But miraculously they were past and still alive. The fjord widened as the spur fell behind them and the fury of the flak lessened for a moment.
“F Freddy calling, skipper. Have just entered fjord.”
That was his number 3, Ayliffe. He listened again to the monotonous voice still counting in his mind. Only forty-five seconds since he had entered hell! He glanced back. The fjord appeared blocked with an impenetrable curtain of smoke trails and bursting shells. Six lines of tracer were converging on an invisible point, probably Milner. Nearer, looking frail and tiny against the massive rocks, a Mosquito was diving on a flak post with all four guns ablaze. Far above he saw a black speck soaring over the jagged rim of the fjord—either another of his Mosquitoes or a Focke-Wulf, he did not know which. His lips drew back painfully as he remembered the Focke-Wulfs. They would not venture into this hell of flame and shrapnel, but they would be waiting up there to pick off any survivors. They were a problem to which he had found no answer. But they could wait: they were a full minute away.
As his Number 4 announced his successful entry into the fjord, the mountains closed in. A row of flashes appeared above an approaching treeline. God; how many guns were there in this place . . . ? Grenville threw a sidelong glance at Phillips. The observer’s sallow face was shiny with sweat and a white spot of saliva hung at one comer of his mouth. He was sitting with his knees bunched up and his body strained forward as if he were in an electric chair. He caught Grenville’s eyes and tried to smile. The poor devil . . . sitting there helpless o.. waiting for it. What a filthy job!
The fjord straightened out again, and at last Gren-230 ville could see Trollfjell. It was at eleven o’clock, a mountain that from this angle looked oddly like a man, with a woolly chest of trees, a gaunt grey neck, and high above a massive bulging head with a cap of ice. Alongside it, at the extreme end of the fjord, was the high waterfall that fed power into the hydro-electric plant below, and built round this plant was the huge concrete building that was their target. On the banks of the fjord, half-hidden by birch and firs, were dozens of small huts which Grenville guessed to be living quarters.
But there was no time for curiosity. At this last line of defence the flak posts were more numerous than ever, and their gunners no longer exultant but desperate. The tiger had broken through its trap and its prize lay dead ahead. The entire area around the building lit up with the flash of guns, and their stunning thunder brought minor avalanches down from the surrounding heights. Luminous balls of tracer criss-crossed the sky around the weaving plane, the coloured glow from their shells reflecting back from the dark water below. The Mosquito shuddered and rocked like a cockleshell caught in a typhoon.
Grenville heard his Number 5 calling, but now his whole attention was focused on the mountain that was leaping forward at nearly five miles a minute. It loomed nearer, crushingly near—so near that he could see the flak shells hitting it and sending rock splinters flying like shrapnel.
Phillips had opened his bomb doors and he could feel them quivering in the airflow. The red light on his bomb distributor panel was glowing, and Phillips had fused the bomb. Airspeed was right, everything was ready....
The Mosquito flashed into the rock-strewn corrie. Below it were the wooded slopes that led down to the water, above it was the massive overhang with its millions of tons of rock and ice. Oblivious now to the raging flak, Grenville pin-pointed his aiming mark—a huge boulder where the neck curved outwards. He watched the red paint-mark on his port nacelle, speaking slowly into his intercom.
“Coming up now . . . easy . . . easy.” The Mosquito was on her side now, her wings vertical with the cliff. The red mark was almost in line with the boulder. “Ready . . . ready. . . .” With all his strength Grenville pulled the Mosquito away. “Now!” he shouted, and Phillips pressed the bomb release.
30
The Mosquito shot away as if ricochetting from the rocks. The huge bomb, released in the steep turn, catapulted away to crash among the debris of loose rocks at the foot of the overhang.
Grenville felt himself rammed into his seat by the g. Invisible fingers clawed at his eyes and cheeks, and for a few seconds everything turned grey before him. Then he found himself shooting across the fjord like a rocket with the vengeful flak following him. The imperturbable voice in his mind was counting again. Three . . . four . . . five. . . . He pulled back on the stick, going into a steep climbing turn that lifted him towards the blue sky above.
Six . . . seven . . . eight. . . . The flak was following him up. A blinding flash burst dead ahead, and long gashes appeared near the port wing root. Not a second later another shell burst in the nose, shrapnel ripping through pneumatic pipes and electric cables. The cockpit filled with the stink of cordite and fumes from the escaping hydraulic fluid. Air screamed through the shattered nose, adding a banshee wail to the sound of the engines.
Nine . . . ten . . . The Mosquito suddenly burst into the clean morning sunlight. Flak still followed it like lava being tossed up from the bowels of a volcano. Grenville should have taken cover over the rim of the ridge, but instead he turned back. Eleven ... his mind chanted.
Half a second later the bomb went off. Every detail below became etched in brilliant light. The volcanic appearance of the fjord was increased by the cloud of stones and rubble thrown upwards by the tremendous explosion. The Mosquito reared and almost turned over in the blast. Still dazed from the flak, Grenville fought the controls, his eyes on Trollfjell.
But the massive overhang had not moved, although small falls of rock and ice were still sprinkling from it. Milner came over the radio. “Am going in now, skipper.”
Twenty seconds was a perilous margin between attacks. Grenville had known it, but because of the waiting Focke-Wulfs it had been imperative to get the planes into the fjord as quickly as possible. He had gambled on the mountain spurs protecting the attacking plane from the explosion ahead and it seemed he had been right. Of course, there was danger from rock falls, but that was nothing compared with the flak.
From above, Milner’s tiny Mosquito looked like a dragonfly being pierced by a dozen brightly-coloured pins. Somehow it got through and vanished for a breathless moment into the deep shadows under Troll-fjell. Then it came shooting out and began corkscrewing upwards.
“O.K., skipper. Bomb gone.”
Grenville was just congratulating Milner when a row of eight black bursts cut the climbing Mosquito in two. Her right wing tore off at the root, fluttering away like a leaf. The asymmetrical fuselage spun down, trailing black smoke and a shred of flame from its port engine. The flame lengthened, brightened, there was a sudden brilliant flash, then nothing but a glowing ball of fire that dropped like a plummet into the dark mass of trees below.
As if in revenge, the bomb Milner had planted burst two seconds later. This time a heavy sheet of snow cascaded from the summit and fell among the shrubs on its lower slopes. But the massive head of Trollfjell still towered over the smoke and falling debris.
A medley of shouts over the R/T brought Grenville’s stunned mind back to the present.
“Focke-Wulfs at eight o’clock...!”
“Look out, Green two! Break port!”
Grenville realized the Focke-Wulfs were among his Green sections and remembered his own danger. His tight turn came just in time—red tracer snapping by his port wing-tip. A green and black Focke-Wulf dived by: he was about to attack it in turn when he remembered his own orders. Every plane that survived the attack on the mountain had to go back to help the others through. As another 190 came snarling at him, he dived away into the shadows of the fjord. The Focke-Wulf did not follow him.
Flying as he now was in the opposite direction to Trollfjell, the flak did not pay him much attention for the moment. He turned to Phillips and saw with a shock that the observer was slumped forward in his harness. As Grenville pulled him back his head lolled sideways, showing the front of his flying suit to be sticky with blood. Grenville had no way of knowing how seriously
he was hurt, and could do nothing for him at the moment. He checked his controls. It seemed nothing vital had been hit, although his trimmer controls appeared to have gone.
He stared down. Far below Ayliffe was commencing his run-in on Trollfjell. The flak caught him the moment he stopped weaving. A thin stream of burning glycol from his starboard exhaust showed white against the shadows. It turned black a second later ... a thin tongue of fire licked back . . . lengthened ... a bright explosion among the rocks. Gone.
Not three seconds later, far up the fjord, flak got his Number 4. The curving plume of flame and smoke, the pathetic shower of sparks against the rock face, they could mean nothing else.
Whatever the cost, they had to get more bombs on Trollfjell! Grenville called up his Green sections, only to hear Young’s Australian drawl come back wearily:
“We’re doing our best, skipper. But there’s only Archer and me left....”
And not ten seconds later Archer went, caught by a 190 as he came up blinded after attacking a 20 mm. post on a rock shelf.
Two spitting barrels came into Grenville’s gunsight. He pressed his attack so close he was able to see the discarded shell cases leaping out from the recoiling breeches, and the crouching loaders with their clips of ammunition. He opened fire and his shells cut down men, splintered trees, ricochetted off rocks. Only his two cannon were firing, the shell that had burst in the nose must have cut the pneumatic leads to his Brown- ings. He pulled away, looking for another post. Through the animal fury that was shaking his body, a cool untouched part of his brain was analysing the reports that were coming over the radio, and giving orders both to himself and his crews. Number 5 had planted his bomb successfully, had turned back up the fjord, then gone silent—probably shot down. Number 6 had also got through to Trollfjell, but appeared -to have crashed into it after planting its bomb. Seven, eight, and nine were still on their way.
Trollfjell was still there—Grenville could see its ugly head in the distance as he raged ov¿r a mountain shoulder. Bitterness was swilling about inside him like acid. What fool had thought of this idea? Throwing men against a mountain in the hope of bringing it down____
The Focke-Wulfs above were buzzing about like flies over a jam-pot. Occasionally one of them would screw up enough courage to venture down over the rim of the inferno, only to draw back hastily a few seconds later. But they were ready, waiting like hawks for any survivors.
“I’ve had it skipper. Sorry. . . .” That was young Parsons—Parsons who was so proud of his baby. He was hit as he cleared the last mountain spur. His smoking Mosquito tried to pancake into the fjord, crashed in a cloud of steam, and turned over. Only one yellow Mae West showed among the bubbling black water.
The loss of his crews was driving Grenville frantic.
He called down Young, the last survivor of his Green sections, and ordered him to escort Number 9 while he flew ahead of Number 8. Perhaps by flying in pairs, with fifty yards between each pair, they might thin out the intensity of the fire.
Number 8 was Barrett. As Grenville dived over him to take up position, he saw the Wing Commander’s squirrel-brown moustache clearly as Barrett leaned back and waved at him. His gruff voice came cheerfully over the radio.
“Quite a party, Roy. Everything but the dancing girls.”
Grenville tried to remember the sites of the flak posts as he led Barrett by them. The fire from them was thinned a little, but only relatively. Not a mile behind them Young followed, leading his Number 9.
The smell of leaking hydraulic fluid was severe now. Grenville pulled up his oxygen-mask, somehow managed to do the same for Phillips, and turned the taps on to emergency. His heart was hammering both from the tension and the sheer physical effort of throwing the Mosquito about in the narrow fjord.
The last mountain spur approached, and with it the flak post that had got Parsons. Its multiple pom-pom gave Grenville a burst, then, as if knowing who was carrying the bomb, turned its full fury on Barrett. A flash on his port engine, and a piece of cowling was torn away. Another flash, and a leg of his undercarriage dropped like a broken claw. Then they were past.
GrenvilPs mouth was dry. “You all right, Don?”
“Still around, Roy. Now where’s that gremlin?”
The massed flak posts round the building opened up like the roll of drums before an execution. Two shells went right through GrenvilPs tailplane without exploding. Barrett’s voice came longingly over the radio.
“Hell, Roy; wouldn’t it be just the job to drop the bloody thing right on top of em?”
Grenville led him almost under the massive overhang before turning away. He was unable to see Barrett drop his bomb, but heard his excited voice a few seconds later.
“Right on the button, Roy, or as near as damn it, anyway. Now let’s get out of here.”
Doubting Barrett’s skill, Grenville could only hope he had been as accurate as he believed. He fought for height through the thundering flak. Barrett following him. As they climbed higher the flak lessened as the gun-posts, knowing now they carried only one bomb apiece, concentrated on the planes yet to come in.
Just under the lip of the fjord Grenville levelled out and waited for Barrett’s B Bobby, with its dangling undercarriage, to come alongside him.
“Any second now, Roy. Watch for it,” Barrett called.
Grenville held little hope of bringing down Trollf jell now, and was busy watching the sky for fighters. Barrett was staring intently down. The familiar blinding flash came, the upflung shower of rocks, the blast, and then Barrett’s hysterical voice.
“Roy! It’s going! The bloody thing’s going. Look!”
Startled, Grenville looked down. The massive head of Trollf jell appeared to be wobbling drunkenly. Then, as if split by some enormous mason’s chisel, the front section of it slipped away and toppled into the void below.
The noise could be heard over the roar of the engines, an earth-shaking thunder as thousands of tons of rock, followed by the dislodged mass of the glacier, plunged 3,000 feet into the fjord. An irresistible force, terrifying to watch.... ,
It hit the lower slopes and bounded forward like a tidal wave. It swept over trees, huts, flak posts, hydroelectric plant and concrete buildings, grinding them and crushing them as a steamroller flattens an ant heap. It set off enormous echoes that reverberated across the fjord for minutes.
“God!” Barrett said, awestruck.
All the firing had stopped. Even the Focke-Wulfs had broken off their vigilance to stare down aghast. But one flak post commander, more phlegmatic or perhaps more revengeful than the rest that had survived, saw the Mosquitoes approaching and snapped out orders that pulled his shocked crew together.
Grenville had just finished transmitting the code word that would send Davies delirious with pride when he saw the red flashes open up dead ahead of them. He yelled a warning to Barrett and swung sharply away. But Barrett’s reflexes had lost their edge through lack of combat flying and he turned too late. Tracer stitched a line of holes the full length of his fuselage—
Even then it seemed no harm had been done. His Mosquito flew over the post and swept on along the range.
Grenville’s voice was sharp with anxiety. “Don; are you all right?”
No answer. Grenville flew closer until he was right alongside.
“Don! How bad is it?”
He could see through B Bobby’s transparent hood now. The observer was lolling sideward against his harness and Barrett was huddled over the stick.
“Don! For God’s sake. . . . Get the hatch away. Try to bale out!”
A ghost voice answered, a million miles away. “No ... good, Roy. No ... good.”
The whisper died away and the Mosquito’s nose dropped wearily. Steeper . . . steeper . . . one wing dipping as she went. Down . . . down . . . out of sight A red glow straining the shadows of the fjord....
Grenville went back to look for the gun-post. His face was that of a devil. With the target destroyed and his crews
virtually wiped out, he was at last able to give full vent to his bitterness. He set the flak post with exquisite care in his gunsight as he came back along the ridge. It was not enough to blast it with shells, however; pure hate is never satisfied with long-range killing. He was going to hurl the Mosquito’s white-hot engines on the crew, to impale them on the struts of its fuselage, to smash them to pulp with the impact of his own flesh. They were to be killed for many things, not least for letting him live when so many others had died.
The crew were inside his luminous sight now, warmly dressed, crouching behind the quadruple 20 mm. with a mountain hut behind them. The four automatic guns were already firing, doing mortal damage to his Mosquito, but he noticed the shells no more than a berserk fighter notices the blows of his opponent. A whitefaced loader carrying ammunition clips halted, staring upwards in terrified fascination. Grenville’s pressure on the gun button was as savage as if it had been on the windpipe of an enemy. The loader was flung away, unrecognizable now as anything human. Grenville swung his rudder bar, mowing men down with meticulous care. . . . Crouched behind his gunsight he urged his plane on to destruction. A gunner lost his nerve and began running. That won’t help you. . . . Nothing can help you now. Faster.... Faster, you bitch....
It was a small thing that prevented the final tragedy. A shell bursting under the starboard wing, that made the Mosquito lurch sideways. . . . Grenville corrected the movement immediately, but its suddenness had thrown the unconscious Phillips towards him and the observer’s head nudged his arm----
633 Squadron Page 24
