When the Brigadier had finished speaking, Barrett’s ruddy face was as shocked and pale as anyone’s.
“Good lord!” he muttered. “Filthy isn’t the word. Surely we don’t have to carry things this far!”
Davies, highly strung, needed no more to set him off. “You don’t think we’d give such an order unless it were absolutely necessary, do you? Don’t be a fool man.”
Barrett had a big man’s slow but resentful temper. At another time he might have taken offence but he caught a glimpse of the Brigadier’s face. There were lines of agony round the soldier’s grey eyes and stern mouth. Barrett made his apology at once.
“Sorry,” he muttered awkwardly. “It’s just as bad for you, of course.”
The Brigadier looked his full age as he stared through the window. “It is a very necessary order, I’m afraid. You know the Nazis as well as I; you can guess their reaction in a situation like this. They’ll stop at nothing, and there’s no doubt what is happening at this very moment—indeed, we know it’s happening. That is why there isn’t a second to lose.”
He turned towards Barrett, his voice sympathetic. “I agree men shouldn’t be asked to do such a thing. And they wouldn’t be, if it weren’t for devils like these Nazis. Your men are going out on an act of mercy, and that is the solemn truth.”
Barrett stood silent, then nodded slowly. “At least the men won’t know,” he muttered. Then he started. “What about Grenville. You haven’t told him, have you? Or doesn’t he have to go?”
Davies answered the question. “He’ll have to lead them in, but we haven’t told him, nor shall we. He’s waiting in his office for orders now.”
“And what about Adams?”
Davies looked at the Brigadier, who nodded reluctantly. “I think we’ll have to tell him. But he’ll have to keep it quiet or the morale of your crews will drop to zero.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Barrett muttered. He shifted, then set his jaw resolutely. “I’d like to go on this show, sir, I think it’s my duty to go.”
Davies was sympathetic, but shook his head. “No. Particularly now that you know what the job is. Sorry, but I won’t hear of it.” Noticing the Brigadier was growing impatient, he went on quickly: “We’d better get over to Adams now. The Brigadier has some photographs we can use at the briefing.”
Barrett roused himself, moving his heavy body like a man in a nightmare. “Yes, all right. He’s standing by.” Fifteen minutes later Davies, Adams, and Barrett left to attend the briefing, which the Brigadier dared not attend for security reasons. As they went, his grey eyes fixed themselves almost beseechingly on Barrett.
“See that they make a good job of it, won’t you? It would be terrible if it were only half-destroyed.”
Barrett’s heavy face was grim. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll make it the devil’s last party.”
17
Gillibrand had flown south for over twenty minutes and was thirty miles due west of Bergen before he found himself a suitable target. The weather was less settled here, and heavy banks of cloud were throwing shadows on the sunlit sea below. He flew into a clear area and a tiny, dark object appeared to the right of his starboard spinner cap. He dropped lower and examined it through his binoculars. It was a minelayer, busy on the huge enemy minefields that protected the shipping lanes down the Norwegian coast. From this height the ship’s wake, stretching out fanwise into the frozen sea, looked like the excrement of a caterpillar on some enormous leaf. The time was 1407 hours.
Without hesitation Gillibrand put the Mosquito’s nose down. The altimeter needle fell away as the airspeed indicator rose. 320 . . . 370 .. . 400 m.p.h. The sea was beginning to take shape now—slowly at first, then more quickly, its swell resembling the folds in a rucked-up sheet of cloth. At 8,000 Gillibrand had to pull up the nose slightly as the engines began to race. The whole plane was shuddering violently under the tremendous stress of the dive.
The ship was leaping upwards now. From a speck of driftwood it became a towering hulk with armoured superstructure, a squat funnel, and raised gun platforms; an impregnable metal castle rising from the blue-green sea. Gillibrand levelled out just above the waves, switching on his gunsight and his fire-and-safe button. From the comer of his eye he saw Jimmie, helpess in the hands of his pilot, staring with rigid gaze at the approaching terror.
The ship was massive in Gillibrand’s gunsight now, hurling itself at him. A sudden rapid staccato of flashes ran up and down its full length, and steel lashed the waves below the plane into a seething mist of spray. With teeth bared, Gillibrand pressed his gun button.
The two Hispano cannon, aided by the twin Brownings, kicked back viciously as they pumped a total of twenty shells a second into the camouflaged hull of the minelayer.
Incoherent pictures flashed before the terrified boy’s eyes like snatches from some crazy film. Cannon shells exploding in the water ... rising higher . .. raking the ship’s superstructure and gun platforms ... A man in a navy-blue jersey clutching his stomach in agony and toppling from one of the platforms to the deck below. . . . Two other men, crouching behind a pom-pom, being hurled backwards, a shambles of quivering flesh and spouting blood.... A lifeboat dropping away from its davits ... a four-barrelled pom-pom hurling shells right at their wind-screen____
Then the smoking, erupting nightmare vanished and only the shadowy blue-green sea lay ahead. But the shells followed them, stabbing vengefully through the fuselage and hammering into the armour protecting their backs. Jimmie’s body was racked with a violent nervous tremor. His terrified eyes pleaded mutely with Gillibrand, but the Canadian only laughed. The sea before them swirled crazily, the centrifugal force crushed the boy back into his seat, and the terror was back again, dead ahead....
The minelayer was sending out frantic calls to the coast defence for fighters. As the Mosquito came back the ship’s gunners opened up with everything they had. Through his gunsight Gillibrand saw a wall of tracer hurling itself at him. A shell ricochetted off his hood, another smashed through the instrument panel and passed between himself and the cringing boy. Grinning his hate, he opened fire again. Once more the Mosquito shuddered under the violent recoil. Bullets and shells sliced among the superstructure and deck timbers, cutting down men as a scythe cuts down grass. The base of the transmitting wireless aerial came into Gillibrand’s sights. His shells were searching it out when suddenly the Mosquito was flung upwards by a tremendous explosion under its fuselage.
The minelayer spun down out of sight in a whirling chaos of smoke, masts, and spitting guns. The Mos- quito, completely out of control, snaked upwards like a damaged rocket. Fighting desperately, Gillibrand managed to straighten it out at 5,000 feet. The minelayer was still snarling viciously at them, and he drew out of range to take stock of the damage.
Half his instruments were smashed. Those still intact began settling down nervously after the shock. His port engine was belching smoke alarmingly. As he watched it, a jet of flame appeared under its shattered cowling. Quickly he feathered the propeller and switched on the fire extinguisher. Dirty grey foam appeared, flying back in spume from the wing. With a grunt of relief he saw the flames die down and vanish. Then he turned towards Jimmie.
For a moment he thought the boy had fainted. He was lying limply against his straps. Gillibrand reached out and shook him roughly. The boy’s face-mask slipped down and Gillibrand saw blood on his lips. Instantly the Canadian knew terror.
“Jimmie! What’s happened, kid? Jimmie... 1”
He shook the boy again. Jimmie stirred, tried to straighten up, and his face contorted in agony. His frightened eyes turned on Gillibrand—eyes as transparent as those of a child. He tried to speak, but the blood only flowed faster from his lips.
“Kid! For Christ’s sake. What is it, boy?”
Jimmie’s eyes moved mutely to the first-aid kit. Suddenly Gillibrand understood. Holding the stick with his knees, he undid the canvas pack and pulled out one of the tiny morphia hypodermic
tubes. He pulled back the boy’s sleeve and jabbed the needle into the flesh, squeezing until the tube was empty.
The boy’s head slumped back in relief. Blood trickled from his chin to the collar of his flying-suit. Gillibrand leaned over him.
“Jimmie! Say somethin’ to me. For God’s sake say somethin’..
The boy did not move or speak. With fear choking his throat, Gillibrand swung the crippled plane round and headed back for Stutton Craddock. He flew like a madman, his blue eyes glaring rigidly ahead. The time was 1412 hours.
The twelve closely-grouped Mosquitoes swept over the coastal town of Whitby like a tornado. A car halted, its four passengers staring upwards from its windows and waving excitedly. A man on a bicycle turned his head in fright, ran into the kerb, and tumbled in a heap on the pavement. The planes skimmed a cliff, leapt over a golden strip of beach, then were over the sea, glancing over the wave-tops like a shoal of flying fish.
Impressions registered themselves on the retina of Grenville’s mind in spite of his preoccupation over the task ahead. The ruins of the Abbey, pointing to the sky with gentle, admonishing fingers.... A fishing boat rolling gently in the swell, probably crabbing. . . . A flock of seagulls clustered around some object, their turning wings white against the blue sea. They flashed by and then there was nothing but the sea—the sea that was like a barren plain, stretching to infinity.
To Grenville the operation was a complete mystery. He had been told no more than his crews had been told at the briefing—that a certain building in Bergen had to be destroyed and the ways of finding it. Nothing more except Barrett’s few mumbled words before takeoff. There had been an oddly apologetic look on his face.
“Sorry Davies won’t let me come along, Roy. But do a good job, will you? Blow it right out of the ground. We don’t want anything left standing....”
Barrett had been apologetic. Why? Grenville felt his irritation rising. Surely, after all the Brigadier had told him that morning, he could know what was behind this job! What was all the secrecy about?
The Mosquitoes were in battle formation, two tight lines of six aircraft apiece. They were flying at economical cruising speed without boost, so low that their slipstreams were ruffling the wave-tops and leaving a wake behind them. Every pilot’s eyes were fixed on the water ahead: a slip in concentration at that height meant certain death. The observers were kept busy switching on fuel cocks, keeping a watchful eye on gauges, and ceaselessly scanning the sea and sky around them.
Ninety minutes passed and they ran into an area 145 scattered with medium-level cloud. The waves were higher and it had grown cold—a reminder that even towards the end of April Norway was still in the grip of winter. As they passed under the clouds a sharp shower of rain brought their visibility down to a few yards. The planes drew closer, wingtíp to wingtip, nose to tail, a phalanx of screaming engines and hurtling wings. Observers sat tensed, straining to pierce the grey curtain that pelted horizontally by them. The rain hid the distant minelayer that was limping back to port with seventeen casualties on board, and by the time they broke from it she had vanished hull down over the horizon.
A break in the clouds and a blue sky again. Their shadows returned to the 6ea, like pursuing sharks that had re-discovered their prey. Hoppy looked at his watch. It was 1417 hours.
“Eight minutes to E.T.A., skipper.”
A distant snow-cap, shining in the sunlight, suspended over the horizon like a cloud. . . . Observers nudged their pilots, pointing. “There it is! Enemy coast ahead....”
A chain of grey islands grew out of the sea and flashed by. The Oygarden group—leading straight to Bergen. Hoppy pinpointed the mountain ahead and gave Grenville a correction. The squadron turned four degrees to port. They leap-frogged the islands and hugged the channels between them. Four minutes .. . five ... six.. .. Going down a wide channel now . .. houses among the rocks on either side ... a glimpse of camouflaged oil tanks ... a smoking chimney. . .. Mountains mushrooming upwards ... forests springing up green from the sea.... Into a wide bay now ... a forty-five degree turn to starboard . . . and ahead the skyline was laced with the masts of ships. Beyond the ships was a mass of buildings, sweeping nearer at breakneck speed.
Bergen, dead ahead. Grenville was crouched forward in his seat, his gunsight and camera-gun switched on, bombs fused. No time now to wonder on the purpose of the raid. Another half minute and they would be screaming over the interlaced streets of the city, searching for one building out of the thousands that flashed by____
A startled voice suddenly broke the R/T silence. “Bandits, skipper! In the sun! Break port..
Grenville allowed himself one quick look around. Twenty plus Focke-Wulfs were diving out of the sun, their red spinner caps like mouths agape with anticipation. An ambush: God! He switched his eyes upwards. A filigree pattern of contrails was pointed ominously down at them. More up there . . . dozens of them . . . alerted and belting down....
Only superb training saved the squadron from that initial attack. Not 300 feet over the city Grenville led them into a tight turn. His orders came snapping over the R/T.
“Swordfish leader calling . . . defensive circle . . . work back to cloud base....”
The break to port had fouled the 190’s surprise attack. Before they could press home a second, the Mosquitoes had formed a huge defensive circle, each plane covering the tail of the one ahead.
Grenville over the radio again. “Swordfish leader ... jettison bombs.”
There was no hope of getting through to the target. The sky was full of enemy fighters, converging from all directions. A hail of bombs fell away from the Mosquitoes into the bay below, further scattering the small boats that were racing for shelter. A few seconds later the delay-fused bombs began exploding like depth charges, throwing up columns of spray.
Out over the islands the battle began in earnest. ' The Focke-Wulfs, short-winged, vicious, pressed home their attacks savagely, but Grenville’s defensive tac-- tics frustrated them time and time again. The sky was like a great aquarium tank with dozens of red-nosed fish swarming round a huge, spinning jellyfish—darting, biting, tearing, but unable to get a decisive hold. The sky was laced with snapping tracer and the black threads from smoking exhausts.
A Mosquito was hit. Its starboard engine stopped, sending out a white cloud of glycol. Another burst of cannon hit the same wing and the white cloud turned to black. Tendrils of flame appeared, curling round the wing like a claw. A violent explosion, and the Mosquito spun helplessly away. Another explosion, tearing away the other wing and the smoking fuselage plunged down like a dart into the sea. No one baled out. The remaining Mosquitoes closed the gap, the circle growing smaller.
A Focke-Wulf, too eager to make a kill, caught the full vengeful blast of two cannon and two machine-guns right in its main tanks beneath the cockpit floor. It exploded like a bomb, leaving only an oily black cloud and a mass of fluttering debris. A hoarse voice bellowed out exultantly over the R/T: “I got him! See that! I got the bastard...
Two other Focke-Wulfs, their pilots intent on the same Mosquito and drawn together by its climbing turn, collided and spun down in a tangled mass of flame and wreckage. The top-level reinforcements had arrived now, cluttering up the sky with enemy aircraft. Their very numbers were against them, causing them to get in each other’s way. But Mosquito after Mosquito was hit; man after man wounded....
“Tighten up. Keep formation. Nearly there now....” Grenville’s voice kept coming over the R/T, encouraging his men. Seeing the squadron’s objective the 190’s pressed home their attacks with increased ferocity, attacking in pairs now. Staccato flashes ran along their clipped wings from the firing of their cannon.
The dark clouds, heavy with rain, lay over to the west, shadowing the sea. They were no more than three miles away now, a sanctuary from the hell of flame and steel. But three miles could be eternity with forty plus Focke-Wulfs barring the way. They came snarling in again and the Mosquitoes shuddered under the impact.
18
Gillibrand rubbed his bloodshot eyes and stared through his windscreen again. It was the English coast and never before had he been so glad to see it. Green-couched, with patches of woods, it slid gently over the horizon to drive back the pitiless sea.
With his face-mask slippery with sweat, the Canadian leaned over Jimmie and touched his shoulder.
“Here’s the coast now. .. . Stick it a bit longer, kid; we’re nearly home. They’ll fix you up—you’ll be fine in a couple of weeks.”
Morphia had kept the boy dozing most of the way back. He awoke now, his face drawn with pain. As he tried to follow Gillibrand’s pointing finger, the Mosquito hit a bump, jerking his body against its straps. The abrupt movement forced fresh blood from his lips, sending it oozing out over the congealed crust round his mouth.
Gillibrand’s big hands closed convulsively around his control stick. He stared round the shattered cockpit with hating eyes, damning the aircraft, whipping it on with every tensed muscle in his huge body. If there was another airfield nearer than Sutton Craddock he could put the kid down on it, but there was nothing around here. .. . His eyes strayed to the boy’s slumped body and a wave of panic swept over him. The kid mustn’t die. . . . D’you hear, God—he musn’t die. . . . Sweat poured from him, draining his strength away until he felt weak and sick. That afternoon, for the first time in his life, Gillibrand knew fear.
Sutton Craddock came into sight at last, sliding upwards behind its belt of trees. They had got his message—the ambulance and the fire-tenders were standing by. Ignoring Control he came in cross-wind, working his way down on his one red-hot engine. In spite of his care, the Mosquito made two high bounces before settling down, and from the corner of his eye he saw Jimmie jerk in agony. Cursing, he braked, switched off his engine and turned to the boy.
633 Squadron Page 15
