by Lee Jackson
Marian stared at the major, hoping her hostility and rising anger did not show. Can he possibly believe what he is saying?
“The issue,” he went on, “is that your son is already assigned to Colditz permanently, and when he arrives, he’ll be moved in with the other prominentes there.”
After the major had departed, Marian took Stephen’s hand and led him into the drawing room. Closing the door, she wrapped her arms around him and held him close.
“Are you all right?” he asked, returning her embrace. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m scared,” she cried hoarsely, staving off sniffles. “There’s only one reason why they would put all the so-called prominentes together. They’re bargaining chips. If things go badly for Germany, and if haggling doesn’t work, Hitler will take out his revenge on them. Even before then, if the thought occurs to the Germans, they might try to use Lance as leverage against our family. They have access to the public records of everyone on Sark, and we would have been checked out almost immediately. How else would they learn about Lance? I’m sure they’ve also informed their highers of the existence of Paul, Claire, and Jeremy, and whatever they can learn of their activities.”
Saint-Louis, France
So loud was the wailing of horror and anguish at dawn on a backroad near the French border with Germany that neighbors appeared on the narrow blacktop, looking curiously at each other and then toward the frantic cries. A middle-aged man with graying, disheveled hair emerged from the house, the front of his shirt smeared with blood.
“She’s dead,” he shrieked repeatedly, pointing back at the house. “She’s dead.”
Two men, leaders in the community, gestured to two women to comfort and care for him, and then proceeded cautiously up the front path and entered the house.
They gagged at the stench that greeted them. The sight was one they had never imagined. Blood splattered the walls and ceiling and pooled on the floor around the legs of a wooden chair. Tied to the seat was the grieving Frenchman’s wife, also middle-aged, heavyset, graying, and still bleeding over her blouse. Her throat had been slit wide, her head pulled back, and around her chest, daubed in finger markings with her own blood, was a one-word sign that read: COLLABORATEUR.
1
October 19, 1940
RAF Middle Wallop, Wales, UK
Flight Lieutenant Jeremy Littlefield entered the dispersal hut of RAF 609 Squadron with a disconsolate air. This was his first time at the airfield since being wounded in a frantic dogfight during which he had been downed with a bullet fragment in his shoulder.
Two Spitfires were parked near an adjacent maintenance and repair hangar. On looking at the bulletin board inside the hut, Jeremy saw what he had expected: a list of pilots assigned to the unit. Absent from it was Eugene “Red” Tobin, Andrew Mamedoff, and Vernon “Shorty” Keough, three American pilots he had befriended during his initial flight training. He had since flown combat missions with them from here, this very airfield, this squadron. While he convalesced, they had transferred to a new Royal Air Force all-American unit, the Eagle Squadron.
A shadow crossed the bulletin board. He turned to find one of the mechanics standing in the door of the hut. The man wiped his grimy right hand on an oily cloth and extended it toward Jeremy. “So good to see you, sir, all mended and in one piece. Right glad to have you back, we are.”
“And glad I am to be back,” Jeremy said, glancing down at the dirty hand and then grasping it firmly. “The only reason I’m alive is because you chaps do such a wonderful job of keeping our kites flight-ready.”
“Ah, sir, you honor us, but it’s you pilots that give so much in the air…” His voice trailed off, and Jeremy noted the strain and sadness that ringed his eyes. The mechanic sniffed. “It’s not easy seein’ you all fly off and some don’t come back. It’s wonderful when we thought we’d lost one and he shows up, like you just did.”
He gestured toward the door. “The squadron’s out training now. Most of the chaps are new because of losses and the transfer of the Americans to that new squadron. The commander told us you might arrive today. He left a message. He said you was to go to the officers’ mess at lunchtime and meet Commanding Officer Anderson of 604 Squadron and Squadron Leader Cunningham.”
Jeremy squinted and wrinkled his brow. “Did he say why?”
“No, sir. That’s the full message.”
Jeremy glanced at his watch. “I’d best get over there. It’s almost that time now.”
He had no difficulty finding the two officers. They had been watching for him and called to him as he entered the mess. Anderson cut straight to business after greetings and taking their seats at one of the tables. “We’re night fighters, Lieutenant. We want you to join us.”
Jeremy stared at him, speechless. The two officers sat across from him, both appearing affable but deadly serious.
“You’re fighting in the dark,” Jeremy managed at last. “The odds haven’t favored you, and the results have been dismal.” He took in a deep breath. “I’m ready to die for my country, but I’m not suicidal.”
“None of us are,” Cunningham interjected evenly. “But England will cease to exist if we can’t defend her from these nightly raids. You know how close Hitler came to defeating the RAF. We must beat him at night as well. We have the means to do that.” He paused, and then reached across the table to grasp Jeremy’s shoulder. When Jeremy glanced down at it, Cunningham removed his hand and continued. “I won’t glamorize what we’re doing. Night fighting is a highly specialized game. We have to set a standard of inner strength and determination for everyone around us. You’ve demonstrated that. Our system has to be made to work, and we have to be the ones to master it.”
Jeremy leaned back to take the measure of both men. Neither was much older than he, if at all. Their air was one of having been battle-tested.
“I’m listening, but even if I agree, my transfer will have to be approved—”
“We spoke to both your squadron leader and wing commander,” Anderson broke in. “They would not like to lose you, but since your unit is still reconstituting almost from scratch, they said they’d release you if that is what you want. We’re hoping it is.
“We know your story,” he continued. “The odds have been against you since you went to build roads and airfields in France ahead of the battle there, but you’ve beaten them every time. Your tenacity did that.
“You told your former boss at MI-9, Major Crockatt, that the reason you wanted to fly with the RAF was that you needed to be where you could be most effective during Britain’s fight for existence. That place now is flying with us. What they’re doing to our cities between dusk and dawn is proof enough of that.”
The three pilots sat quietly, eyeing each other. “You talked to Major Crockatt?” Jeremy said at last. “You went to some trouble.”
“We’re actively recruiting, and we need the best,” Anderson said. “You’ll need steel nerves, but if you do as you’re trained, you’ll come home to fight again and again, and we’ll blow a wide hole in the Luftwaffe. We will defeat them.” He added wryly, “It won’t be immediate. As of now, there are only the two of us.”
Jeremy studied Anderson. He perceived no bluff or bravado. “How will you do that?”
“We have new technology that will change everything. It’s a project developed and supervised by Air Marshal Sholto Douglas under a group he formed, the Night Fighting Committee at RAF headquarters.”
Jeremy arched his brow. “At Bentley Priory? That must be under Air Chief Marshal Dowding. I’d say that’s high-level enough.”
Anderson agreed with a nod. “Germany won’t be free to bomb our cities at will night after night.” He leaned in. “We’ve put direction-finding on our fighters. We can see in the dark.”
Jeremy stared at him. “Air-to-air radar?”
Anderson gestured toward Cunningham. “This man played a big part in re-designing the device to fit our aircraft, and then he flew the trials. It w
orks.” He took in Jeremy’s skeptical expression. “Don’t think this was easy. Our scientists and engineers were tasked with making a miniature version of what we have at stations of the Chain Home system, each of which has six massive towers, receiving stations, operators, and phone lines. To put that capability into an aircraft and making it useful was unthinkable. But they did it.”
“The first successful air-to-air interception against a German was back in May. Another pilot, Flight Officer Ashfield, flew a Blenheim fitted with a prototype of our system and intercepted a German bomber.
“That flight proved the system’s worth, but the aircraft and the configuration of the apparatus were ungainly. In the months since then, Cunningham worked with the engineers to reconfigure the system and modified a new aircraft to receive it.”
Observing a vestige of remaining doubt, Anderson added, “A lot of fliers risked their lives flying blind at night and getting us to this point. It’s time to take the system operational.” He hesitated. “You should know that we don’t fly together in formation. We go out singly.”
Jeremy sat back and stared. “That sounds a bit scary. Are you hunting, then?”
Anderson shook his head. “No, and it doesn’t mean that we have only one aircraft in the sky at a time. The controllers can see us. Chain Home has been fitted with radar to look inward across Great Britain now, as opposed to only looking out to sea and beyond. They keep us separated and vector us individually toward the enemy. Then, as we get nearer to our targets, our ‘magic box’ operators in the turrets pick them up on their cathode screens and guide us in. Final target acquisition is done by visual sighting.”
Jeremy pursed his lips. “In other words, you have to see a black bomber against a black sky before you can shoot it?”
“In a nutshell.”
“That’s what we’re working on now,” Cunningham cut in with a small laugh. “How do we physically see them? We can’t sit and wait for the system to be perfected—they bombed our cities for fifty-seven straight nights, and they’re still doing it. Some of our technique will have to be developed during our attacks on their raids.” He chuckled again. “We hope to see the glow of flame coming out of the bombers’ exhaust.”
“That sounds a little doubtful,” Jeremy replied. Nevertheless, a stirring of cautious excitement gripped him against the emptiness he had felt upon arriving at the dispersal hut to face the reality that his comrades had gone away. Finally, he asked, “May I see this ‘magic box’ in action?”
Anderson and Cunningham exchanged glances. “Of course,” Anderson said, “but one other thing you should know: we’re very selective, out of necessity. If you join us, you’re our first recruit, meaning there’s just the three of us and our operators. We hope to have another three crews trained by year-end.”
Once again, Jeremy stared. “And that’s all there is?”
“That’s all.” Anderson smirked. “You’re getting in on the ground floor.”
“Against all that the Luftwaffe sends?”
“Aside from our anti-aircraft guns.”
That night, standing behind the pilot’s seat with Cunningham at the controls and an operator in the turret, Jeremy flew in the new aircraft, a Beaufighter, and witnessed the potential of its radar. The next day, he bid a sad adieu to his squadron leader and his beloved Spitfires and joined 604 Squadron.
2
November 11, 1940
Off the coast of the isle of Cephalonia, Greece
Rear Admiral Arthur Lyster, in charge of carrier operations for the British Mediterranean fleet, leaned against the rail on the steel island of aircraft carrier HMS Illustrious, watching as twelve Swordfish biplanes revved their engines and moved into taxiing position. He had wanted to attack three weeks earlier on October 21, Trafalgar Day, which celebrated Britain’s triumph in 1805 over the combined French and Spanish fleets near the end of the Third Coalition of the Napoleonic wars. That victory had terminated the French emperor’s dreams of invading Great Britain. Now, another tyrant with similar dreams must be stopped.
A fire in the hangar of the Illustrious had obviated the ability to launch on the preferred date. Lyster hoped the calamity was not an omen.
Once again, the British Isles faced the threat of an invading force, this time from the Third Reich, an enemy made more ferocious by their modern weaponry and more fearsome from a demonstrated sadistic nature. Led by Adolf Hitler, the Germans had annexed Austria and invaded Czechoslovakia, Poland, Norway, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, and northern and western France, as well as small nation states scattered among the European countries. Frustrated by Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s refusal to negotiate a peace treaty, Hitler vowed to bring Britain to its knees and had bombed and strafed Britain’s towns, ports, cities, factories, and churches.
His campaign against the British Isles had begun with an attack aimed at destroying Fighter Command to gain air superiority. When Churchill’s famous Few, the RAF’s fighter pilots, repulsed the Luftwaffe by sheer wit and tenacity, the German dictator resorted to nightly bombing raids lasting as long as ten hours and delivering tons of incendiaries and explosives on a battered but resilient nation.
Such was the success of the RAF’s response against Germany that the air superiority crucial to Hitler’s strategy had been denied him far into the autumn months when the waters in the Channel became too treacherous to attempt a crossing in strength. He had been forced to postpone Operation Sea Lion, his planned invasion.
Lyster hoped to further inhibit German capabilities by blunting Italy’s naval reach here in the Mediterranean. The two countries had been formal allies since June. He sighed. It would have been fitting to do this on Trafalgar Day, but I’ll take the fight to the enemy whenever opportunity presents itself.
Several weeks earlier, he had flown to Alexandria, Egypt, and briefed his proposal to Admiral Andrew Cunningham, Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet. “Italy tries to dominate this sea using a ‘fleet in being’ strategy,” he said. “They threaten our ships just by the presence in Tobruk and Taranto.”
Cunningham had studied the map of the Mediterranean hanging on the wall. “That’s a given,” he said, “and their warships are fast and deadly. Their fleet was already bigger than France’s, and after we destroyed the French fleet in Toulon and Algeria, ours is the only one that can counter them. What do you propose?”
Lyster grunted and pointed out three places on the map. “Most of the territory on either side of the Med was friendly only six months ago, but now that’s all changed. Since Italy joined Germany in their Axis Pact, all we’ve got now is Gibraltar near the mouth of the Mediterranean, Alexandria protecting the Suez at the east end, and Malta halfway between as a good but vulnerable re-supply/re-fuel depot. If we lose any one of those three points…” He let the sentence hang.
“Our ground forces are planning an operation next month to seize this port,” he went on, indicating Tobruk, Libya. “If they succeed, that will ease the pressure on defending Alexandria, but we must keep Alexandria if we hope to maintain control of the Suez and our supply lines from the Far East. That leaves our Royal Navy to deal with the threat with only four battleships, nine cruisers, and two carriers. One of the carriers, the Eagle, is ancient.”
He moved his finger diagonally across the Mediterranean to the northeast over Taranto, Italy. “Meanwhile, the Italians stationed six battleships, twenty-one cruisers, and a bunch of destroyers here. They sit in port while we incur wear and tear on our ships and burn fuel over long, vulnerable supply lines. Until we get the Italian ships out of that port, we’ll be forced to conduct any operation as a full fleet to avoid an ambush. That would keep us from doing more than one operation at a time.
“From our Maryland-bomber fly-over reports, we know their six battleships are moored at Mar Grande in the Taranto harbor, with seven cruisers and twenty-eight destroyers in the smaller adjacent part of the harbor, Mar Piccolo.”
“Back in September,” Cunningham broke in,
rubbing his chin, “I tried to draw Italy into a major sea battle, but they declined to show up. Now you intend to destroy them in Taranto, at anchor?”
“In simple terms, yes. If they come out of port, they could overpower most convoys coming through the Med in short order, and the rest of our British fleet is spread thin, protecting the homeland and our Atlantic supply lines. Without those supplies, we can’t feed our people, much less conduct a war. We must take Italy out of the equation here on the Mediterranean, or at least weaken them for the near term.”
Cunningham leaned back in his chair. “I read your preliminary summary, and I agree. From his experience as first lord of the admiralty, the prime minister understands your view perfectly. He won’t disagree with your assessment.
“As I understand the first part of your plan, you want the entire fleet to pretend to escort a convoy from Alexandria to Malta. Before arriving there and under cover of darkness the night before your attack, the Illustrious and Eagle will divert and take up positions off the coast of Cephalonia. Your raid would stage from there.
“That part I’m fine with, but I have some doubt regarding how you’ll meet the objective with the rest of your plan. Explain it to me in detail.”
Lyster did, and when he had finished, Cunningham exhaled while shaking his head. “The Swordfish? You’re expecting a lot out of a machine that’s nicknamed the ‘Stringbag.’ It was obsolete before we entered the war.”
“My view is different, sir. The plane arrived in service only four years ago, it’s sturdy, with a metal frame, and it’s highly maneuverable.”
