a friend for you. And this is the thanks I get.”

“That’s right. I’ve been stuck with so many plain Janes it’s starting to affect my morale. From now on you take the rough with the smooth, boyo. Starting from tonight.”

Seeing it was hopeless, Gabby started for the door. He threw his last punch from the step outside. “Now I know why you’re still in our mob, Millburn. The Yanks are too smart to have you.”

Millburn’s guffaw reached the Welshman before he slammed the door closed. “You’ve got it wrong as usual, kid. The girls here won’t let me go.”

Chapter 4