by Glenn Meade
“What the—?” shouted Kleist.
“Stay where you are, all of you,” and Halder got to his feet and hurried towards the cockpit.
28
* * *
Falconi looked worried when Halder burst into the cockpit. “What’s wrong?”
“We’ve got an RAF Beaufighter on our tail,” Falconi cried over the engine noise. “It came out of nowhere and flashed us with a color code. When I didn’t reply, he fired a couple of tracer bursts across our nose and flew round behind us. You should see him on our starboard side, any second now.”
Halder looked out and saw a fighter come abreast of them on the right, the pilot and navigator visible in the cockpit glow. The fighter started to waggle its wings, and moments later its undercarriage was lowered.
“What’s he doing?” Halder asked.
“Telling us politely he wants us to follow him into Alex and land. If we don’t, he’ll blow us out of the sky.”
“Terrific. Can you do anything about it?”
“The Beaufighter’s got us for speed, Jack. There’s no way we can outfly him.”
“Can’t you try and flash a code in reply?”
“It’s pointless, Jack. There’s absolutely no way we can know the correct color sequence. The Beaufighter’s skipper might suspect we have a technical problem, but if you ask me, he’s already smelled a rat.”
“How far are we from the coast?”
“About thirty miles. Less than ten minutes’ flight time.”
Halder said frantically, “We have to get away from him, Vito. Do whatever you can.”
“Easier said than done.” Falconi wiped perspiration from his face and tightened his seat harness. “I’ll see what I can do. But you’d better warn the others. Tell them to hold on tight and expect trouble. Then come back up here and strap yourself in. Things may get pretty rough from now on.”
• • •
Carlton watched as the C-47 lowered its landing gear, its nose tilted down gently, and the aircraft started to descend. Its cockpit was in darkness, but he could just make out the shadowy forms of the crew. He said to Higgins, “OK, he’s following orders. Keep your eye on the sonofagun. Don’t lose him.”
“Got you, sir.”
Carlton retracted his landing gear and flaps and applied enough power to gain on the C-47 by half a mile. “Can you still see him?”
In the navigator’s seat, Higgins twisted round, looking back through the laminated glass. “Yes, sir.”
Carlton scanned his instruments, pushed the stick forward and began to descend. “OK. Let’s take this guy into Alex and find out who the heck he is.”
• • •
When Halder came back from the cabin and buckled himself into the wireless operator’s seat, Falconi was sweating badly. “You warned the others?”
“Just like you told me.”
“How are they?”
“Worried, as you’d expect. What happens now?”
Falconi pointed towards the coast. “See that?” In the faint glow of sunrise, Halder noticed the swirling, orange-brown tint of a ferocious sandstorm, dust rising high up into the atmosphere and stretching all along the desert coast.
“We’re about ten miles from land,” Falconi explained.
“The only slim chance we have of shaking off our friend is to head straight into the storm. If we go in fast and keep low, we just might lose him.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Deadly was the word I would have used,” Falconi answered soberly. “A storm like that can be fatal for an aircraft. Sand can affect your engines and before you know it you’re dropping out of the sky. And that one looks pretty bad to me.”
“Any other good news?”
“Visibility can be down to almost zero. And if we try to fly too low, we risk crashing into a sand dune. But we really have no option, unless you want to follow our friend and face the consequences?”
“No way, Vito. Can our aircraft take the punishment?”
Falconi shrugged. “The Dakota is reliable enough, a bit of a workhorse, really, but I’d guarantee nothing in these conditions.”
They were very close to land, and at eight thousand feet the dark Mediterranean below them looked a churning frenzy of white-topped waves. The coastal wind seemed to be whipping up the desert with awesome ferocity, the orange-brown cloud swirling up to a thousand feet. The Beaufighter was still ahead of them by about half a mile, its navigation lights on. Moments later it banked left, parallel to the coast and away from the sandstorm, heading towards Alex.
“OK, he’s about starting his approach. He’s expecting us to follow him in, but this is where we make a run for it.” Falconi gave a wave to the Beaufighter. “Arrivederci, amico.” He looked back grimly at Halder. “Hold on to whatever you can. And if we don’t make it, it’s been nice knowing you, Jack. Gear up,” he called out to Remer.
The copilot retracted the undercarriage, and at the same time Falconi pushed the throttles full forward, nosed down the Dakota, and they descended with frightening speed towards the sandstorm. Halder saw the Beaufighter still off to the right, continuing to make its approach, but at the last moment the RAF fighter turned in a tight circle and came after them at speed.
“No, he’s seen us!” said Falconi. “Now we really are in trouble.”
There was a sudden explosion of machine guns from the Beaufighter as it spewed scarlet flame, tracers arcing across the sky off to their left. Falconi dived down to a thousand feet, quickly leveled out, and flew straight over the coast and right into the storm, the Beaufighter diving after them, guns blazing.
• • •
It was like flying through grainy, thick yellow smoke. The visibility was down to several hundred meters and sand flurries crackled against the windshield, the noise like static electricity. The Dakota shuddered violently in the buffeting and Falconi had to concentrate hard to keep the aircraft straight and level.
Halder saw a scarlet blaze of red-hot tracer fire streak past them on the left. “What the—he’s still after us.”
“With a vengeance, it seems.”
There was another burst, and a couple of holes punctured the left wing as a volley of tracers hit them.
Falconi grimaced, his face bathed in perspiration. “He’s not going to let us off easily. Which means we’ll have to try something very dangerous. And if this doesn’t work, then I’m afraid it’s ciao.”
• • •
Chuck Carlton was sweating. The Beaufighter was being buffeted like crazy in the sandstorm and he knew the engines didn’t like it. He hadn’t expected the target to make a run for the coast, because it didn’t stand a chance, and definitely not in weather like this. He was certain now the intruder was an enemy aircraft, and his adrenaline was flowing, anticipating a kill. The C-47 had a slight advantage: Its twin Wasp twelve-hundred-horsepower radials were probably better able to withstand a sandstorm than the Beau’s twin fifteen-hundred-horsepower Hercules engines, whose carburetors and oil coolers were more likely to clog. But even so, the C-47 pilot was taking an almighty risk, flying so low in such extreme conditions. Carlton was determined not to let him get away. Besides, he’d flown in America’s Dust Bowl, in weather almost as bad, and he reckoned he could handle it as long as his aircraft could.
“He’s picked the wrong guy to mess with,” he roared to Higgins.
In the back, Higgins was ashen-faced, watching the rush of golden sand on the laminated glass, barely able to make out the tail of the C-47, dead ahead, maybe four hundred meters from their nose. His nerves were on edge. If the C-47 dropped speed, they’d crash right into his tail.
“Maybe—maybe we should get out of this, sir,” he called anxiously over the intercom.
“No way,” Carlton answered above the snarl of the engine. He had the C-47 directly in his line of fire. “He’s a fox, trying to lose us, but I’m going to blow him to kingdom come.” And with that Carlton pressed the fire button again, the six .303 machine g
uns crackled across the wings, and tracers zipped towards their target like angry red hornets.
• • •
A tracer shot into the right side of the cockpit, and punched its way out through the fuselage. It hit Remer in the side, spinning him round in his seat. He screamed as he clapped a hand on his wound, and Halder went to help him, but Falconi roared, “Leave him! Don’t distract me!”
Remer was moaning in pain, bright red blood pumping from a gaping hole in his side.
Halder shouted, “Vito, you have to get us out of this!”
Falconi didn’t answer, his eyes fixed dead ahead, as if he were looking for something in the middle of the frightening storm, and then another burst of scarlet tracer tore past their left-hand side. Falconi nosed down to avoid the blazing gunfire until the altimeter read eighty feet. They were barely skimming the ground now, low sandbanks rolling like golden waves directly underneath the aircraft, and then Halder saw a huge sweep of sand looming straight ahead, rising up several hundred feet.
“Vito! For the love of—!”
But it seemed as if Falconi had been waiting for exactly this moment, almost expecting it. In an instant his hands were working rapidly, pushing forward the throttles, pulling back hard on the stick, lowering the flaps. The nose lifted sharply and the C-47 barely cleared the sandbank. There was a harsh metallic sound as the fuselage scraped the top, but miraculously they continued to climb.
“That was close, Vito!”
Falconi’s white face dripped sweat. “Too close for comfort. Now let’s just pray our friend doesn’t see it in time.”
• • •
Carlton was trying to keep his eyes on the C-47, preparing to fire again, when he saw the target’s tail climb sharply.
“Keep level, baby. What the . . . ?” A second later Carlton saw a massive sand dune straight ahead. “Holy—!” He pulled back frantically on the stick.
Higgins screamed. It was the last sound Carlton heard in his earphones before the Beau clipped the top of the dune, the aircraft spun out of control, nosed into the sand, and exploded in a ball of searing orange flame.
• • •
“I think we got him.” Falconi burst out of the thick cloud at a thousand feet, took in the flaps, glanced back and saw a bright mushroom of flame rise up out of the sandstorm. There was no sound of triumph in his voice. “The poor souls. God have mercy on them.” He wiped a lather of sweat from his face and leveled out the Dakota. “Mamma mia!”
“What were you up to back there?”
“A small game we used to play when I flew mail runs down to Addis Ababa. We’d fly low and skip the dunes, anything to relieve the boredom of flying over nothing but desert. Pleasant enough fun in clear weather, but in a blinding sandstorm, positively dangerous. You’d better see to Remer.”
Halder felt the copilot’s pulse. It was very weak, his breathing shallow, and he was still bleeding heavily. “He’s alive—just about.”
“Get the first-aid kit from the cabin, see if you can do anything about the bleeding—and check the others. But be quick about it, Jack. Remer seems in a bad way.”
Halder went back to the cabin and saw Rachel standing, clutching the cargo webbing, looking frightened and white-faced. Kleist and Doring seemed shaken after the experience, and there were several holes punched clean through the fuselage, but incredibly no one had been hit except Remer.
“Is the worst over with, or about to begin?” Kleist asked bleakly.
“It seems we’re out of the woods for now. Find me the first-aid kit. The copilot’s badly wounded.” As Kleist went to look for it, Halder said to Rachel, “Are you OK?”
“I—I don’t know. I’m still trying to recover. That was one of the worst experiences of my life.”
“We’re still alive, which counts for something.”
Kleist came back with the kit and handed it to Halder. As he went towards the cockpit, Rachel said, “Do you want me to help?”
“Not for now, but if I need you I’ll call.”
Suddenly there was a sickening dropping sensation, and the plane started to lose height. They all heard the engines struggle as Falconi applied a surge of power, but the Dakota barely lifted.
“Stay down, all of you!” Halder went back up to the cockpit and saw that Falconi looked deeply worried. “What’s wrong now?”
“Engine trouble. More than likely we ingested sand and it did us some damage. And we’re losing fuel, fast. The machine-gun fire must have ruptured the fuel lines.”
Halder put a heavy cotton dressing on Remer’s wound. The man was unconscious, but he groaned in pain. “Can we still make it to the landing site?” Halder asked.
“We’re close, maybe eight miles away or less, but there’s not a chance in hell,” Falconi replied grimly. “I’m going to have to try and crash-land.”
“After all our trouble that’s all we need.”
Halder looked out of the cockpit but could see nothing. They were down to six hundred feet and back into the sandstorm. Falconi applied full power, but the engines barely reacted. “It’s no use,” he cried. “She won’t respond.”
At that precise moment the engines died. There was a frightening silence, broken only by the sound of the wind on the wings, and then the Dakota dipped sickeningly.
“Our engines are out!” Falconi shouted. “Strap yourself in, Jack. And be quick about it!”
“What about the others?”
“There’s no time. Brace yourself!”
Halder scrambled into the wireless operator’s seat and fastened the harness. There was a terrible sinking feeling, and then the sand flurries thinned and he saw the desert rushing up at them fast. He braced himself for the impact.
At the last moment Falconi pulled back hard on the column, the Dakota lifted a little, but then sank again. They hit the ground with a terrible force. There was a grating sensation as they plowed across the sand, then the left wing seemed to hit something and the aircraft flipped over.
29
* * *
BERLIN
It was still dark when Canaris arrived at the hospital in Charlottenburg just before eight that morning. When he saw the carnage and destruction he almost wept. Bodies had been laid out in the grounds in a long line, damp white sheets covering them, looking like an array of ghosts in the light drizzle of rain. The Berlin fire brigade was still working furiously and one half of the building was a smoldering ruin, wisps rising from the charred remains, an acrid tang of smoke in the air.
When his Mercedes drew up on the gravel and he stepped out, a doctor wearing a bloodied white coat came up to greet him. “Herr Admiral, I’m Dr. Schumacher.”
“Herr Doctor. Not a pleasant sight. How many dead?”
“Fifty-seven patients and four staff.”
Canaris’s jaw tightened, but he was hardly surprised by the news. Parts of Berlin he had just driven through were a desolate ruin after last night’s raid. “My God, it gets worse. And the boy?”
“He’s barely alive, in a very bad way. He was bad to start with of course, but now—” The doctor shrugged helplessly. “You instructed me to call you if anything happened concerning the child—”
“Of course.” Canaris sighed deeply. “You’d better take me inside.”
• • •
An emergency ward had been set up in one of the undamaged basement storage rooms, kerosene lamps offering the only emergency light, and when Canaris went in the place was bedlam, with orderlies and staff trying to tend the sick and wounded. The doctor led him to a curtained-off cubicle. A nurse and another doctor were with the boy.
“How is he?” Canaris asked.
“Not too good.”
Canaris looked down at the child’s innocent face and wanted to weep. His eyes were closed and his head and pelvis were wrapped in bloodied gauze, his breath just a faint wheeze. “Pauli, can you hear me?”
The child didn’t react, and one of the doctors said, “You’re wasting your time. He’s in deep s
hock.”
“What happened?”
“A bomb hit—”
“I know all about the bloody bombs,” Canaris erupted. “They haven’t stopped all week. What exactly happened to him?”
“A shell came through the ceiling of a nearby ward. The blast shattered the walls. Falling masonry crushed his pelvis and caused severe head injuries.”
Canaris pursed his mouth. “His chances?”
Both doctors exchanged looks, then one of them shook his head. “Can’t you do anything!” Canaris begged.
“I’m afraid it’s quite hopeless. I’m surprised he’s even lasted this long.”
At that moment the nurse said, “I think he’s going, Doctor.”
A few minutes later the child moaned and gave a tiny gasp, his chest deflated, and his eyelids flickered. The doctors went to work, but it was useless. The child’s head slumped to one side, he went still, and the life passed out of him.
“He’s gone,” the doctor said finally.
Canaris had seen death before, many times, but the passing of someone so young was a heart-wrenching thing to witness. He was deeply upset as he looked down at the innocent dead face.
“The poor child,” he said, and there were tears in his eyes.
• • •
Canaris was in his office an hour later, writing a report, when the adjutant showed in a tired-looking Schellenberg. The admiral didn’t rise but tossed his pen aside and gestured to a chair. “Sit down.”
His tone was gruff, but Schellenberg sat and Canaris said, “You got my message?”
Schellenberg managed to look suitably grieved. “Yes. A terrible calamity. But then what do you expect from Roosevelt and Churchill? They send bombers to destroy our cities, to kill and maim our—”
“Shut up, Schellenberg. I’m not in the mood for one of Goebbels’s speeches. You promised Halder you’d have his son transferred to a hospital outside Berlin. He was very specific about that, so why didn’t you?”
Schellenberg bristled at the accusation in Canaris’s voice. “I’m not sure I like your tone.”
