Operation Valkyrie E-Book

Frederick E. Smith

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

Seitenzahl: 454

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

That cold morning in July 1943 still haunted 633 Squadron, for only a single Mosquito made it back from the suicidal but successful Operation Vesuvius. Now, barely a year later, the Germans were once more processing the secret “element” known as IMI in a strongly defended facility in Norway and were about to move their stocks to the safety of Germany. If successful, the whole tide of the war would be turned. Once again, it meant another “mission impossible” for 633 Squadron...

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 life-long 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 VALKYRIE

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

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

OPERATION VALKYRIE

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 © 1978 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: 1978

First Thunderchild eBook Edition: November 2017

Dedication

To

my old friends

Betty and Arthur.

Chapter 1

The six Norwegians in workmen’s clothes were clustered round the unshuttered window. The seventh, a massive bearded man with a thatch of fair hair, had his hand on the catch of the stout wooden chair. As the door swung open a flurry of snow swept in and hissed against the wood stove.

A young man, wearing a white snow smock, stumbled into the doorway. The giant’s deep voice rumbled over the howl of the wind. “What’s the panic, Elsenstein? Germans?”

The frightened youngster nodded. “A patrol. They’re chasing Arne.”

The occupants of the hut reacted immediately, throwing on camouflaged smocks and grabbing up Sten guns. The giant pulled the youngster inside and helped him off with his skis. “How many?”

“I can’t be sure, Jensen. But I saw four.”

Skis in their hands, men were already crowding into the doorway. Jensen caught one man by the arm and pulled him back. “Not you, Paul. We’ll take care of it.”

The Norwegian he was addressing was a man in his early thirties whose high forehead, thin cheeks and flat, black hair suggested an academician rather than a man of action. Yet although he was no more than five feet eight inches tall and thinly-built, his intense eyes and quick movements hinted at great reserves of nervous energy; a man whose will-power alone would drive him further than most. His cultured voice reinforced his academic appearance. “Why not? I’ve been trained for the work.”

The giant shook his head grimly. “You know what our orders are—you don’t take any risks. You stay here with the kid. It shouldn’t take us long.”

Paul Lindstrom opened his mouth to argue, then turned away. Climbing into his ski smock, Jensen grabbed up a Sten gun and a pair of skis and yanked the door open.

As the door slammed behind him, Lindstrom walked to the open window. The hut was perched on a mountainside, on the fringe of a large conifer forest that covered its upper slopes. The main party of Norwegians had already disappeared into the forest. Jensen, covering the snow in giant strides, was in hot pursuit.

The youngster, who had now regained his breath, moved up to Lindstrom’s elbow. “Which way was Arne coming?” Lindstrom asked.

Eisenstein pointed at a ridge that ran down the mountainside. “He was making for that higher ground. But he might have taken cover in the woods by this time.”

Jensen had already disappeared among the trees. Gazing at the snow-covered mountains and the steel-grey sky, Lindstrom had the sensation he was stranded at the farthermost reaches of a world where the sun was dying and all life was doomed. A gasp alongside him destroyed the fantasy.

“Arne hasn’t taken cover! He’s trying to draw them away from us.”

A tiny figure on skis had just cleared the ridge and was frantically contouring the mountainside two hundred metres below the hut. As the pursued man drew nearer he waved a frantic arm to alert his compatriots. Five seconds later four more skiers cleared the ridge. Clad in German ski-troops’ uniform, they were spread out in a fifty metre arc. As Arne passed the hut and headed towards the cover of another snow ridge, the leading German stopped, dropped on one knee and fired. The shot, a flat sound at first, came reverberating back as the German commenced his pursuit again.

Nudging Elsenstein, Lindstrom spun round and grabbed up a rifle. “Get ready in case Jensen isn’t able to stop them.”

By this time the German patrol was no more than four hundred metres away, skimming along the fringe of the woods like as many birds. As another man paused to take a shot at Arne, a fusillade of automatic fire rang out from the trees. The kneeling man collapsed immediately. With hoarse shouts the remaining Germans turned down the mountain in an attempt to escape.

It was the signal for Jensen’s entire party to emerge from the wood. As automatic guns fired again, two more Germans pitched into the snow and lay motionless. The last man stumbled, dropped his Mauser, but managed to keep going. Shouting something to his party, the giant Jensen went after him like a bloodthirsty Norse god. A burst of fire at close range flung the German over, his body riddled with bullets.

Arne had paused on the opposite ridge on hearing the firing. Seeing the ambush had been successful, he turned and made for the hut. With exhaustion taking its toll, he was the last man to arrive and almost collapsed into the arms of Jensen. Fighting for breath, he was carried inside. Almost thirty seconds passed before he was able to speak.

“Helga sent me… She says the Germans have decided to move all their stocks.”

There was a gasp of dismay from the circle of men. Showing more concern than anyone, Lindstrom dropped on his knees beside the exhausted man. “Does she know when?”

Propped against Jensen’s arm, Arne’s sweat-streaked face stared up at him. “She says they’re making elaborate arrangements. So it might take a couple of weeks. But no longer.”

Jensen gave a Nordic oath. “Two weeks! Christ, we’re going to have to move. Shall we radio London?”

Lindstrom was already on his feet. “No, it’s too important for that. I’ll take the Shetland Bus. But it’ll have to be tonight.”

Jensen turned to one of his partisans, a wiry young man with the face of a pugilist, who showed doubt. “Not tonight, Steen. There’s less than four hours of daylight left.”

Jensen’s growl was like overhead thunder. “I want a boat tonight! Or there’ll be hell to pay. You tell Anderson that.”

Clearly intimidated by the giant’s anger, the partisan turned to Lindstrom. “It’s quite a long way to the coast, sir. Can you ski that far?”

“Just guide me there,” Lindstrom said curtly. He turned back to Jensen. “You do realize that when the patrol doesn’t return to base the Germans are going to comb these mountains?”

The bearded Jensen grinned, showing strong, white teeth. “Don’t worry about us, lad. You get over to London and tell ’em what the bastards are doing. In the meantime we’ll see what else we can find out.” He swung round to his tense party. “All right, lads. Get your equipment together and let’s move out.”

In less than ten minutes the party was ready to leave. Outside the hut Jensen drew Lindstrom aside and gripped his arm affectionately. “Take care of yourself, lad, and watch out for patrols when you get near the coast. When you reach London, tell them they can rely on us whatever they decide to do.”

Shaking his hand, Lindstrom followed his guide down the mountainside. Led by the giant, the rest of the partisans began skiing southwards. In a few minutes the only evidence that human life had violated the virgin slopes were the four bodies lying in the snow.

Davies glanced with surprise at the two M. P. s guarding both ends of the corridor. Security was always tight at High Elms but today it bordered on the claustrophobic. The Air Commodore’s car had been stopped three times since entering the estate and a Provost Lieutenant had demanded the password from him before he had been allowed to step out into the courtyard. That same lieutenant was now opening the door of the library that Davies knew so well. “Air Commodore Davies is here, sir.”

The library, a long rectangular room with panelled oak walls, ran to French windows opening out onto a terrace. Two men were standing beside a long conference table that stood in the centre of the room. One was the Brigadier, Davies’ contact with the Special Operations Executive, an elderly man of distinguished and soldierly appearance. General Staines of the American 8th Air Force stood alongside him, a massive figure of a man with short, spiky hair. Davies, who had worked with Staines on both Operation Rhine Maiden and Operation Crucible, knew the Texan well.

A man of great composure, the Brigadier was hiding his anxiety admirably as he shook hands with Davies and then turned with a smile to the American. “You two have met before, I believe.”

Staines had a voice that sounded like ball bearings rolling about inside a tin can. “You can say that again. And it’s always meant trouble.” His powerful handshake made Davies stiffen. “It’s good to see you again, Davies. How’re you keeping?”

“I’m fine, sir.” Davies ran his eyes over the Texan’s massive frame. “I don’t need to ask how you are.”

Staines grinned. “I keep in shape. You know why, Davies? It’s those cigars I smoke.”

Davies, who had sampled one of the Texan’s cigars and felt queasy for days, winced at the reminder. “I wouldn’t recommend them as a general pick-me-up, sir.”

The Texan’s huge laugh rolled round the library. “You know something, Davies? You’ll never be constipated if you smoke ’em. They work better than Number Nines.”

The Brigadier moved forward. “May I offer you a drink, Davies?”

Although it was not his habit to drink before dinner and the dusk had not yet closed in on the February afternoon, Davies could adapt when the occasion demanded it, and the huge whisky that sat on the table in front of Staines suggested this was such an occasion. “Thank you, sir. A very small whisky.”

Handing him a glass, the Brigadier motioned him into a chair. “I’m grateful you got over so quickly, Davies. This is something of an urgent conference.”

From the presence of Staines, Davies had already made that deduction. “What’s the problem, sir?”

The elderly soldier sank somewhat heavily into a chair. “A rather serious one, I’m afraid. Do you remember the Swartfjord affair last year?”

Davies could not hide a start. “I could hardly forget it, could I? Not after the losses we sustained.”

“Quite. It was a terribly costly affair. A tragedy, in fact.”

The soldier’s expression made Davies glance at Staines. Seeing the American’s genial face was now equally grave, Davies felt a sudden chill.

“You’re not telling me that business has flared up again?”

The Brigadier nodded. “I’m afraid it has, Davies.”

“But how could it? We destroyed the processing plant. Buried it beneath a mountain.”

The Brigadier sighed. “I’m afraid there is more to it than that. The processing plant was obliterated and remains obliterated. But the element it was processing there still remains a problem. As you know, it is a product of hydro-electric power and the power station in the Swartfjord wasn’t the only one in Norway that could produce it.”

Staines, whose eyes had been darting from one man to the other, broke in with some urgency at this point. “Hold your fire a minute. You’re talking as if Davies knew all about this stuff.”

“He does, General,” the Brigadier told him.

The Texan’s frown deepened. “But I thought this was supposed to be one of the best-kept secrets of the war. I only got the lowdown myself a few days ago.”

“I am sure it is, sir. But from the way things went last April we had no choice but to take Davies into our confidence. Naturally we received full security clearance.”

Staines sank back into his chair with a grunt. “All right, then you know what’ll happen if Jerry gets the stuff processed and in use before we do. But from now on, Davies, even between ourselves, the only name for it is the IMI element. Understood?”

“I understand, sir.” Davies turned back to the Brigadier. “Am I to take it, then, that another hydro-electric power station is now producing it?”

The elderly soldier rose to his feet. “I have a guest who will put the entire picture to you. He arrived an hour ago but after his tiring journey I insisted he had lunch before he met you. I’m sure he’ll be ready to see you now.”

Leaving the library, the Brigadier returned a couple of minutes later with a serious-faced young man wearing the uniform of an American major and carrying a briefcase. He led the newcomer over to Davies. “Lindstrom, this is Air Commodore Davies. Davies—meet Major Lindstrom of the American SAS. He has just got back from Norway.”

Chapter 2

The correctness of Lindstrom’s English was tempered by his slight American accent. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Air Commodore. The Brigadier has told me it was your Mosquito squadron that carried out the raid last year on the Swartfjord plant. Please accept my congratulations. People all over Norway still talk about it.”

Although not averse to receiving compliments about his much-beloved squadron, Davies was too much of a professional soldier not to frown at praise. “I’m glad to hear it. Because it cost a lot of good boys.” Then, feeling he hadn’t reacted with sufficient grace, Davies tried to make amends. “The Brigadier says you’ve just come out of Norway. How? By ship?”

“Yes. The Norwegian Linge—that’s their Resistance Movement—run a daily boat service to the U.K. They call it the Shetland Bus. They got me across to Scotland and the RAF flew me down here.”

Davies had personal knowledge of the fishing smacks and the like that made the perilous journey. Time and again the Germans caught the small boats outside the restricted area and blew them up but the tough Norwegians kept on coming. The younger man’s accent was reminding him of Finn Bergman. “You wouldn’t be a Norwegian yourself, would you?”

Seeing Lindstrom’s hesitation, the Brigadier answered the question for him. “Major Lindstrom took up residence in America three years before the war when a large chemical corporation over there offered him a post as a physicist. When the Americans heard that the Germans were building up large stocks of IMI, he was asked if he would return to Norway to investigate. He volunteered, received specialist training, and began working with the Norwegian Linge in 1942. He helped Bergman with information about the Swartfjord plant last year.”

Davies’ respect for the academic- looking young Norwegian was growing by the minute. “You seem to have found yourself a dangerous job, major.”

Lindstrom’s shrug had an element of contempt. “The people who live over there take far greater risks. People like my sister for example.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes. She is acting as an agent in Rjukan. By mixing socially with the staff of the power station there she picks up a great deal of information. She is the reason I’m over here now.”

Staines decided it was time to get proceedings moving again. “Until today the Air Commodore hadn’t known there was a similar threat from another hydro- electric power station. Fill him in with the details, will you?”

Nodding, Lindstrom drew a map of Norway from his briefcase and opened it out on the desk in front of Davies. He laid a finger on a point on the province of Telemark. “The power station, the Norsk Hydro, is here, near the town of Rjukan. We’ve known it was producing IMI for a long time and until the Swartfjord processing plant began operations we saw it as our main threat. Late in 1942 a force of B-17s were sent out but they did no real damage. The British tried next, sending out gliders and airborne troops whose job was to land forty miles away and carry out a Bruneval-type operation on the station. It was a complete disaster with many of the gliders crashing into the mountains. The troops that survived were captured and later shot as spies.

“A Norwegian called Ronnerberg next offered to try. He gathered a party of Norwegian volunteers in Britain, gave them hurried training, then landed them in Norway by fishing boat. From there they made their way to the valley on foot. All carried suicide pills in case of capture. They managed to reach the valley undetected but then had to climb down an almost precipitous cliff face. While the main party kept guard, Ronnerberg and three others entered the basement where the IMI tanks were stored, overcame the guards, and attached limpet mines to the IMI tanks. Then they withdrew and managed to escape from the valley before the mines exploded. Knowing there would be a massive manhunt, they dispersed. A few reached Sweden and eventually made their way back to the U.K. The rest, led by two men called Skinnarland and Haukelid, stayed behind to keep watch on the IMI station at the Norsk Hydro. Among other things my group has been busy collating and assessing the information Skinnarland sends to London.”

Davies had been listening in fascination. “Ronnerberg wasn’t able to sabotage the power station itself?”

“No. There was a limit to the weight of explosive his men could carry but in any case the exiled Norwegian Government weren’t able at that time to sanction the destruction of another power station. The one your men destroyed in the Swartfjord caused great hardship in the province.”

“So stocks of IMI have been building up again?” Davies said.

“Yes. Today we believe they are as large as when your squadron and Ronnerberg carried out your respective raids.”

“But why hasn’t something been done about them?”

“For a combination of reasons. As you can imagine, after Ronnerberg’s raid the Germans made the valley virtually impregnable against ground attack. They also took warning from your Swartfjord raid and filled the valley with flak defences. It is true that had an IMI processing plant existed in the valley, as it had in the Swartfjord, we would have taken any risks but without such a plant the stocks themselves represented no immediate threat. But the news I’ve just had from my sister changes everything.”

There were lines around Davies’ eyes and mouth that had not been there earlier. A unit commander who normally had no difficulty in rationalizing losses against rewards, the Swartfjord tragedy was one operation he had never been able to forget. His voice sounded hoarse as he glanced up at the Norwegian. “You’re not telling me they’ve built a processing plant there?”

“No. Not there.”

Davies felt his muscles slacken a degree or two. “Where then?”

“In Bavaria. No doubt they feel now it is safer in the heartland of Germany. Allied agents have been keeping an eye on it and report it is almost completed. My sister’s news confirms it. She says the IMI stocks are to be shipped out of Rjukan in two weeks’ time. Perhaps less.”

Staines leaned his massive bulk over the table. “Davies, those stocks mustn’t reach Bavaria or the Heinies could beat us to the finishing post, and then it’s Goodbye Mr Chips. Somehow we have to destroy ’em either before they’re shipped out or when they’re in transit.”

The Brigadier’s quiet, very English voice added its own brand of gravity. “You’ll gather the importance of this, Davies, when I tell you the C-in-C received a message this morning with one of Winston’s red tags attached to it. That’s why I immediately called this conference.”

The red tags referred to had the words ACTION THIS DAY emblazoned on them and represented Churchill’s most feared directives. Shaking his head, Davies turned back to Lindstrom. “We couldn’t destroy the processing plant in Bavaria?”

“No. Naturally we’ve considered it but our agents say it has been constructed in an almost impregnable position. Moreover we have to consider the possibility it is an elaborate hoax and the real plant is somewhere else. Or they could even be duplicated. The only way we can be certain the threat is eliminated is to destroy the stocks themselves.”

Staines nodded at the briefcase on the desk. “Let’s look at the photographs you’ve brought.”

The men crowded round a large photograph of the valley that Lindstrom laid on the desk. Staines gave a whistle. “Jeez! It looks more like a job for a submarine. Where are the IMI stocks supposed to be?”

“Until now we’ve believed they were still in the power station’s basement. But my sister’s heard a rumour they might have been moved into concrete bunkers some distance away. The only way we can find out the truth is to take new photographs and compare them with the old.”

Davies beat Staines to the question by a whisker. “But if the power station is too difficult a target and in any case the Norwegian Government won’t sanction another raid against it, why would Jerry do that? The basement’s the safest place they could be in.”

The young Norwegian nodded. “That was the position until we learned about the Bavarian processing plant. Now it has been decided that no matter what hardship is caused, the stocks must be destroyed.”

Staines was frowning down at the photograph. “Maybe so but if we couldn’t clobber it a year ago, how can we clobber it now? It looks as big as a fortress.”

Lindstrom’s academic tone suddenly changed as his eyes lifted to Staines. “It is well over a year since it was bombed. Haven’t we developed better bombsights and bigger bombs in that time?”

The strong hint of criticism made Staines frown. “You think the Heinies don’t know that?”

The Brigadier, more aware than anyone how emotionally involved the young Norwegian was with the destruction of the stocks, intervened tactfully. “It is just feasible the stocks have been moved into bunkers, gentlemen. The Germans need that power station as much as the Norwegians and so while the stocks remain inside it, it has always been a target for attack.”

Never one to beat about the bush, Staines came straight to the point. “We’re waffling around this, aren’t we? What do you want us to do? Try to find out where the stocks are and then have a crack at them? You do realize we’d have to bomb at high-level? There isn’t a hope of getting the penetration otherwise.”

With the Swartfjord raid in mind, Davies was thanking God this was true. Studying the photograph again, he turned to the Texan. “We could try 2,000 lb armour piercing bombs, sir. With the right terminal velocity they’ll penetrate nine inches of armour or sixteen feet of reinforced concrete.”

The big Texan shrugged. “Great. Only how do we drop ’em? They’re too long to go into our B-17 s bomb bays and your Lancs couldn’t go because it would mean a daylight raid and they’d be shot to hell.”

“Can you adapt your B-17 s? Carry them outside the bomb bays perhaps?”

“No. We tried that once when we were thinking of attacking the Heine submarine pens but the boffins couldn’t find a way. We could ask them to try again but I wouldn’t put any money on it.”

“Then what about 500 lb semi-armour piercing? If they were dropped from 30,000—as they’d have to be to get their full terminal velocity—we’d be above most of the flak defences.” Staines gave a lop-sided grin. “Who is ‘we’? You or us?”

“We could give it a try, sir, if you like.”

Staines shrugged his massive shoulders. “If it comes to a high-level daylight raid using A. P. s it’s obviously our job. Only how can I expect my boys to land bombs on a target so well hidden? Don’t forget it’s February—the bottom of that valley is probably in shadow twenty-four hours a day.” His eyes moved to Lindstrom. “Am I right?”

The Norwegian nodded reluctantly. “A side valley does admit some sunlight but only for ninety minutes. Of course, this only applies if the stocks are in bunkers at the foot of the valley. The power station, being higher up the mountain, gets more daylight.”

“Ninety minutes,” Staines grunted. “Well, I suppose it’s a possibility even if it’s a goddam slim one. But all this is a bit academic until we know where the stocks are kept. So let’s look at the other possibility—of hitting them when they’re in transit. Has your sister any idea what the Heinies have in mind?”

Lindstrom shook his head. “That’s something she’ll be trying to find out at this moment.”

“So there’s no way we can be making plans in that area,” Staines muttered. “The snag there, if we leave it too late and they work out some special method of transportation, we could be caught with our trousers down.”

“On the other hand, if we attack the stocks in the valley and mess it up, they’ll be alerted we know they’re moving the stocks and they’ll take those special precautions,” Davies pointed out.

“That’s right. Heads we lose and tails they win.” Staines turned to Lindstrom. “You tell us what you’d like us to do.”

The young Norwegian hesitated. “I wouldn’t like the valley to be raided unsuccessfully because then I’m certain the Air Commodore is right and greater precautions would be taken when the stocks are moved. After all, there hasn’t been an attack for a long time and so security must have relaxed a little. At the same time it is true that the longer we wait the greater risks we take. While we’re waiting for news of their transport plans, I’d like a specialist pilot to fly over the valley. He could take photographs which we can compare with the ones taken a year ago and at the same time he can assess the chances of a direct attack. That way we’ll be keeping all our options open.”

“I’ll go with that,” Staines said immediately.

Davies had been working on similar lines. “If you like I’ll send one of my Mosquitoes over with a F53 camera. We’ll also brief the pilot and navigator to keep their eyes open for any new-looking buildings. If we’re crafty we can make it look as if they’re taking photographs of Rjukan or some other nearby town. Then, when we’ve heard the crews’ assessment and studied the photographs, we can all meet again.”

Staines glanced at the Brigadier, then nodded. “That’s fine with me, Davies. Only make it slippy because the whole business is a nightmare to London and Washington and they’re breathing down our necks.”

“I’ll lay it on for tomorrow, sir,” Davies said. “Weather permitting, of course.”

Chapter 3

“It’s a man’s life we’re talking about, sir.” Henderson, the Station C.O., was a big Highlander who invariably said what he thought. “I’m dead against it.”

Davies, with two red spots high on his cheekbones, was showing resentment as well as anger. “Do you think I like it? Moore’s the best squadron commander I have. But you tell me what choice I’ve got.”

“I have told you, sir. Get Benson to send one of their high-level Spitfires over. That’s their job.”

“Jock, for Christ’s sake… To begin with I need a man with Moore’s experience to make some assessment for me. Apart from that, it’s so hush-hush I can’t even tell you everything that’s behind it. So how can I brief some run-of-the-mill pilot at Benson?”

“They’re not run-of-the-mill pilots, sir. They’re all very experienced men.”

“All right, maybe they are. But they haven’t the kind of experience I need.”

“I’ve an entire squadron of experienced men here, sir. Why can’t we use one of them?”

“I’ve just explained. To do the job properly Moore needs to be told as much as I’ve told you. Security won’t allow less senior officers to have that kind of information. I can’t be blamed for that, can I?”

Henderson walked to his office window and stared out. In general his relationship with Davies was good. A professional airman himself, Henderson knew a hard-driving, tenacious commander when he saw one, and Davies was all those things and more. At the same time experience had taught the Scot that Davies, who had personally created 633 Squadron, would sometimes commit his men to dangers beyond the normal call of duty. How much of this was due to Davies’ confidence in his beloved unit and how much personal ambition, Henderson had never been able to decide but at moments like this he trod very warily. Taking a deep breath, he turned.

“If the job’s as important as you say, sir, I suppose Moore will have to go. But I do feel someone ought to go with him. He doesn’t need to know what Moore is looking for but he can act as wing man in case Moore runs into trouble.”

Davies half-opened his mouth, then gave a reluctant grunt. “Who had you in mind?”

“Harvey. He’s one of the few men here who has experience of Norwegian conditions. And he’s the last man to chatter about the job.”

There was a time when the mention of Harvey, A Flight Commander, would have been enough to make Davies’ hackles rise but since the Yorkshireman’s heroic attack on the Rhine Maiden installation that had almost cost him his life, Davies’ opinion of him had been considerably upgraded. The small Air Commodore scowled, then gave a reluctant nod. “All right, I’ll agree to that. But you know how he likes to know the ins and outs of everything, so if he starts asking questions, tell him to belt up.”

“I’ll take care of that, sir. But what about Adams? We’ll have to bring him in too, won’t we?”

Adams was the Station Intelligence Officer and one of his tasks was to provide the latest intelligence about enemy radar detectors and flak positions. Hesitating for a few seconds Davies nodded. “It’ll be a help and Adams is a trustworthy old bugger. All right, alert him and Moore and I’ll tell ’em all I can. We’ll bring Harvey in later. In the meantime you can tell your boys to stand down. I want them in good shape in case an urgent job comes out of all this.”

Adams, his greatcoat collar up round his ears, pushed open the ante-room door. “Hello, Tess. Is the Squadron Commander in?”

The pretty, curly-haired WAAF sergeant sitting behind her typewriter gave him a smile. “Yes, sir. Do you want to see him?”

“I got a message he wants to see me. Will you check?”

The girl disappeared into the adjacent office, to emerge a few seconds later. “Please come in, sir.”

A young Wing Commander was sitting behind a desk full of papers as Adams entered but rose immediately on seeing him. Although 633 Squadron was as informal as most RAF active-service stations, its informality never affected Ian Moore’s natural courtesy. Immaculately dressed, of medium height and build, he was a good-looking man with fair hair and a small scar on his right cheek. Only a close observer would have noticed his slight wince as he straightened. Moore had been wounded and shot down during Operation Crucible the previous autumn and the femur of his right thigh, knitted around a steel pin, still gave him severe twinges when the weather was cold. His quiet cultured voice gave no sign of it as he greeted Adams and motioned him into a chair.

“Sorry to disturb you, Frank, but I’ve had a call from Pop Henderson. Did you know Davies is here?”

“Yes. I noticed his car as I came over. Is something special on?”

“It looks like it. He wants to see us both in the C.O.’s office. They’re going to give me a ring when they’re ready.”

Adams, a pipe smoker, shook his head as Moore held out a cigarette case. “You don’t know what it’s about?”

“I’ve no idea at all. Except that Townsend has been told to D.I. the reconnaissance aircraft in double quick time.”

Adams’ curiosity was growing.

“The recce kite? What can he want that for?”

“Townsend’s also been told to get Harvey’s aircraft ready. So your guess is as good as mine.”

“Has Harvey been told anything yet?”

“Only that he has to stand by and join us in the C.O.’s office later. It all sounds very hush-hush.”

As always when Davies was loose on the station, Adams had a feeling of unease. Not a professional airman like Henderson, he had always found it more difficult to forgive the small Air Commodore for the risks he took with his élite squadron. At the same time Adams was intelligent enough to know that it was men like Davies who won wars.

In many ways Adams was an enigmatical man. Hating war passionately, he should not have minded that his middle age and spectacles kept him from combat duty and yet Adams minded very much. To have to advise young men how to risk their lives as profitably as possible seemed indecent to Adams who felt his greatest daily risk was stepping out of his bath, and there were times when he would have given ten years of his life to wear wings and fly with them. With this desire in no way matching his anti-war sentiments, Adams had long given up trying to understand himself. Perhaps he would have had more success if he had realized he was an incurable romantic.

“I heard cheers coming from A Flight offices as I walked over,” he said. “And Monahan and Evans came running past me as if their trousers were on fire. Davies hasn’t brought Myrna Loy with him, has he?”

Moore smiled. “No, but he’s done the next best thing: he’s stood the squadron down. I phoned the good news to Harvey and Young five minutes ago.”

Adams showed none of the relief such news would normally bring. “That doesn’t sound too good either, does it?”

“You try telling that to the boys. I’ll bet they’re already queuing up to phone their girl friends.”

The ringing of the telephone silenced Adams. Moore took the call, then nodded. “Yes, sir. Adams is with me now. We’ll be over right away.”

Adams met his eye as he replaced the receiver. “Are they ready?”

“Ready and waiting,” Moore told him. Limping across the room, the young squadron commander took his cap from a wall peg, then turned and smiled at the uneasy Adams. “Let’s go and find out what Davies has cooked up for us this time.”

The tall, good-looking American with the shock of black hair was busy adjusting his tie before a cracked mirror propped up on a window ledge. The furniture in the small billet was sparse: two beds with their respective cabinets, a couple of wooden chairs, and a large cupboard that doubled as a wardrobe. Photographs of half-naked girls smiled from its unpainted doors. A piece of threadbare carpet lay between the beds: a couple of uniforms hung from hangers above them. A flying suit lay crumpled in a far corner where it had been flung.

With the short February afternoon drawing to a close, a naked fly-speckled bulb dangling from the ceiling was providing the American with light. He was humming as he twice knotted his tie and twice pulled it apart. Tommy Millburn, one of the squadron’s ace pilots, was making the most of the stand-down and was preparing for a foray into Scarborough.

The sound of the door opening made him glance around. A diminutive Welsh navigator with a young-old face was coming in from the dusk outside. His sharp features looked pinched with cold as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“What’s going on? We’re stood down and yet there’s a hell of a panic in No. 1 hangar. Chiefy’s got a whole bloody team working on Harvey’s aircraft and the recce kite.”

Millburn paused, tie in hand. “Did you ask Chiefy what for?”

“All he’s been told is that they have to be ready by tonight. I suppose it’s one of Davies’ stunts. Whenever he comes here there’s trouble.” Pulling off his scarf, the Welshman flung himself on his bed. Johnnie Gabriel, known to all and sundry as Gabby or The Gremlin, was clearly in one of his darker Celtic moods. Noticing Millburn’s well-groomed appearance he gave a disparaging grunt.

“You’re putting on the shine tonight, aren’t you?”

Millburn knotted his tie for the third time. “This is it, boyo. The big pay-off. Susie nearly jumped out of her knickers when I got through on the phone and told her the news. Her folks are going out this evening, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

“And they won’t have got past the front gate before you’ve got her upstairs in bed. Right?”

Millburn grinned. “What’s your guess?”

“That’s all you ever think of. Sometimes I think you ought to see the M.O.”

Millburn began sniffing. “You catch that smell?”

Gabby looked around. “What smell?”

“Sour grapes, boyo. What’s the matter? Does she still prefer young Matthews?”

Millburn’s reference was to a particularly comely young WAAF who had recently been posted to the squadron. A tall girl, she also had Junoesque proportions, and Gabby, who liked his women tall and well-fleshed, had been glassy-eyed ever since. At the Welshman’s scowl, Millburn grinned again. “She probably hasn’t seen you yet. Try standing on a chair the next time.”

“You think that’s funny, Millburn?”

“Not as funny as your face, kiddo, when a dame turns you down. You look so goddammed surprised. Any other guy in your shoes would be used to it by this time.”

As the conversation suggested, the two men, who flew together, were inseparable friends. Gabby’s reaction confirmed the relationship. “You think you’re something, don’t you, Millburn? God’s gift to women. One of these days you’re going to take a hell of a tumble.”

Millburn rubbed his newly-shaven cheeks with lotion. “I’m having a tumble tonight, boyo. Right in that big double bed of Susie’s.”

“I hope her folks come back early and catch you at it,” Gabby said vindictively. “That’s what you need. Exposure.”

“That sounds like me talking to Susie. I’m always telling her that.”

“Funny, funny,” Gabby grunted. “Why the hell don’t you remuster? The Yanks are always saying they’d like to have you. So why don’t you give them a break?”

Millburn ran a comb carefully through his dark hair. “Maybe I will when they run short of dames up here. But so far the supply seems O.K.”

Muttering his disgust, Gabby threw himself back on his bed. “I don’t know what she sees in Matthews. All he talks about is Harry Roy and dance bands.”

“Maybe she likes dance bands.”

Gabby’s thoughts had already moved elsewhere. “In any case he’s not that tall.”

“Who? Harry Roy?”

“No. Matthews. Come to think of it, I don’t give him more than a couple of inches.”

Millburn grinned. “Maybe he stands tall in other ways.”

“There’s that mind of yours again,” Gabby accused. “You can’t keep off it, can you?”

The American made a gesture of apology. “Sorry, sahib. I hadn’t realized you were chasing Liz Barnes for an intellectual conversation.”

“I’m not chasing her,” Gabby snarled. “She’s already said she’ll go out with me.”

“When?” Millburn challenged.

Gabby hesitated. “Tonight. Or Wednesday.”

Millburn grinned. “I get it. Matthews is Duty Officer tonight and on Wednesday he’s agreed to play the drums at Machin’s party. She’s playing you for a sucker, boyo. You won’t get as much as a nibble of her ear after you’ve paid for her dinner.” Seeing Gabby’s glare, Millburn turned. “All right, if you’re so keen and confident, why the hell aren’t you taking her out tonight?”

The reason for the Welshman’s frustration came out in a rush. “Because that old cow in charge of her section has confined her to camp for a week. That’s why.”

The American gave a roar of amusement. “So that’s it. When did she promise to go out with you? After she was grounded?”

“No, last week. What’s so funny, Millburn? If it was you, you’d be biting broken glass.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d be thinking of ways of getting round it.”

A hopeful gleam entered Gabby’s eyes. “You wouldn’t like to help out, would you?”

One look at the Welshman, who had swung his legs eagerly to the floor, was all Millburn needed. “Oh, no. I’m not risking a court-martial so you can get your horrible little red hands on Liz Barnes. That’s right out.”

“But nobody would know,” Gabby argued. “I wouldn’t bring her here until all the boys were out or in the Mess. And I’d keep the door locked.”

“I said no! You try it and I’ll break you all over the airfield. I mean it, boyo.”

The scowling Gabby threw himself back on his bed. “So I’m supposed to stay here all night listening to Much-Binding-in-the-Marsh while you’re in bed with Susie.”

Millburn walked between the beds and took his tunic off the hanger. “That’s about the size of it. Unless you want to bed her down on the airfield perimeter. Frozen grass down her knickers ought to work wonders for you.”

Gabby gazed up in dislike. “That after-shave of yours smells like a gorilla’s armpit.”

“What’s that mean? You want to use it?”

“Me? I don’t want everyone thinking I’m a Nancy Boy.”

Climbing into his tunic and greatcoat, Millburn set his cap at a jaunty angle and made towards the mirror again. Halfway there he suddenly paused and grinned. Straightening his face, he turned back to the disconsolate Gabby. “You thought of the dispersal huts? They’ve all got beds in them, haven’t they?”

“Of course I’ve thought of them. But there’s always some sod on duty.”

“We’re on stand-down, remember?”

“So what? That corporal of ours keeps the key. And he’ll never hand it over so I can take a girl in there. He’s a bloody Bible-puncher.”

“I wasn’t thinking of him. Monahan’s corporal isn’t above having a WAAF in his hut. I know he’s done it himself. And his hut’s at the far side of the airfield.”

Gabby was now listening hard. “Why should he let me use it?”

“Because I pay him to service my car, that’s why. You like me to have a word with him?”

Hope was suddenly radiating from Gabby’s face. “When?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll arrange it for Wednesday. Matthews will be busy at the party and everyone else will be too drunk to miss you. That’s it, boyo. You’re in.”

Gabby stirred, then rose on one grudging elbow. “I suppose that’s decent of you, Millburn.”

Millburn waved an indulgent hand. “Don’t mention it, kid. Just think about Wednesday and leave it all to me.”

The restored Gabby sank back on his bed. Dreaming of the bliss to come, he failed to notice Millburn’s expression as the American turned and made for the door. Pausing there to glance back, Millburn took the precaution of removing the key before making his exit. Outside a loud chortle broke from him as he made his way towards the transport pool.

Chapter 4

Davies peered out of the window. “We could be in luck. The Met Boys say this anti-cyclone stretches right across the Atlantic.”

“They don’t know if it’s reached Norway yet, sir,” Adams reminded him.

Davies let the curtain fall and turned back. “No, But it’s drifting that way. So if for any reason we have to go there again we should have a few days of decent weather.”

The hint of further Norwegian operations made Adams wince. Of all the squadron personnel with experience of the Swartfjord tragedy, no-one had been more affected than Adams, paradoxically because his role had been the passive one of waiting in the Operations Room and listening to the slaughter of his friends. When he and Moore had entered the C.O.’s office fifteen minutes ago and Davies had broken the news that the IMI threat was alive again, Adams had felt almost physically sick.

Davies’ eyes were on Moore and Harvey who were standing at the far side of Henderson’s big desk. “I’m fully aware that this is a dangerous sortie. In fact if it wasn’t so damned important I wouldn’t dream of sending only two of you. But we can try to eliminate as many risks as possible. So I want you to go out at ultra high-level.”

Harvey, a man with few affectations and a face like one of his moorland fells, gave a grunt of protest. “We’ll be a lot safer at low-level, sir.”

“Why?” Davies demanded. “Who’s going to catch you at 35,000 feet plus? Even Junkers 88s and 190s with nitrous oxide can’t get up that quickly.”

With an accent that was almost truculently Yorkshire, Harvey tended to sound more aggressive than he was. “They won’t need to be that quick if their detectors pick us up halfway across the North Sea.”

“There’s no evidence Jerry’s got detectors that efficient in Norway.”

“There’s no evidence he hasn’t either. If this target’s as important as you say, he must have it well protected.”

Scowling at this sample of northern logic, Davies turned to Moore. “What do you think, Moore?”

Debonair and easy-going as he was, Moore could be as outspoken as any man when the situation called for it. “Harvey’s had more experience over Norway than any of us, sir. I have to take notice of what he says.”

As Davies did a turn round the office Adams was reminded of the time before the Rhine Maiden affair when the Yorkshireman and Moore, respective products of poverty and privilege, had found little in common but dissent. Since the operation, however, in which Moore had shepherded the critically-wounded Harvey home, their relationship had totally changed. Now, although Harvey would probably have died rather than admit it, the two men were the closest of friends.

Adams’ eyes were drawn down to the black mongrel at Harvey’s heels. Giving a restless whinny, it was nuzzling its head against the Yorkshireman’s leg. During Harvey’s long confinement in hospital, Adams had taken care of Sam and it would have been interesting to know who had gained more from the arrangement, the bereft Sam or the lonely Adams. But, as Adams had always known, Sam was a one-man dog and since Harvey’s return to active service the dog had been paying the Intelligence Officer less and less attention.

Pushing the animal impatiently away, Harvey pursued his case. “If this anti-cyclone hasn’t reached Norway yet, it’s a million to one there’ll be cloud below 35,000 feet. So if you want photographs we’ll have to go down in any case once we’ve crossed the coast.”

Davies scowled at the two pilots. “You’re both dead set at running into Jerry’s defences, aren’t you? Leave it for the moment and let’s look at your flight plan.” He pulled a notebook out of his pocket and handed it to Moore. “As this is a hush-hush job we’re not using your specialist officers. I had this plan drawn up before I came and you can show it to your navigators later. You’ll find it contains all you need.”

Moore was scanning through the pages. “ETA-13.05? Isn’t that rather late in the day, sir?”

“That’s one of our problems. Apparently it’s not daylight in Norway until around nine-thirty at this time of the year and the light doesn’t reach the bottom of the valley until after noon. The shadows are back by 14.15 so it’s vital you keep to those times.”

Moore nodded and turned a page over. “I see Rjukan is about 200 kilometres from the coast.” As Harvey gave a grunt, Moore glanced up wryly at Davies. “That’s a fair way inland, sir.”

“Maybe you see now why I want you up at high-level. If you stay up there all the way, you can get your photographs and be out again before Jerry can reach you.”

“But I thought you wanted an assessment of the valley as well as photographs.”

“So I do,” Davies grunted. “But an assessment’s no good to me if neither of you are alive to bring it back. As I’ve explained, Moore, this can’t be a hit-or- miss operation. It’s so important Bomber Command have been ordered to lay on mine-laying operations in the Skagerrak and the Baltic to draw Jerry’s fighters south and eastward. The Banff Wing are also co-operating by flying sorties against targets in the north. On top of that you’re getting an escort on your way back. So if we do a rough costing, a million pounds or more and a fair number of lives are going to be spent making sure you come out unscathed with the information we need. Does that explain why I can’t let you take a single unnecessary risk?”

Even the phlegmatic Harvey looked impressed by Davies’ statistics. “If it’s that important, sir, our best chance is to go in low and come out low. No question about it.”

At times like this Davies wondered what perversity of creation had attached the north of England to the south. “Not being a complete idiot I’ve another reason for preferring you to keep up aloft. Apart from the valley flak defences which might be as heavy as the Swartfjord’s, we mustn’t let Jerry guess we’re interested in it. If you two come screaming through it at zero height, he’ll have to be blind and stupid not to guess, won’t he?”

Motioning Harvey to keep quiet, Moore took a glance at the map of Norway that was spread over Henderson’s desk. “You said earlier Rjukan had a number of important industries. Supposing we circle it a couple of times as if taking photographs, then dive into the valley and fly westwards. With any luck they’ll think we’re only doing it for cover.”

Davies was remembering he had suggested a similar stratagem to Staines although at that time he had thought only in terms of high level. Now temptation in the guise of the two pilots was reminding him how much more information a low-level reconnaissance would provide. Testily Davies compromised.

“You two are hell bent on suicide, aren’t you? All right; this is the way you’ll play it. If the weather’s clear right across to the target, you’ll stay up high and do the best you can. That’s an order. If there are clouds, you’ll use your own initiative. If that means a low-level run down the valley, you’ll make it as innocuous as possible.” The small Air Commodore turned from Moore to Harvey with some sarcasm. “Happy now?”

Harvey’s shrug said it all. The entire argument had been academic because once over Norway the weather would make high-level flying a farce. Trying to hide his irritation and failing abysmally, Davies snatched the notebook from Moore. “Now we’ve got that nonsense settled, let’s get down to specifics.”

Chapter 5

The two Mosquitoes were flying in echelon with Harvey little more than fifty yards behind Moore’s starboard wing. As he felt his aircraft yaw unsteadily in the rarefied air, the Yorkshireman dropped back a further fifty yards. Since leaving Lossiemouth, where they had topped up their tanks, the two Mosquitoes had been climbing steadily towards their maximum ceiling. From the turbulent layers of air near the sea they had passed into the troposphere where all the variations of weather take place. Here their contrails had streamed out and shredded away in a 50 m.p.h. wind that was swirling around the edge of the high pressure area. Now, nearly halfway across the North Sea, they were almost in the stratosphere and the high winds that had been causing problems to their navigators were beginning to slacken. Far below, the sea looked like a vast frozen plain in the winter sun. Above the sky was a deep blue with the sun a molten ball.

To the uninitiated the appearance of the Mosquitoes would have been puzzling. Their upper surface had been painted in crazy streaks of black and white and below they were a uniform cerulean blue. With a yellow halo around their spinning propellers, they yawed more and more unsteadily as they climbed into the icy stratosphere.

Inside the two aircraft the crews were suffering all the discomforts of high-level flight. Without pressurized cabins, they were wearing air-tight masks and pressure waistcoats beneath their bulky flying suits to assist the passage of oxygen to their lungs. Although the Mosquito was normally a warm aircraft, the subzero temperature outside was affecting their nervous systems. Instruments kept blurring before their eyes and as the aircraft climbed even higher their sense of remoteness grew. The normal roar of the Merlins was reduced to a distant ticking as if the Mosquitoes were toys and they were children playing inside them.

As well as studying the instruments and searching the immense sky for enemy aircraft, the crews were assessing the weather conditions. Apart from a few cirrus clouds that had drifted below, the visibility was almost unnaturally clear for a North European winter day. Ahead, however, the look of the horizon made Hopkinson, Moore’s navigator, glance down at his padded flying suit and oxygen equipment. “It doesn’t look as if we are going to need these much longer, skipper.”

Hopkinson, a Cockney who had been shot down with Moore the previous year during Operation Crucible, had been more severely wounded than his pilot and had returned to the squadron only a month ago. It was a return Moore had never been more thankful for than today. A peerless navigator, with eyes like a sparrow-hawk, Hopkinson was the ideal man to find a valley in the labyrinth of fjords and mountains that was Norway.