Tempest Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  ‘ ... Holder Knabe mit lockigem Haar, schlaf’ in himmlischer Ruhe, schlaf’ in himmlischer Ruh’ ... ’

  Sing! Yeoman prayed wildly to himself, think of all the carols in the world and sing them! He began to walk faster, almost recklessly, stumbling a little as he moved from tree to tree. The voices gradually receded behind him and he forced himself to slow down once more, stopping again to take in breath.

  He smelt cigar smoke, saw the red glow in the night and the dark shape of a man all in the same instant.

  ‘Johann,’ a voice said softly out of the darkness. ‘Ist das Johann? Du hist verspätet. Komm’, unser Feldwebel is weggegangen und wir haben Schnaps und Zigarren. Mach’ schnell, mensch, ehe er zurück-kommt!’

  Yeoman took a deep breath, then muttered in what he hoped was a recognizable German accent:

  ‘Nein, es ist nicht Johann. Ich bin Hans Schneider.’ He plucked the name out of thin air. ‘Frohliche Weihnachten,’ he added desperately, wishing the other a happy Christmas.

  There was a momentary silence. Then, as Yeoman tried to sidle away into the shadows, the German soldier said suspiciously:

  ‘Schneider? Ich kenne kein Schneider hier. Wer sind Sie? Und wohin gehen Sie?’

  Yeoman knew instinctively that he had no hope of bluffing his way out of the present situation. His German, although fairly adequate, would not stand up to a prolonged conversation without betraying some trace of an English accent.

  He took a few paces towards the German soldier, giving a parody of a friendly chuckle. He saw the vague white blur of the man’s face and lashed out with all his strength, striking him just under the nose with the heel of his hand. There was the sickening crunch of shattering bone and the soldier gave a strangled cry, staggering back to cannon off a tree trunk and then fall like a log.

  Yeoman threw himself on top of him, rolling him over and hooking his right arm under the German’s chin. Then, ramming his knee into the small of the soldier’s back, he clasped his hands and exerted upward pressure. The German struggled frantically, his hands scrabbling at Yeoman as he tried to reach back over his shoulders to grip his attacker.

  There was a crack like a breaking twig as the man’s spine snapped. His clawing hands fluttered aimlessly and violent tremors ran through his body. Then, after a series of spasmodic jerks, he was still.

  Yeoman stood up, breathing heavily, and dragged the body into the shadows. He would have liked to hide it properly, but there was no undergrowth in this coniferous wood and it was the best he could do.

  Some distance away, the dead man’s colleagues were still singing. Yeoman leaned against a tree for a moment, feeling sick; it was the first time he had killed a man with his bare hands, and it was not a pleasant sensation. Then, pulling himself together with an effort, he turned away and resumed his trek through the wood. He knew now that he had nothing to lose; if the enemy captured him now, he could expect no mercy.

  He walked on for several more minutes, until the trees ahead of him began to thin out visibly. He paused when he heard more voices, melting into the shadows, and stood trembling for some time while he assessed the situation.

  Peering into the darkness, he made out several low mounds between the trees. They puzzled him for a moment, until he realized that he was looking at gun emplacements with camouflage netting draped over them. The gun crews must be somewhere near at hand, presumably in the communal bunker — that must be the source of the voices, he thought — but he could not locate it. Neither could he see any sentries, although he guessed that they must be positioned forward of the guns in observation posts along the fringe of the wood.

  He dropped on to his belly and began to worm his way forward, stopping frequently. Very little snow had filtered through the dense branches of the conifers; the ground was soft and moist, inches thick in mould, and Yeoman was able to crawl in silence, carefully reaching ahead before every move to brush aside tell-tale twigs that might have betrayed his presence.

  He inched his way past one of the gun pits, so close that he could see the long barrel of the 88-mm poking out from its protective camouflage. Then, suddenly, there were no more trees ahead of him.

  Panic gripped him as he looked out over the flat, featureless snowscape. There were no hiding places, no friendly shadows, no sheltering gullies — nothing at all until the eye alighted on the dark shadow of another line of trees, over a mile away. Beyond those trees, Yeoman knew, were the forward positions of the British Second Army; but how he was going to reach them he had no idea.

  For a long time he lay there, curled up in the blackness between the roots of a great pine tree, overwhelmed by black despair. He could not go on, because some sentry would be sure to spot him against the blank background; neither could he stay where he was, for there was nowhere to hide in the wood and daylight would certainly bring discovery. His Dutch friends had been right. He had no chance of getting through. He should have stayed with them, in comparative safety, until the Allies broke through ...

  A klaxon howled, sending a silent scream of fear through him. He curled up tighter into a ball as the strident noise went on endlessly and the wood erupted into life. All around him, out of the very ground it seemed, soldiers came spilling from hidden bunkers, shouting orders. Feet thudded past him, only yards away.

  The klaxon ceased its din. Amid shouts and curses, the soldiers were stripping the camouflage netting from their guns. Yeoman raised a cautious head and looked at the nearest of the weapons; in the gloom, he was able to make out that the barrel was being elevated, its muzzle pointing at an angle towards the sky.

  Rising above the clamour around him, he heard the unmistakable drone of aero-engines. Soon the night was throbbing with sound, and he knew that high above his head the Pathfinders of RAF Bomber Command were leading yet another massive attack towards the battered industries of the Ruhr.

  The beams of searchlights, situated somewhere to the rear, began to probe the sky. A few moments later, the 88-mm guns along the edge of the wood opened up simultaneously with an ear-splitting crash. Yeoman cowered away involuntarily from the fearful noise as the guns hurled salvo after salvo of shells into the night, splitting the darkness with the red flashes from their muzzles.

  Suddenly, like a revelation, he knew that this was his chance — perhaps his only chance. Jumping quickly to his feet he ran through the outer fringe of trees and into the open plain beyond. No one challenged him, though with every step he expected to hear the chatter of a machine-gun and feel the violent impact of bullets.

  The icy air tore at his lungs as he ran, striving to put as much distance between himself and the German positions before he was spotted. The crash and roar of the guns continued behind him and shrapnel whined down all around, slapping into the snow to lie hissing as it cooled.

  He zig-zagged frantically as he ran, trying to make himself as difficult a target as possible. The breath sobbed in his throat and the far wood seemed as distant as ever. Twice he stumbled and fell headlong, staggering to his feet again to continue his dash for freedom. He felt utterly alone and exposed, like a fly on white wallpaper.

  The glare of the searchlights made the night as bright as day. High overhead, among the bomber stream, clusters of shell-bursts flashed and sparkled.

  Suddenly, a white light filled the sky. Yeoman hurled himself flat, clawing at the frozen snow in a vain effort to make himself less conspicuous. Above him, a white flare drifted slowly down. It landed on the snow fifty yards away and lay sputtering faintly.

  A machine-gun hammered and tracer flashed through the night, the bullets probing in an arc over his head. He cringed in the snow, his eyes tightly shut, and waited for the end.

  Then, suddenly, he opened his eyes again as an incredible fact dawned on him. The machine-gun fire was coming from somewhere ahead of him. Raising his head a few inches, he screamed:

  ‘Don’t shoot! For God’s sake hold your fire! I’m English!’

  The machine-gun hammered briefly again, then ceas
ed abruptly as though on someone’s orders. A shout came through the night from the line of trees in front of him.

  ‘Who are you? Identify yourself!’

  The pilot swallowed in an attempt to moisten his dry throat and cried hoarsely:

  ‘Yeoman. Wing Commander, Royal Air Force.’

  ‘All right,’ the voice in the darkness answered him, ‘come on forward. But keep low — you are still in range of the Jerry machine-guns. And keep your hands on your head until we’ve had a look at you.’

  Yeoman did as he was told. There was utter silence once more as he moved forward; the bombers had droned away into the distance and the guns had stopped firing.

  ‘Right, that’s far enough. Stay where you are, and don’t take your hands off your head.’

  Two soldiers, both carrying sub-machine-guns, emerged from the shadow of the trees and faced the pilot.

  ‘You’d better be who you say you are,’ one of them said menacingly. His companion gave a grunt that might have passed for a chuckle.

  ‘I reckon he’s genuine enough,’ he said. ‘Who else but an Air Force bloke would be stupid enough to run through a Jerry minefield?’

  Yeoman’s legs suddenly gave way under him and he collapsed at the feet of the two men. They moved hastily aside as he vomited into the snow.

  Chapter Nine

  BY NIGHTFALL ON 26 DECEMBER, IT WAS CLEAR THAT THE German offensive in the Ardennes had failed. At 1700 on that Tuesday afternoon, the spearhead of the US 4th Armoured Division reached Bastogne and secured the highway, enabling the first supply convoys to move in.

  But the Germans still had plenty of fight left in them, and they still had a few tricks up their sleeve. On the morning of the twenty-seventh, as it was not possible to bring all the necessary supplies in by the single road that was open, the Americans laid on one last air-drop.

  Thirteen C-47 transports came winging in from the west, towing gliders, and flew straight into the concentrated fire of a line of anti-aircraft guns set up along their flight path by the Hermann Goring Flak Regiment. Nine of the C-47’s went down in flames, though all of them managed to cast off their gliders in time and the latter landed within the perimeter.

  The Germans now set about a defensive front by pulling back and re-grouping what was left of their armoured divisions. These had taken a fearful battering, losing 530 tanks — most of which, undamaged in the actual fighting, had had to be abandoned through lack of fuel because the airborne forces had failed to seize and hold on to vital American fuel dumps. Yet still the Germans strove to capture Bastogne. Division after division was sent up, arriving successively in the Bastogne area to be committed against the town. At one stage, the siege of Bastogne occupied no fewer than nine German divisions, completely frustrating any chances of a further counter-attack.

  The Allied fighter-bombers were everywhere, probing deep behind the enemy lines, destroying trains and convoys and armour wherever they were to be found. And the German soldiers, cowering in the snow and the mud of the ditches alongside the bomb-and bullet-swept roads, shook their fists and cursed their own airmen bitterly; for suddenly, mysteriously, the Luftwaffe seemed to have vanished from the sky ...

  *

  The general was a young man, although his hair had broad grey streaks in it and sharp lines were etched across his face. He smoked cigars incessantly, lighting a fresh one with the stub of another. Now, under the harsh glare of the lights in the underground operations room, he surveyed the wing commanders of the Luftwaffe’s 2nd Air Division, who stood in a semi-circle around a large table. Covering it, under a glass top, was a map of western and northern Germany, part of France and the Low Countries.

  The general chewed thoughtfully on his cigar and then removed it, placing it carefully in an ashtray. His eyes roved round the circle of pilots, all young men also, all much decorated. He studied each face intently for a few seconds, then gave a tired smile.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we have known each other for a long time. You will not misunderstand me, I am sure, when I say that things are not going well for us.’

  There were murmurs of assent around the table. The general went on to voice their own thoughts.

  ‘The offensive in the Ardennes has failed. We have lost more tanks and troops than we can afford and now we are once more on the defensive. This being the case, you are doubtless wondering why offensive Luftwaffe operations along most of the Western Front have been suspended since yesterday, at the very time when our forces are most in need of them.’

  The wing commanders exchanged glances. The general picked up his cigar, puffed at it several times to get it going, then laid it aside once more. A cloud of pungent grey smoke drifted over the map.

  ‘The reason, gentlemen,’ he went on, ‘is quite simple. Within the next twenty-four hours, the Luftwaffe squadrons in the west will be privileged to strike the biggest blow against the Allied air forces since the offensive of 1940.’

  Triumphantly, the general noted the effect of his words on the men who confronted him. Their faces registered expressions that ranged from enthusiasm to frank disbelief.

  ‘Over the past few days,’ the general told them, ‘fresh fighter and fighter-bomber squadrons have been quietly moved to the north-west from other sectors. You are all aware of these moves, for the new units have temporarily been placed under your command. What you have not been told, until this moment, is the overall strategy behind the re-organization.

  ‘At first light tomorrow morning, New Year’s Day, more than one thousand Focke-Wulfs and Messerschmitts will attack sixteen Allied airfields in Holland and Belgium. The attack will be code-named Operation Hermann.’

  He paused for dramatic effect. A buzz like an electric current ran through his audience. Someone gave a low whistle, and the general smiled again. Then, suddenly businesslike, he leaned over the map, his jabbing index finger pointing out the German airfields on which the strike aircraft were now massed.

  ‘Apeldoorn — Ahlhorn — Twenthe — Münster — Lippstadt — Rheine — Neuenkirchen — Metelen — Harskamp — Teuge — Varrelbusch — and all their satellite fields. Eleven of our finest fighter wings, gentlemen. Jagdgeschwader 2, JG-3, JG-4, JG-5, JG-26, JG-27, JG-52, JG-53, JG-54, JG-66 and JG-301. All with proud records stretching back to our earliest victories. Ah, those were the days, gentlemen, and now we have a chance to recapture them!’

  He went on to outline the plan, which was masterly in its conception. For some time, Luftwaffe Intelligence had known that the C-in-C of the RAF’S 2nd Tactical Air Force, Air Marshal Sir Arthur Coningham, had been forced because of weather and logistics difficulties to concentrate his forces on a comparatively small number of airfields.

  ‘At Eindhoven, for example, there are known to be no fewer than six squadrons — two of Tempests, one of Spitfires and three of Typhoons. The point is that the British do not consider such a concentration to be unduly hazardous; over the past couple of months, regrettably, the appearance of our aircraft over their airfields has been almost as rare as snow in summer, and they have grown complacent. Well, we are about to shake their complacency to its roots!’

  The general lit a fresh cigar, then said:

  ‘We know for a fact that a lot of their heavy anti-aircraft defences have been withdrawn, and that they no longer use camouflage netting to conceal their aircraft. Your pilots should therefore have no difficulty in locating their targets.

  ‘Now to the finer details. Some of you may be feeling that you would have liked more time to plan the operation, but such was the need for strict security that it was decided not to pass on any information, even to your level of command, until a few hours before the operation was due to take place.’

  The general noticed that one or two of his wing commanders were looking slightly worried, and hastily reassured them.

  ‘All the planning has been done for you. You will all be given target folders shortly, but you are not under any circumstances to open them until 0300 hours tomorrow morn
ing, when you may brief your squadron commanders. All I can tell you at this stage is that the attack formation will be divided into three waves, each of which will be led by a Junkers 188 night fighter which will be responsible for accurate navigation and for maintaining communications with Air Division HQ.

  ‘The first wave will fly a long curve out over the north coast of Holland, staying low over the sea and then turning in over the Zuider Zee to attack airfields in the Brussels area. The second wave will come in at ground level in the Arnhem sector and strike at RAF airfields in Holland, while the third wave, also at ground level, will approach through Venlo and attack airfields in the US Ninth Army sector. By coming in at low level, we hope to escape detection by enemy radar and so achieve complete surprise.’

  The general, who had been leaning forward with his palms on the table top, now straightened up abruptly and stood with his hands behind his back.

  ‘I shall not ask you if you have any questions, gentlemen,’ he concluded, ‘Because in any case I am not at liberty to answer them. It only remains for me to wish you good luck.’

  He shook hands solemnly with every one of them. After they had saluted and left the room, he went to his office and locked the door, for he did not wish to be disturbed.

  Gradually, the room filled with cigar smoke. The general stared fixedly into it, lost in his thoughts. Foremost in his mind was the sure knowledge that he would never again see some of the young men who had just left him; men who had served under his command at one time or another from the Channel to Stalingrad. By this time tomorrow, they would be dead.

  By this time tomorrow, too, the Luftwaffe would have played its last trump card. Beyond that, there would be nothing but fire and ruin and the final plunge, like a meteor, to destruction.

  He opened his desk drawer and took out a Luger automatic. It shone dully in the light. For a few moments he weighed it in his hand, savouring the feel of it; it had been with him for a long time now and was an inseparable part of him, by his side constantly, like a loving mistress.