Operation Rhine Maiden E-Book

Frederick E. Smith

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

Seitenzahl: 487

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

After a near-suicide mission to the Swartfjord, which claimed many lives, morale among the survivors of 633 Squadron was at its lowest ebb. Unbearable tension and problems with replacement recruits were tearing the squadron apart...

The new Commander, Ian Moore — young, brilliant and aggressive — knew that the only thing that would pull it together was the challenge of another dangerous mission...

The Germans were developing “Rhine Maiden,” a new antiaircraft rocket which posed a deadly threat to the Allies’ invasion plans. So the top brass decided that 633 Squadron should first bomb the rocket factory and then make a daring strike in broad daylight on an underground target buried deep in a Bavarian valley...

Leseprobe

OPERATION RHINE MAIDEN

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 © 1975 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: 1975

First Thunderchild eBook Edition: October 2017

Dedication & Acknowledgment

To

my old and dear friend

JOHNNIE GEMMELL,

who will be greatly missed

The author wishes to acknowledge his debt to the authors of the following works of reference:

Bekker, The Luftwaffe War Diaries (Macdonald); Adolf Galland, The First and the Last (Methuen); Alfred Price, Instruments of Darkness (Win Kimber); Richards and Saunders, Royal Air Force 1939 1945 (11.M. S.O.); C. Martin Sharp and Martin F. Bowyer, Mosquito (Faber); Sir C. Webster and N. Frankland, The Strategic AirOffensive against Germany 1939-1945 (H.M.S.O.)

And, last but not least, to his good friend Group Captain T. G. Mahaddie, D.S.O., D.F.C., A.F.C.

CHAPTER 1

The small group of mechanics, all smoking cigarettes, were standing in the summer sunshine outside a dispersal hut. An FBVI Mosquito with modifications was at rest twenty yards away. Beneath its nose a young Aircraftman IInd Class, whose chubby face was shining in the heat, was trying to replace a gun bay panel. As he struggled to locate the spring-loaded screws, a Leading Aircraftman detached himself from the group. An old sweat with a long, dismal face and a sharp nose, he was wearing a filthy pair of overalls held together at the waist by a single button. Ducking his head he gazed at the sweating youngster.

“Takin’ your time, aren’t you?”

“I’m going as quick as I can,” the ACII muttered.

“You’d better get a jildi on, mate. If Chiefy has to ground this kite, he’ll have the lot of us workin’ on it all night. And then you’ll be real popular.”

The youngster was having difficulty in lining up the screws with their sockets. “Couldn’t you hold the panel for me?” he asked tentatively.

The old sweat, by name McTyre, looked shocked. “You want to get me into trouble, Ellis? I’m a fitter, not a bloody armourer.”

“But I only want it holding while I fasten the screws,” the young ACII wailed.

McTyre was clearly shaken by the youngster’s readiness to bend the sacred lines of demarcation. “Out of the question, mate. By the centre ....” Shaking his head, the old sweat retreated to the group of mechanics. “You hear that? He’ll be askin’ Chiefy to give ’im a hand next.”

A telephone was heard ringing. A corporal ran into the dispersal hut, to return fifteen seconds later. “Hey, Ellis. Is that gun serviceable yet?”

The cherubim-faced youngster had got the panel on at last. “Yes, I think so, corp.”

The corporal went back to the telephone. McTyre met him in the hut doorway as he was coming out. “Is it right Lacy’s not flyin’ with Harvey today?”

“Yeh. Lacy’s got appendicitis.”

“Who’s flyin’ in his place?”

“One of the sprogs. Blackburn.”

McTyre gave a whistle. “Christ! That’ll make Harvey happy.”

By this time Ellis was carrying his equipment away from the nose of the Mosquito. When the way was clear McTyre stepped loftily forward and climbed into the cockpit. A few seconds later the starboard engine fired, followed by the port. A flight of starlings, grubbing in the short grass nearby, took off with a clatter of wings.

The Merlins began to thunder as McTyre warmed them up. A shower of dust and stones made the group of mechanics take shelter on the lee side of the hut. Three minutes later McTyre waved an underling into the cockpit and swung his legs to the ground. As he scribbled his initials on the Form 700 that the corporal pushed at him, the roar of the engines died into a rhythmical murmur. It allowed the mechanics to hear the roar of other Merlins around the airfield where the same routine was being carried out.

A 25-cwt. transport began circling the perimeter track, dropping off crews at their dispersal points. A second vehicle, a station wagon befitting a Flight Commander, drew up a few yards from McTyre whose muted wolf whistle at the pretty WAAF driver brought only a toss of curls.

The tall, powerfully-built pilot who jumped out was Frank Harvey, A Flight Commander and Acting Squadron Commander for the operation. With the warm evening obviating the need for flying clothes, he was wearing service uniform. A Yorkshireman with withdrawn eyes and a face that was all planes and angles, Harvey was not famous for his sociability at the best of times. This evening his mood was forbidding as he dragged his parachute from the station wagon.

Two other men followed him out. One, a stocky youngster carrying a canvas bag as well as his parachute, was Blackburn, Harvey’s new navigator and the innocent cause of the Yorkshireman’s mood. The other man was “Sandy” Powell, an affable Australian who, like Harvey, was a survivor from the original squadron. Wounded over Bergen, he had been hospitalized during the climactic raid, an accident that had probably saved his life. Harvey’s dourness was an obstacle to friendship, but Powell was the closest to a friend on the squadron that the Yorkshireman had, and, although Harvey would have died rather than admit it, he valued the Australian accordingly.

As Harvey started for the dispersal hut, Powell caught his arm. “Wait a minute. You still haven’t given me the name of those gee-gees.”

Harvey did his best to be affable. “You can have ’em when we get back.”

“You kidding? What if you get the chop?”

Harvey gave an impatient scowl. “It’s Sun King for the two-thirty and Jason II for the three o’clock. The other one’s Blue something — maybe Blue Stocking. I’ll have to check on it.”

“Great. If they come up we’re in Scarborough tomorrow night for dinner. O.K.?”

Harvey nodded, humped his parachute over one shoulder, and started again for the dispersal hut. As the stocky Blackburn followed somewhat ruefully after him, Powell clapped him on his shoulder. “You’ll be all right, cobber. His bark’s worse than his bite.”

Blackburn gave him a grateful look, and Powell ran back to the station wagon, which shot away. At the dispersal hut Harvey barely glanced at the Form 700 before signing it and shoving it back at the corporal. Ignoring Blackburn he strode over to the Mosquito, ordered the mechanic out, and took his place in the pilot’s seat. Feeling the eyes of the ground crew on him, Blackburn took a deep breath, threw his bag and parachute through the open cockpit door, and pulled himself in after them. Almost instantly the two Merlins began to roar as Harvey tested them. A green Very light soared up from the Control Tower and D-Danny began to roll forward.

McTyre was grinning unsympathetically. “I’d hate to be in his shoes. Harvey looks mad enough to pitch him into the drink.”

Ellis, still new and young enough to feel wonder at it all, ventured a question. “Where are they going, Mac?”

McTyre gave him a look of pity. “You’ve helped to bomb up the bloody thing and don’t know where they’re going.”

“Nobody’s told me,” the young armourer complained.

Across the airfield Mosquito after Mosquito was moving from its hard-standing and taxiing in procession for takeoff. As another Very light soared from the Control Tower, Harvey’s D-Danny came swooping along the runway and climbed into the sunlit evening sky with a crackling roar. McTyre jerked an oily thumb eastward. “They’re goin’ to prang a Jerry convoy. Somewhere off the Danish coast.” As another of the graceful planes took off and banked round the airfield, the old sweat followed its flight with a rare pride.

“Look at ’em, mate. Miracle kites, that’s what they are. Made of wood and yet able to outfly anything Jerry can put up. And carry a 4,000-lb. cookie if they want to.”

The youngster’s ingenuous blue eyes, bright with envy, watched the orbiting planes break and follow Harvey eastward. Flying in a loose gaggle, they swept so low over the fields that their shadows pursued them like sharks. Reaching the coast just south of Flamborough Head, they leapt over a sunlit beach still sprinkled with holidaymakers, Men leapt to their feet and excited girls waved towels. The gaggle swept over a line of inshore fishing boats, then the sea that led to the enemy coast reached out blue and dangerous before them. Within seconds they were only a cluster of specks to the watching holidaymakers. The time was 1915 hours. The month was July 1943.

It was later the same evening that Frank Adams, the Station Intelligence Officer, took a walk round the airfield perimeter. Since the teleprinters had started clacking that afternoon he had been working at full stretch, and in an hour or less, when the squadron returned, de-briefing might keep him busy until midnight. This was the lull period when the ground staff could take a breather, and Adams had discovered that a walk helped to ease his tension.

The murmur of voices drifting towards him told him that inside the dispersal huts mechanics were smoking cigarettes and brewing cups of tea. The distant row of poplars were black against the fading sky and an arrowhead of homing birds was winging its way towards Bishop’s Wood. Adams glanced at his watch. The evenings would begin closing in soon. In less than three months those icy, north-east winds would be back, probing through the Nissen huts and sweeping unmolested across the cement-stained ground. Adams had never been able to decide which season he preferred since putting on uniform. In spite of its discomforts, winter did at least match the black mood of war.

The turf-lined mound on Adams’ left was the bomb dump. As he passed a gun-post he could feel the crew watching him and had to restrain his impulse to call out a greeting. That most other ranks found familiarity from officers an embarrassment was another unwelcome fact Adams had learned.

He walked until a hillock hid him from the gun-post, then pushed through a tangle of sweet-smelling grass to the perimeter fence. The fence here was only three feet high and down the road, set back behind its garden, he could see the Black Swan. With all the personnel of the airfield on duty tonight, its bars would be almost empty.

In the hedgerow across the quiet road a blackbird had begun its evening song. With the sentimentalist in him unable to equate such moments with war, Adams found his thoughts turning paradoxically to the time ten weeks previously when the aircrews of 633 Squadron, weighing their lives against the threat to their country, had chosen to fly straight into the murderous steel trap of the Swart-fjord.

It had been an evening of equal beauty when the armourers had loaded the earthquake bombs into the waiting Mosquitoes. And Adams could distinctly remember hearing a blackbird singing during the cold dawn vigil when he, Davies and the Brigadier had waited for survivors. Blackbirds seemed an integral part of Sutton Craddock, but when only one crippled Mosquito had landed and the full extent of the disaster was known, Adams had wondered bitterly what the hell they had to sing about.

It was a memory that was still painful to Adams, yet certain scenes of it were etched for ever on his mind. The numbed expression of Marsden, the Signals Officer, as he tried to understand he would never see ninety per cent of his friends again. The mercurial Davies, struggling to balance the loss against his euphoria at the success of the mission. The elderly Brigadier’s shame at the relief he could not hide. But of all the fragmented memories, the most painful was Hilde Bergman’s reaction on hearing Grenville had not returned. There had been the small fluttering motion of her hand that Adams had come to know so well and now epitomized her grief. The few unsteady steps she had taken across the room, her single sob, and then, incredibly, her melodic voice addressing him.

“Thank you for coming over to tell me, Frank. I know how painful all this must be for you.”

That she could think of him at such a moment and express sympathy had been the breaking point for Adams. Wanting above all else to comfort her, he had instead stumbled back to his billet where, cursing his cowardice, he had drunk almost a full bottle of whisky. It had not helped. The next twenty-four hours had contained all the elements of a black nightmare for Adams.

His eyes focused again over the perimeter fence. Two months had not been long enough to hide the fire-blackened scars in the cornfield where Gillibrand had made his supreme sacrifice, although when the field was ploughed in the autumn the scars would disappear. While the sentimentalist in Adams protested at the thought, the realist in him knew the world seldom sorrowed long over its martyrs.

He stirred impatiently at his habit of extracting melancholy from memory. The news he had been able to give Hilde three days ago ought to have erased some of the sadness of the past. He had heard from the Red Cross that Grenville, although seriously wounded, was making good progress in a German prison hospital. Adams had run all the way to the Black Swan to tell Hilde. Her reaction had made Adams think of his childhood and the tale of the Sleeping Beauty who had come back to shining life at the kiss from her Prince. “I have felt it, Frank. But it is something I have never dared to believe.”

Adams told her that apart from Harvey and his observer who had escaped capture and been brought back to England by the Norwegian Linge, the Red Cross reported only two other men alive in German hands. Her decision when the full import of Grenville’s survival had sunk in had dismayed Adams but not surprised him. “I’ve wasted enough time feeling sorry for myself, Frank. Now I must go and make myself useful like the rest of you.” She had phoned a military nursing unit in Whitby and had left Sutton Craddock only that morning.

Perhaps, then, there was an excuse for his mood tonight, Adams thought. When his wife, Valerie, had decided to leave the Black Swan and live with her parents until the war ended, Adams had been free to spend his off-duty time as he wished and much of it had been spent seeing Hilde. They had become close friends and after a day or night assessing how many enemy aircraft had been shot down, how many German factories had been destroyed, or how some young friend had been killed, Adams’ need to see the girl had often been as urgent as a wounded man needing a sedative. He sometimes felt the madness of war would go on forever and the realization tonight that he would have to face it without her was crushing.

About to sit on the top rail of the fence, Adams decided it was too rickety. As he leaned his elbows on it instead, he remembered almost with surprise that it was Sunday. In the village churches that dotted the Yorkshire countryside the faithful would be in their pews reaffirming their allegiance to the Prince of Peace. Listening to the blackbird’s song again Adams discovered that a coarse background of sound was adulterating it. Back where the shadows were thickening between the billets and hangars, orders were being shouted and engines were starting up. With a sigh Adams pushed himself away from the fence. Signals must have been alerted that the squadron was nearing its base and Sue Spencer, his assistant, would be wondering what had happened to him.

An unmilitary figure with his spectacles and stocky build, Adams started back along the perimeter track. In the dusk ahead the activity was quickening. As the dim lights of the Control Tower came on, darkness seemed to close in and envelop the airfield.

As Adams passed one of the sandbagged gun-posts he heard the hum of an approaching aircraft. A moment later he saw its navigation lights in the darkening sky and he quickened his stride. Half a minute later the Mosquito passed over him with a roar of engines and began orbiting the field.

Hurrying now, Adams passed a row of Nissen huts and the transport park. To the east he could hear more aircraft approaching. As he crossed the tarmac apron in front of No. 1 hangar, he passed close to a frail monoplane. It was a Miles Messenger, flown in two hours ago by Air Commodore Davies. Davies, a small, alert man with a choleric temperament, had been the link man with the Special Operations Executive in the Swartfjord affair. An officer with a high pride in his service, Davies had a particular affection for 633 Squadron and consequently, in the way of love, was prone to criticize it when it fell below his expectations. A good-looking young Wing Commander had flown in with him but as Davies had offered no introductions, Adams could only speculate on the reason for the visit. For the last ninety minutes they had been closeted in the Control Tower with Henderson. Henderson, nick-named “Pop” by the crews, was a huge, middle-aged Scot who had taken over the squadron after Barrett’s death. A taciturn man, he exercised his authority with the minimum of fuss and so was a popular C.O.

As Adams was passing the door of the Control Tower the landing lights flashed on, a dazzling corridor of brilliance that made Adams’ eyes blink behind his spectacles. Navigation lights flashing, the first Mosquito began its landing approach. Engines purring and airfoils whining, it positioned itself between the two rows of lights and sank down. There was the squeal of tyres and brakes and the graceful shape disappeared into the luminous haze at the far end of the field.

The second Mosquito appeared to have suffered damage and Adams paused to watch it. One engine was coughing like a man with asthma and there was an unsteadiness in its approach as it entered the lane of lights. But its wheels were locked down and it was sinking into a safe landing when, to Adams’ horror, a dark shape hurled itself out of the darkness like a hawk on a pigeon. The hammer of cannon fire was followed by a muffled explosion and a great gush of flame. The stricken Mosquito lurched helplessly and crashed fifty yards to the left of the landing lights. As the fireball slithered along the ground it left behind it huge patches of burning petrol and wreckage.

The German night intruder, who had carried out his mission so successfully, escaped into the darkness before the stunned crews above or the ground staff below knew what was happening. One gunner did let go a burst of Hispano cannon fire but the wildly-aimed shells were a greater threat to the orbiting Mosquitoes than the Ju.88. In the few seconds of chaos that followed, men ran in panic for the air-raid shelters and other men yelled orders that no one obeyed. From the platform of the Control Tower someone was firing pointless Very lights into the red-stained sky.

Then training asserted itself. As if a giant’s black sleeve had swept across the field, the landing lights went out, giving Adams a moment of vertigo. Around him men were assuming their duties and fire engines and an ambulance were already gathering speed in their dash to the distant funeral pyre.

The Control Tower door burst open and Davies, Henderson and the young Wing Commander appeared. Seeing Adams, Davies ran over to him. “How many of the bastards are there? Any idea?”

“Only one, I think,” Adams said, hating the unsteadiness of his voice.

Henderson joined them. The swinging headlights of a fast-moving ambulance momentarily lit up his face. Normally ruddy, it was pale and shocked. “Let’s hope you’re right.” As he turned to flag down a crash wagon, Davies caught his arm.

“There’s no point to it, Jock. You’d be wasting your time.”

For a moment it seemed Henderson might resist. Then his huge body relaxed. “I suppose you’re right.” His Scots voice held a dash of resentment.

Overhead the orbiting Mosquitoes had switched off their navigation lights. Adams’ imagination lifted him up there. Weary from hours of action, in imminent danger of collision with their comrades, the crews had no way of knowing if other intruders were waiting to pounce on them when they came in to land. Turning to Henderson, whose shocked eyes were still fixed on the burning aircraft, Adams found his question difficult to ask.

“Do you know who it was, sir?”

Henderson nodded. “Yes. It was Sandy Powell and Irving.”

“Sandy Powell! Oh, Christ,” Adams breathed.

Davies, birdlike in his quick glance at both men, gave neither time for reflection. He pushed Henderson and the young Wing Commander, who had not spoken, towards the Control Tower. “If we don’t get the rest of ’em down, there might be another disaster. Come on.”

The three men disappeared through the door. Over on the airfield crash wagons were now pouring foam on the wreckage. With a last look Adams followed them inside.

CHAPTER 2

The atmosphere in the Intelligence Room that evening had a hardness that a sharp knife might have had difficulty in cutting. Adams was seated at a large table. A detailed map of the Danish province of Jutland was spread out before him. His assistant, Sue Spencer, was seated at a table against the opposite wall. She was a tall, willowy girl whose sensitive face and gentle voice belied her efficiency. At the opposite end of the long hut, standing on either side of the door, were two groups of aircrew, and it was from them that the tension was radiating. Afraid of an eruption at any moment, Adams was finding concentration on his task a problem.

His method of interrogation was to give the crews some small privacy when they spoke to him, his belief being that privacy made them more likely to discuss their own mistakes and the mistakes of their comrades. Stan Baldwin, lapsed Catholic from Barbados, called his hut the “Confessional” and the name had taken on.

Hopkinson was the navigator Adams was interrogating. Hoppy, as he was affectionately known among the older aircrew members, had once been Grenville’s navigator but an injury received in an earlier mission had kept him out of the Swartfjord raid. A small astute Cockney with a pinched face and the eyes of a sparrowhawk, he was wearing flying overalls which carried an evocative smell of combat — oil, cordite, and a dozen other indefinable odours — to Adams’ nostrils. Condemned to ground duties by his eyesight and his age, Adams had discovered that the odours always stirred envy in him, and this envy puzzled him because in general Adams found war abhorrent.

He stole another quick glance at the two groups of aircrew. Their sullen muttering and antagonistic glances at one another made him think of the two electrodes of a giant condenser into which an overcharge of current had been poured. Apprehensive, he glanced up at Hopkinson again. Usually one of the most cheerful men on the station, the Cockney was looking disgusted and resentful.

“So you don’t think any ships were hit?” Adams asked.

Hopkinson’s laugh was caustic. “It would have needed a miracle, wouldn’t it?”

“Why?”

“I’ve just told you. Because there was a bloody great smoke-screen right over the convoy.”

“But that means they must have had wind of your coming.”

“Of course they’d wind of it. Is anyone surprised?”

With Hopkinson usually a helpful as well as a polite collaborator, and with everyone shocked by the intruder attack, Adams had thought it prudent to allow a loose rein. Now he decided things were getting out of hand.

“All right. You’re not happy and you’ve shown it. Now pull yourself together and tell me specifically what went wrong. And while we’re being civil to one another, put that cigarette out.”

The jolt to Hopkinson was the more severe because it came from Adams, usually the mildest of men. His nicotine-stained fingers holding the smoking cigarette ground it into an ashtray on the desk. “I thought you’d already heard about the flak ship,” the Cockney muttered sullenly.

“If you’d been keeping your eyes open instead of grumbling to those old sweats of yours, you’d have realized you’re the first navigator I’ve interrogated. What flak ship?”

“The one you warned us about at our briefing.” Adams gave a start. “The one south of the convoy?”

“Yes. You pointed out that if it sighted us it would tip off the convoy. That’s what happened.”

Adams winced. The German convoy, protected from the Royal Navy by off-shore minefields, was believed to be carrying precious iron ore from Narvik to the Baltic ports. Adams was not looking forward to the rocket Group would dispatch when it learned the convoy was now safe in the Skagerrak.

“But you were routed well north of it. So how did it see you?”

“You’re forgetting Harvey was given a sprog navigator. The fool took us in sight of it. I spotted the bloody thing on the horizon and broke R/T silence to warn Harvey, but he decided to keep going and hope for the best. We didn’t run into any fighters, thank Christ — maybe they thought we were making for the coast — but the convoy hadn’t taken any chances. The smoke was like a London pea-souper when we reached it.”

“How can you be sure it wasn’t your R/T that alerted them?” Adams asked.

Hopkinson tried unsuccessfully to hide his contempt at the question. “A Jerry flak ship doesn’t miss two gaggles of Mossies only six or seven miles away. With the Banff Wing scaring the shit out of them, that’s what they’re looking for all the time.”

Although Adams knew he was right, he felt a need to put in a word for the unfortunate Blackburn. “By the time you got there the convoy and the flak ship can’t have been more than thirty miles apart. It’s not difficult to drift a few miles off course over the sea — as a navigator you know that well enough.”

Hopkinson’s lack of charity was as uncharacteristic as was Adams’ severity. “I know this — if it isn’t one bloody thing, it’s another. Christ knows when we last hit the button. The lads have had a bellyful. Once we were a squadron. Now we’re just a shower.”

Hiding his thoughts beneath a frown, Adams tapped his questionnaire with a pencil. “Let’s make that the last of the moans, shall we? What type were the destroyers?”

“Elbings, I think,” the Cockney muttered.

“Any flak ships in the escort?”

“I saw one. There might have been others.”

“Was there much flak?”

“Enough for me.”

“Radar controlled?”

“It had to be in all that smoke.”

“Any damage?”

“I didn’t see any. I saw them hit Powell though. Just under his starboard engine.”

“Did he start straight back?”

“No, he dropped his bombs first. Then Harvey told him to piss off. Not that it did him much good,” Hopkinson added as an afterthought.

Adams wrote it down. At the nearby table Sue Spencer had finished interrogating a freckle-faced navigator and a tall young pilot was now walking down the Nissen hut towards her. As he neared the girl, Adams, who could not resist a sideward glance, saw that her eyes held a faint trace of moisture.

It was a scene Adams had witnessed at least a dozen times as the girl gave silent thanksgiving for the pilot’s return. Worship seemed the only appropriate word to express Sue Spencer’s feelings for Tony St. Claire, and yet Adams felt even a hardened cynic would excuse its extravagance, for the slim young officer with the Byronic head and long, sensitive hands was the handsomest man Adams had ever seen. Nor was his artistic appearance deceptive. After studying the piano at the Royal College of Music, St. Claire had just been making a name for himself on the concert platform when the war had claimed him for service. In the six weeks since the young pilot’s posting to Sutton Craddock, Adams had more than once pondered on the unfairness of a world that could pour such lavish gifts on one man and leave others so impoverished.

Only a trained observer would have noticed how Sue Spencer brushed her hand against St. Claire’s as she handed him a leaflet. Occasionally Adams had felt a certain professional unease at allowing the girl to interrogate him: at the same time he knew she was not one to put personal relationships before her duty. Watching their faces in that brief moment and knowing they were already together in that magic world where he always walked alone, Adams felt a tug of pain as he turned back to Hopkinson.

“Did you see Millburn and Gabby get hit?”

“No. But that wasn’t anything serious, was it?”

“Gabby got a scratch and a bang in the ribs and the M.O. sent him to the County Hospital for an X-ray. We’re expecting him back tonight. Have your photographs gone in?”

A sudden shout interrupted Hopkinson’s reply. The voice had a north-country accent that was exaggerated by anger. “You! St. Claire. Over here! At the double!”

The sullen hum of conversation stopped dead as all eyes turned on the doorway. Looking enraged enough to commit murder, Harvey was moving stiff-legged into the hut. Hiding his apprehension well, St. Claire turned away from the startled Sue Spencer and approached him. “Yes, sir?”

Adams could hear the Yorkshireman’s heavy breathing. “You bastard,” Harvey gritted.

St. Claire’s good-looking face turned pale. “I beg your pardon, sir?’

Harvey was trembling with fury as he moved to within three feet of the young pilot officer. “Don’t beg pardon me, you bastard. I ought to bloody kill you.”

There was a low gasp as Sue Spencer rose to her feet Afraid she would intervene Adams caught her arm. Down the hut, although he was as shaken as the girl, St. Claire was giving no ground. “You keep on abusing me, sir, but I still don’t know what I have done!’

A large vein was visible on the Yorkshireman’s forehead as he fought for control. “You wouldn’t know, would you, you stupid sod. What orders did I give you after Powell was hit?”

“You said I had to fly back with him.”

“That’s right. And what do you think that was for — to play a duet with him?” The loss of his friend was almost choking Harvey. “Your job was to provide him with cower. And what happened? You let a bloody intruder give him the chop.”

A few cries of assent rose from the smaller group and loud shouts of protest from the larger. As the dismayed Adams watched he saw a big pilot officer with a shock of black hair detach himself from the latter group. Tommy Millburn, an American of Irish descent, had joined the RAF before the United States had entered the war and in spite of repeated overtures from the 8th Air force and the promise of pay that was astronomical by British standards, Millburn had resolutely refused to exchange uniforms. Rich with humour and the darling of the WAAFs, the American was showing the quixotic side of his nature as he faced Harvey.

“You’ve got it all wrong, sir. That Ju.88 wasn’t behind Powell — he came in at ninety degrees. I was right behind St. Claire and saw the Hun cross the flarepath. There was nothing anybody could have done.”

Frustrated by a witness who could clear St. Claire, Harvey was only too glad to turn his resentment on to the American. “So you were right behind the dreamy bastard! What were you doing? Listening to him playing Beethoven?”

A fighter to his fingertips, Millburn was only too willing to trade punches with the Flight Commander. “No one could have stopped that 88. Why don’t you ask the guys on the ground? They must have seen it too.”

There was a shout of agreement from the larger group. Knowing his case was lost but with his pain still demanding a victim, Harvey moved closer to the American. “Neither of you thought of helping him down? Or giving him cover on either flank?”

Millburn’s contempt was pure provocation. “How could we know an intruder was waiting for him? Control thought he was fit to land on his own and so did Powell. Anyway, what difference would it have made? If we’d been in line with Powell that Hun would have got one of us as well. Maybe both.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Harvey rammed his incensed face into Millburn’s. “I’ll tell you what difference it would have made. I’d trade half a dozen of your lot for Powell, Millburn. Any day of the week.”

Millburn’s cheeks paled. As men shouted their protest it seemed for a moment that the American might put himself straight in front of a court martial. Instead, regaining control with an effort, he muttered something and turned away. Instantly Harvey grabbed his arm and swung him round.

“Don’t you turn away from me, Millburn! Not until you’ve been given permission.”

His tug was the spark to the powderkeg. With a curse Millburn shoved him away. Eyes blazing with relief, Harvey was moving in to a fight that would have destroyed his career when an urgent bellow halted him.

“Harvey! Millburn! Attention!”

Training made both men stiffen. The horrified Adams, who by this time was running down the hut, saw Henderson inside the doorway. The bluff Scot was looking incredulous as he came forward. “What the hell’s going on in here? What do you two think you’re doing?”

When neither man spoke, Henderson turned his anger on Adams. “You — Adams! This is your office. Can’t you keep order in it?”

Seeing that Davies and the young Wing Commander had followed Henderson into the hut, Adams was able to appreciate even more the big Scotsman’s indignation. “I’m sorry, sir. That intruder raid seems to have upset everyone’s nerves. I think you’ll find it’s only a misunderstanding.”

Henderson was taking in the two groups of airmen and the expressions of Harvey and Millburn. Acutely conscious that the splenetic Davies was dying to get in on the act, he knew he had to act fast and firmly. The Intelligence Officer’s explanation, weak though it sounded to Adams, gave the Scot the excuse he needed.

“It’d bloody better be,” he said grimly, turning to Harvey and Millburn. “You two get to my office. I’ll be along in a minute. If you exchange another word on the way, you’re straight in front of a court martial. Understand?”

The two men nodded. Glancing at one another, they went out. Feeling Davies’s critical eyes on him, Henderson turned to the hushed crews. “As none of you appear to have hit anything, I’m cancelling this de-briefing session. Go to the Ops. Room and wait for me. It’s time you and me had a long talk. That means no one leaves the airfield tonight. All right — move!”

As the men filed silently out Henderson turned his attention on Adams. “I want you to stay but not your assistant.”

The shaken girl collected her papers and left. The door had barely closed before Davies, whose efforts to remain silent had almost choked him, came forward like a truculent cockerel.

“That was a bloody disgraceful scene, Adams. A Flight Commander brawling with a pilot officer ... Christ, this is a military establishment, not a taproom. What the hell was it about?”

Adams could see no harm in telling the truth. “It’s the old problem, sir. When Harvey’s navigator was taken ill, we had to give him a fresher, a man called Blackburn. It seems the youngster’s mistake gave the convoy the tip-off.”

“That doesn’t call for a punch-up, does it? Where do St. Claire and that American fit in?”

Adams could only hope he wasn’t making matters worse. “St. Claire and Millburn were following Powell down. It wasn’t their fault — I saw myself that the 88 attacked across the flarepath — but Harvey thought they hadn’t given Powell cover. I suppose it was one thing piling on another — Harvey and Powell were friends.”

Davies swore and swung round on Henderson. “This isn’t a squadron — it’s a pack of squabbling mongrels. You’ve got to sort it out, Henderson. And bloody quick at that.”

Somehow the Scot hid his displeasure. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

“You do that,” Davies snapped. “Once this was the best squadron in the Group. I want it the best again. So I’d like some fingers pulled out. All right?”

Henderson’s burly face turned red. “I said yes, sir!”

Giving him a sharp look, Davies motioned the young pilot forward and turned back to Adams. “You two had better be introduced. Adams, meet Wing Commander Moore. You’ll be seeing a good deal of him in the future because he’s your new Squadron Commander.”

CHAPTER 3

Adams’ start and the glance he gave Henderson brought a terse nod from Davies. “I know. Harvey’s not going to like it, but that’s something he’ll have to live with. In any case, after this ding-dong tonight he must know he’s blown any chance he had.”

Adams held out his hand. The man facing him was fresh-complexioned, with wavy fair hair and a good forehead. A very English face was Adams’ first thought — the kind one associates with cricket matches and regattas at Henley. He had a small scar on his right cheek, and the crinkles round his eyes when he smiled suggested he was somewhat older than the squadron average — perhaps twenty-six or -seven. He was slim in build and his uniform was beautifully tailored, but any suggestions that the wrappings were more impressive than the contents were dispelled by the DSO and DFC ribbons beneath his pilot’s brevet. His reaction to the fracas and Davies’s sarcasm had been little more than a quirk of the mouth. With storms eddying all around him, Adams found this composure a most attractive feature.

He said the first thing that came to him and wanted to kick himself for it half a second later. “You’ve picked quite a night to arrive.”

Moore’s voice was much what he expected. English, cultured, and laconic. “These things happen.”

Davies jumped in quickly at that. “They bloody shouldn’t.” He turned to Henderson. “Mind if I come to the bollocking?”

The big Scot made no attempt to hide his lack of enthusiasm. “If you want to.”

“I do. I’ve a few things I want to say myself. And we can introduce Moore to them. All right?”

Henderson sighed audibly. “All right, sir.”

“What about Harvey and that American? You going to talk to them first?”

“Yes, I suppose I’d better.”

“You wouldn’t like me to handle that while you go along to the Ops Room?”

This time Adams was certain he saw Moore’s lips quirk as the big Scot reacted. “No, sir. It’s a Station disciplinary matter and I’d rather take care of it myself. But of course you’re welcome as an observer.”

Davies glowered. “No. I’ll make a couple of phone calls instead. I suppose I am allowed to use the Adjutant’s office?” he asked sarcastically.

“Of course, sir.” Henderson’s face was pink but expressionless as he turned to Moore. “If you don’t mind waiting here, I’ll collect you on my way back. If there’s anything you want to know in the meantime, Adams will take care of you.”

Looking like two dogs — one very large and one very small — who had squabbled over a bone, the two men left the hut. Unsure what Moore’s half-smile signified, Adams proceeded with caution. “Feel like a seat while you’re waiting?”

The two men sank into a couple of chairs that flanked the long hut. As the younger man pulled out a cigarette case, Adams shook his head.

“No, thanks. I’m a pipe smoker myself.”

Moore extracted a cigarette and snapped the case closed. “Don’t they say pipes are more soothing for the nerves?”

Adams could not help following the cigarette case back into the Wing Commander’s inner pocket. Unless it was a fake — and spurious possessions did not seem to go hand in hand with this self-confident young man — the metal was gold. Before Adams could think of a reply, the need was taken from him as Moore flicked on an equally expensive lighter.

“Talking about nerves, this seems a pretty edgy squadron. What’s your version of it?”

Knowing that both Davies and Henderson must have briefed him, Adams proceeded carefully. “I feel that any squadron that’s suffered the losses we’ve suffered would have the same problems.”

Somewhat to his surprise, the young officer nodded. “You’re probably right. I’m told you have ten left of your original crews. Tell me again how that number’s made up, will you?”

“Ten until tonight,” Adams said with some bitterness. “Young and his navigator were the only ones who flew back from the Swartfjord. He’s now B Flight Commander. Harvey and his navigator, Lacy, escaped capture after being shot down and were smuggled back to the U.K. by the Norwegians. The other six come from crews wounded over Bergen before the Swartfjord raid who have now come back to us from hospital.”

“So you needed massive replacements?”

“Right. And with the newspapers having plastered 633 Squadron’s sacrifice in the Swartfjord on every front page, it’s hardly surprising they didn’t arrive here full of confidence.”

The young officer looked sceptical. “You’re not suggesting they saw this as a suicide unit?”

“No. But they saw it as an élite one. And with the Press constantly reminding them of it, it’s not surprising they arrived here feeling inadequate.”

“Did the old sweats behave like a corps d’élite?”

“They’re a bit clannish,” Adams admitted. “With their common bond of survival, I suppose it’s natural in one way. And with three times their number of recruits pouring in, self-protection must have had some part in it.”

“So the recruits felt they were being patronized, got chips on their shoulders, and things have got steadily worse?”

Either he knew something about men, Adams thought, or else Davies’s briefing had been very perceptive. Rightly or wrongly, the recruits had felt themselves patronized. And the old sweats, mistaking their resentment for envy, had started making comparisons. As comparisons, in the nature of things, could hardly be anything else but unfavourable, they had closed their ranks even further. Polarization of the two groups had led to bad feeling and inefficiency, inefficiency to a series of abortive missions, recriminations to even more drastic polarization. Before Adams could comment further on the vicious circle, Moore put another question to him.

“What action did your last Squadron Commander take to put things right?”

Sweet nothing would have been Adams’ reply if he hadn’t disliked speaking ill of the dead. Alan Prentice, sent to the squadron a week after Grenville had been reported missing, had been a stiff, unimaginative officer, and although he had led the squadron courageously enough, he had been at sea in handling the psychological tensions that were tearing it apart. So his death in action three weeks previously had been no setback to the squadron’s difficult convalescence, unless one argued that it had led to Harvey’s temporary accession to the leadership. What that had done to squadron morale, in particular his behaviour tonight, Adams was still trying to sort out in his mind.

“I believe he thought that time would put things right,” was the best Adams could say for the unfortunate Prentice.

Moore did not pursue the subject. “How do the ground crews line up?”

“They tend to make matters worse. In Grenville’s days they were members of an élite force and could look down their nose at other squadrons. Now the other erks are taking their revenge and ours don’t like it. We try to keep them in line but they show their contempt of the new men in a hundred ways.”

Moore was examining Adams’ round, bespectacled face. “What would you like to see done?”

The directness of the question surprised Adams. “Me? I suppose I’d like to see them pull off a few successful operations. Their tails would come up and they might get a new respect for one another.” Conscious of the obviousness of his solution, Adams suddenly felt embarrassed. “I know it’s over-simple but I can’t think of anything else.”

The younger man gave no sign of noticing his discomfort. “Fair enough, but what comes first the chicken or the egg? I suppose all the old sweats fly together?” When Adams nodded, Moore went on quietly: “Have you ever thought there might be a solution there?”

Adams gave a jump. “You don’t mean split up the crews?”

“Not so much the crews as the flights. That way they might gain a new respect for one another.”

Harvey loomed large in Adams’ mind. An ambitious man, the Yorkshireman must have had high hopes that his role of Squadron Commander would be substantiated, yet in a few minutes he would learn he had been used only until Group had found a man more to their taste. After such a day of disaster, it was hard to visualize what his reaction would be to his replacement’s suggestion.

“I’m afraid you’d have a revolution on your hands. You know how crews stick together. And most of the old sweats are in Harvey’s flight. He’d go berserk if he lost them.”

Moore’s shrug suggested nothing could worry him less. “Tell me about your kites. They’re a modification of the FBVI fighter-bomber, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but by leaving in only the two outer cannon and giving us the short-barrelled version, the manufacturers have given us a longer bomb bay and room for a bombsight in the cockpit. It’s a bit of a squeeze but it does make us a very flexible unit.”

Moore nodded. “How long have you been with the squadron?”

Adams had to think. “Over sixteen months.”

“Then you must know the men as well or better than anyone. Will you advise me on reshuffling the flights?”

Adams procrastinated. “Have you discussed this with the Old Man?”

“Not yet. But I’m sure he won’t object. I’ve been told I’ve got a relatively free hand to sort things out.”

“I’m a coward,” Adams told him. “I’ll give you my advice but only on condition you don’t tell even the station cat.”

Moore gave his likeable smile. “It’s a deal. When? After the C.O. has introduced me to the men?”

“If you like.” Adams slanted a glance at his crowded desk. “In any case I’ll be here for at least an hour — I haven’t filled in my reports yet.”

“Fine. Then I’ll be back.”

Adams hesitated then decided to say it. “Don’t be too hard on Harvey and the old sweats. They’ve taken a hell of a beating and I think half their trouble is they’re miserable that the squadron has slipped so much.”

He saw a twinkle in the younger man’s eyes. “Do you know something, Adams?”

“What?”

“You’re just as sold on the old crowd as those erks you were talking about.”

Behind his spectacles Adams looked resentful. “They were a fine crowd. So what’s wrong with admiring them?”

“Nothing. Except I’m wondering what the difference is between you and the others.”

“I don’t blame the new men. That’s the difference.”

“Don’t blame them for what? For not matching up?”

Discovering his muscles were tight, Adams made himself relax. “All right, you’ve made your point. I’ll watch it and be as objective as I can.”

“Good man.”

Heavy footsteps sounded outside, and a moment later the burly figure of Henderson appeared in the doorway. His expression suggested he had got something off his mind and was feeling the better for it.

“You ready, Moore?”

“Coming, sir.” With a friendly nod at Adams, the immaculate young officer walked unhurriedly towards the door. Watching him with a certain grudging respect, Adams, prone to irrelevant thoughts at such moments, found himself wishing he knew the name of his tailor.

The bright moonlight made the woods an eerie place of old light and jet-black shadows. The hoot of the distant train, reverberating among the mountains, added to the atmosphere. Hidden in a bush among the trees that flanked the cutting, Hausmann pulled aside a branch. The moonlight enabled him to see the single-line railway track that ran past him. Fifty yards down the track a heavy steel gate, linked to a high mesh fence, straddled it. Both were glinting dully in the moonlight. Defences could not be seen because of the darkness, but from the lights that had appeared when the guard was changed an hour ago, Hausmann knew there was a large blockhouse only thirty yards from the gate.

His eyes followed the high mesh fence that disappeared into the woods on either side of the track. Probably electrified and surrounding the entire valley, was his guess. He gave the railway track his attention again. Once it passed the steel gates, the tall firs closed tightly on either side, giving the appearance that the track was running into a dark tunnel. Probably it was, Hausmann thought. If the valley held the secret he and his comrades believed, German thoroughness would almost certainly ensure the track was camouflaged from the air.

The mournful hoot of the train sounded again. This time, as he listened, Hausmann could pick out the rhythmical pounding of its steam engine. With sounds carrying far in the mountain air, he knew it was still some distance away, but now it seemed certain this heavily-guarded valley was its destination.

He let the branch swing back into place, but not before the moonlight showed a weatherbeaten face and a burly, middle-aged figure wearing a pair of workman’s overalls. As he sank back, a sharp root that had been jabbing into his body for the last ninety minutes no matter what position he assumed, took on new venom and dug into his right groin. With a silent curse he drew himself forward and took the pressure on his thigh. The sudden movement brought a loud clatter as a jay in the trees above took fright and flew away. Holding his breath, Hausmann drew the branch aside again, but to his relief no signs of alarm showed at the gate.

He wondered what Meyer and Rall were doing. They had been gone forty minutes: surely they had determined the extent of the fence by this time. On the other hand, the woods here were dense and vast: it was easy enough to get lost in them in the daylight, never mind at night.

A pain in his left leg was growing by the minute. Günter Hausmann suffered from arthritis which, although seldom severe enough to incapacitate him, could cause considerable pain when he was subjected to damp, and heavy dew was an integral part of summer night in these parts. He could feel its wetness as leaves brushed his face and knew that in the morning he would have difficulty in getting to work. The bloody war, he thought, that made a man of his age crawl about damp woods when he ought to be in bed with some plump woman. It was typical of his character that Hausmann could concern himself with rheumatism when one security slip could end in torture and death.

There was a singing in the telephone wires that ran alongside the track. As the night wind dropped, the wail of the train was heard again. By this time Hausmann knew it had passed through the small town at the head of the approach valley: the rumble of its freight cars and pounding of its engine had taken on a sterner note as it began its climb through the mountains. Under the waiting man the ground began to tremble.

Half a minute later a dazzling light shone through the bush as an arc light above the gates was switched on. Drawing the branch cautiously aside, Hausmann saw that the massive barrier, the high fence, the grim blockhouse, and a platoon of soldiers were standing out like a stage set against the black woods. To a yell of orders, the soldiers ran forward and manned the gates.

A shaded blue headlight appeared among the trees to Hausmann’s right. Edging forward, he watched the freight train approach the gates. Although it was travelling slowly, the red glow of its firebox and the dull glint of its metal surfaces gave an impression of crushing weight and power. As it came opposite him there was a hiss of vacuum brakes. With a clanking of couplings and screech of metal wheels, the chain of wagons halted in front of the gates. As a searchlight flashed on and began playing down the track, Hausmann ducked back out of sight.

At the gates the driver and fireman were called down from the engine to show their papers. Soldiers from the blockhouse began moving down the train, shining their torches into and under the freight cars. The search for possible intruders was exhaustive: even soldiers who were manning the flak wagon at the rear of the train were called down for interrogation.

Fifteen minutes passed before the train was cleared and the steel gates opened. When the tail light of the flak wagon disappeared into the woods, Hausmann began counting in an effort to see how far the train ran into the woods before reaching its destination. As he counted, the steel gates swung back across the track and the arc light went out. He had reached only nine seconds when far into the valley there was a bright flash and a dull explosion. Dogs began barking immediately and there was a fusillade of automatic fire. Showing alarm, Hausmann backed a few yards into the woods. Then, forgetting his aching leg, he began to run.

“There it is!” Rall’s whisper had a youthful sound as he raised an arm. His taller companion, little more than a shadow behind him, pushed forward to his side. Thirty yards ahead was a corridor of felled trees and down its centre the heavy-gauge wire of a mesh fence glinted in the moonlight. Meyer’s whisper suggested an older man. Both men spoke in German, their native tongue.

“So it does go right down the valley. Probably all the way round. Let’s go back and tell Hausmann.”

Below them they could hear the freight train penetrating deeper into the valley. Rall caught Meyer’s arm. “We’ve got to find out what’s going on down there. Let me take a closer look. If it’s not electrified, we can come back with wire cutters.”

Meyer hesitated, then nodded. “Be careful. There might be guards on the other side.”

Rall’s white teeth flashed in the shadows. “I’ve a date tomorrow night. You think I’m going to miss it?”

The youth crept forward while Meyer kept watch. A night breeze, bringing the sound of the train nearer, seemed to emphasize the size and loneliness of the woods. The youth managed to keep in shadow until he reached the bright corridor of moonlight that lay between him and the fence. As he paused, Meyer straightened anxiously. “That’s enough. You can see all you want from there.”

Rall either did not hear him or ignored his advice. Bending low, he began running towards the fence. He was half-way towards it when there was an eruption of flame and a shattering explosion that threw his body like a rag doll against a felled tree.

For a moment Meyer was too horrified to move. Then he ran to the edge of the moonlit corridor. One glance at the dead youth was enough: he drew back gagging. As his ears recovered from the explosion he heard the barking of dogs, followed by automatic fire. Fighting to control his stomach, he ran back into the trees and made for the valley entrance.

He took a path that led him away from the fence, but the sound of dogs and shouting men was growing louder. He thanked God they came from the other side of the fence but he knew there must be access points along it, and if his presence were suspected and the dogs released ahead of him, he was as good as dead. Stumbling and falling, running until he felt his heart would burst, he kept going until the sounds grew faint behind him. By the time he reached his prearranged rendezvous with Hausmann he was retching again, this time from exhaustion.

“Mines,” he gasped. “All along the fence. The youngster ran right on top of one.”

As he dropped to the ground Hausmann’s fingers dug into his shoulder. “Could he talk?”

“Talk? Christ — what with?”

Hausmann relaxed. “Then they can’t be sure. It could have been anybody — a forester or a poacher.”

Chest heaving painfully, Meyer managed to sit up. Lean in build, he had gaunt, sardonic features. “Did you get a look at the wagons?”

“Yes. They were covered with tarpaulins but their serial numbers tallied.”

In the moonlight Meyer looked pale. “Then it looks as if you’re right.”

Hausmann motioned him to be quiet. The dogs had ceased barking and the train could no longer be heard. Yet the deep silence was broken by the distant sound of machinery and the throb of powerful engines. Coming from the vast stretch of forest, the sound was both mysterious and intimidating. Hausmann listened a moment, then put an urgent arm beneath Meyer’s shoulder. “Come on. We must get a message through to London.”

The weary Meyer stumbled alongside him. As they disappeared a night breeze swept down the valley, agitating the tall firs and drowning the alien sound. When the breeze dropped, the woods were silent again.