“I took a small detour on the way down here, which was why I’m a bit late… apologies for that, Old Chap,” Trumbull continued. “Ran across the aftermath of an engagement between the Home Fleet and the Kriegsmarine off The Dogger Bank and did a quick recce.”
“Would it be optimistic to ask if it went well?”
“Somewhat,” Trumbull answered sadly. “The fleet gave good account of itself all the same, but it wasn’t enough…”
“Never could’ve gone any other way,” Thorne stated sourly. “Reuters was never gonna let the Home Fleet get in the way...”
“What was left of the German fleet held the field of battle, but they were given a savaging for it, judging by what I saw… cloud cover was only three or four hundred metres in places, but I managed to get down low enough to get quite a bit of good footage on the EOTS.” The F-35E’s Electro-Optical Targeting System had low-light and thermal imaging capability, and could record anything viewed through its cameras for analysis at a later date.
“You’re really on top of flying this baby now, Alec,” Thorne complimented with more than a little vicarious pride, noting how comfortable Trumbull had become with the aircraft.
“But of course, sir… jolly easy when you get used to it…” …and for emphasis, he executed another victory roll that left the unexpected Thorne a little dazed and out of breath.
“Whoa… take it easy there, mate… I don’t have a bloody flight suit on!”
“Sorry about that,” Trumbull shot back, genuinely apologetic but nevertheless beaming with pride at such praise from a man he respected. “Got a bit carried away there…”
“I guess we’d better get onto Alternate and let ‘em know I’m okay,” Thorne observed, making a grimace behind his oxygen mask. “Might be better if I make the call, all things considered… you’re not going to be too popular for a little while with certain people.” As Trumbull nodded fervently, he opened the radio channels to the appropriate frequency and began transmitting.
“Phoenix-Leader to Alternate… Phoenix-Leader calling Alternate… come in please… over...”
“Alternate reading you loud and clear, Phoenix-Leader,” the reply came after just a moment or two, the unexpected voice instantly recognisable as belonging to Evan Lloyd. “Glad to hear you’re okay, sir…”
“Not half as glad as I am, Evan,” Thorne grinned. “They’ve got you holding the fort, have they? All the officers off bludging, as usual…?”
“The CO at Lyness has called a special briefing for all officer ranks regarding the situation down south – they’ve all headed over there to attend,” the amusement at Thorne’s remark was clear in the young man’s voice.
“All the better,” Thorne decided, thinking quickly. “I wanted to get everyone together myself, to go over what I’ve seen… I’m sure the rear-admiral will want the rest of Lyness in on it.” He paused, then continued. “Evan, can you please get onto communications over at Proserpine, and perhaps ask the duty NCO at the OR’s mess if we can use it for an impromptu meeting? We’re gonna need somewhere pretty big to fit everyone in, and we could all probably do with a drink or two afterward.” He grinned. “Maybe you and the rest of the boys you’ve been practising with can give us a few songs afterward, by way of saying ‘farewell’?”
“Only if you’ll agree to sit in, sir: our vocalist and our other guitarist both shipped out on Warspite this morning, and we’re two down as a result.” Both successfully managed to bypass the implication that the men were now probably dead.
“You drive a hard bargain, Corporal, but I suppose I could help out.” Thorne paused once more as another thought occurred to him. “I’ve a better idea regarding vocals though… while you’re in the Galaxy there, Evan, could you also have a quick look in Commander Donelson’s personal locker for me… there should be a folder full of sheet music in there that I’d like you to bring along.” This time there was a longer pause, the young man obviously considering the ramifications of the request.
“Is this going to get me into trouble, sir…?” Lloyd’s tone was distinctly dubious.
“‘You’… probably not,” Thorne grinned as he replied, not really answering the question. “Just keep it to yourself, there’s a good lad… combination should be five-five-nine-six… run along now… we should be back at Lyness in about an hour, so if you could have everyone else there at Alternate on their way over by then, it’d be a big help… Phoenix-Leader over and out…”
“Just what are you up to…?” Trumbull demanded with a smile of his own, the mischievous tone in Thorne’s voice instantly recognisable.
“Never you bloody mind,” Thorne chuckled in return “You’re in enough trouble with Eileen as it is… best you don’t know…”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Trumbull countered with a grimace, trying not to laugh. “I somehow doubt that fine distinction will be taken into consideration.”
“Hey…!” Thorne said suddenly, changing the subject as something else occurred to him. “You gave me a measurement in metres a minute ago!”
“What…?” Trumbull blustered, immediately horrified by the suggestion he’d used the metric system. “Impossible… the stuff’s pure gibberish to me…!”
“Earlier, you said the cloud cover was at three to four hundred metres… metres!”
“You’re obviously a little tired, there, Max,” the RAF pilot replied evasively. “I must’ve said ‘nine to twelve hundred feet’, and you’ve simply converted it in your mind…” But there was little real conviction in the explanation.
“‘Nine to twelve hundred feet’, eh…?” Thorne mused, a sly expression sliding across his face. “You converted that quickly enough for someone who finds the metric system ‘pure gibberish’.”
“Now look here…!” Trumbull began with a warning tone that masked more than a little mirth, and the mild disagreement that ensued would provide both of them with some light amusement during the trip north, although the discussion would of course end in a stalemate.
At about the same time the Lightning was cruising back to Scapa Flow, Carl Ritter was being delivered by helicopter to a field hospital set up in what had once been a Folkestone primary school. An initial dressing station near the front line had seen to his wound, but the doctor there had decided it better if the poor officer were transferred somewhere a little more comfortable. The man’s tale was one of incredible courage and endurance, and apart from the leg wound, Oberstleutnant Ritter was quite weak and emaciated from a lack of decent food over the preceding weeks: better care was needed for a decorated officer of the Luftwaffe than a simple dressing station could provide.
Ritter was entitled to some privacy in accordance with his rank, but he protested against it, claiming he wanted to be with others, and that much was true. For the time being, he needed to forget exactly why he’d returned to his own side, for there’d be many questions he’d have to answer convincingly in the next few weeks. Right at that moment, Ritter wanted simply to be around his own men rather than in isolation… he thought he might go mad if he were left alone.
It turned out he was in for a surprise, and as they wheeled him into a clean ward containing eleven other beds, he was astonished to see familiar faces sitting up on their mattresses at the far end of the room.
“Is this possible…?” He called out cheerfully, extremely pleased. “My God, gentlemen… you’re all right?” It was Rottenführer Wisch, one side of his head swathed in white bandages, who recognised the pilot first.
“You, too, sir…? Yes, we’re fine, really. This nasty scar on the side of my head will have some stitches for a while, but otherwise I’m quite sound. The second-lieutenant here was kind enough to take most of the blast for me.”
“They give us tanks impervious to the enemy,” Berndt Schmidt growled, nodding his greeting at the Luftwaffe officer rather than making any effort to salute, “but from our own gunships? Obviously not… trigger-happy idiots…!” Schmidt was bare to the waist and heavily band
aging around the ribs and head, above the eye line.
“We’d been immobilised and were waiting for a bergepanzer to come and tow us back for repairs,” Wisch explained further. “It seems your colleagues in the helicopter wings have trouble identifying our own vehicles…”
“It also seems that we’re are even then, gentlemen.” Ritter replied, honestly laughing as the orderlies wheeled his bed in beside theirs. “I was shot down some time ago and avoided capture for weeks, waiting for you fellows to come and get me, and I end up with a German bullet through my leg as I try to slip through our own lines!” The remark obtained an ironic laugh, even from Schmidt, and Ritter was surprised how easily the truth could conceal the greater lie. “I do believe I saw one of our gunships shot down close to Smeeth just before I was hit.”
“Serves the blind bastard right if it was him,” Schmidt growled unsympathetically. “If he can’t even see a bloody great swastika painted across a panzer’s rear decking, he shouldn’t be flying in the first place!”
“It’s good to see some familiar faces here, gentlemen,” Ritter said softly, the sincerity flowing through. “I’m very glad to see you both.”
“Good to see you too, sir,” Schmidt returned before Wisch could say the same, and to their own great surprise, both meant it equally.
21.
Last Rites
Home Fleet Naval Anchorage at HMS Proserpine
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
‘S-Day’:
Wednesday,
September 11, 1940
It was a dark, cold night as Thorne stood among the headstones of the Lyness Naval Cemetery, a clean change of warm clothes and a thick, Arctic-style black parka going some way to protecting him against the chill and the misting rain that continued to fall softly right across the British Isles. He’d been awaiting the arrival of a fast corvette carrying the rest of the Hindsight group across from Eday, and the Lyness CO and the men of the OR’s mess had been kind enough to allow it to be used as an auditorium for Thorne’s impromptu briefing. There was to be a function of sorts held afterward for all ranks who wished to attend, and although that had been organised partially due to his own instructions, he suspected the only mood that could possibly be that night was one of morbid depression. Thorne had prepared for it anyway, clinging to a faint shred of optimism that something good might come of it; as they were due to leave the next morning, it’d be the last time chance they’d have to farewell the colleagues and friends they’d come to know over the past months.
Of course, there were some Hindsight personnel who’d never leave the cold waters of Scapa Flow… those who’d died in the air raid of August 17th. Thorne stood before Nick Alpert’s grave –although it was impossible to read the inscriptions on the crosses in the distant lighting of the main base, he knew which one it was well enough. He’d brought along a torch in any case, but as he stood there among the final resting places of the fallen, the idea of turning its beam across the rows of headstones and crosses, new or old, seemed somewhat sacrilegious.
“We’re off tomorrow, mate,” he murmured reverently, standing almost in an ‘at ease’ position, as if addressing a fellow officer, which he was. “Would’ve liked you to have seen Australia… I know I went on about it enough.” He gave a thin smile and came to attention momentarily, presenting a crisp salute to all of the new graves there. “Gentlemen…” he added softly, then executed an ‘about face’ and marched away.
Jack Davies found Thorne as he made his way through the main base a few minutes later, heading for the briefing at the officer’s mess.
“There y’are, boy,” the Texan called out with a characteristic, toothy smile as he drew near. “The whole goddamn base is looking out for you!”
“I’m sure it’s not the whole base,” Thorne countered wryly, “but I take it from your presence that the rest of Hindsight have arrived?” He shrugged, turning his head momentarily back over his shoulder. “I was up at the cemetery,” he explained. “Just wanted to say goodbye and all…”
“I gather Lloyd and Walters are playing with the band at the OR’s mess after the briefing,” Davies changed the subject to more pleasant matters, nodding respectfully in response to what Thorne had said. “Rumour has it you’re sitting in with ‘em tonight too…”
“Yeah… Evan conned me into it… two of the band members shipped out on Warspite…” There was little else to be said about that as Davies grimaced at the news. “So they needed a guitarist and a vocalist. Happy to help out anyway: from what I’ve heard, the boys have made a bit of an impact with the rest of the mess there. Evan’s a bloody good guitarist himself, and I believe Walters can play a mean piano too.”
“Shame about the vocalist… apparently the guy was so damn good he almost made trad jazz worth listening to!”
“Philistine,” Thorne snapped back, ignoring the fact that he was no great fan of traditional jazz either.
“Does this mean you’re gonna be singing as well?” There was a dubious tone in the Texan’s voice that made Thorne feel faintly defensive, as had been the mischievous intention.
“I may not be Placido Domingo, mate, but I can hold a bloody tune if I have to, I’ll have you know,” he shot back indignantly as Davies grinned broadly, “however, in this case I thought it might be better for someone else to take on that job…” Thorne gave his own evil smile as he continued. “I got Evan to sneak into Eileen’s locker and bring across her sheet music…”
“You are one dirty son-of-a-bitch…!” Davies grinned, catching on.
“Hey, if we’re gonna have a show, we might as well have the best, and her singing pisses all over anything I could do,” Thorne replied honestly. “Now run along and tell ‘em I’m on my way… and don’t let her find out what we’re up to either…!”
“No chance of that, buddy! I’m stayin’ right outta this one: Eileen’s still pissed at me for letting Trumbull take off in the Lightning…”
“Well, by the time I’m finished tonight, the heat should well and truly be off you lot and right back on me anyway, so I shouldn’t worry too much about it!” He gave Davies a conspiratorial pat on the shoulder. “I’ll be down shortly…” and with that, the Texan nodded and headed off ahead as Thorne slowly continued his silent walk of solitude back toward the main base area.
The briefing at the OR’s mess wasn’t overly long, but the information it provided had gained everyone’s attention. A movie screen had been set up on a metal stand against the far wall, between the bar and the small stage, and a projection unit connected to a laptop PC sat on a small table several metres away. The whole of the Hindsight unit were gathered there in groups around the nearest tables, all watching expectantly as their CO prepared to speak while holding an infra-red remote unit in one hand to control the images on the presentation.
“Some of what we’re about to go over here will already be known to some of you, but we’re going to go over everything anyway. These images have been picked up from a variety of intelligence sources all over Britain, including footage taken by myself, and by Squadron Leader Trumbull… including the following pictures…” He keyed the remote, and the first of the photographs he’d taken flashed up onto the screen.
“As you can all see,” he continued, noting the expected ripple of recognition through most of those present, “the enemy has been hard at work in this era. These P-1 Weisel tanks are clearly almost direct copies of the British FV107 Scimitar reconnaissance vehicle, including the thirty millimetre calibre of the main gun… although we believe the Weisel is armed with a variant of the powerful, fast-firing MK-101 aircraft gun, rather than a hand-loaded weapon similar to the Scimitar’s RARDEN cannon. Like the Scimitar, the Weisel is lightly armoured with aluminium alloy, which isn’t much chop against anything better than small arms fire or maybe standard fifty-cal rounds, but that does also mean it’s bloody light – less than ten tonnes – and that makes it air-droppable… something the Krauts have made bloody good use of in securing airfie
lds and forward supply points in the first hours of the invasion this morning. The MK-101 cannon also packs a powerful punch, and with tungsten-cored ammo it can punch through around three inches of armour… enough to take care of most of its likely opposition on a good day.” He changed images to that of another pair of armoured vehicles: the larger P-2D Luchs and P-3C Fuchs tanks.
“The ‘Lynx’ light tank here – what they call a ‘P-2’ – is nothing like the Panzer Two we knew in Realtime, and also appears to be a very close copy of another design, this time the American M24 Chaffee. The seventy-five millimetre cannon it’s armed with is a medium-velocity weapon that we believe to be identical to the Chaffee’s lightweight M6 gun, and although it’s nowhere near the power of the German’s ‘eighty-eight’, it’s certainly proven to be a huge improvement in hitting power over the thirty-seven mil weapons or ‘short’ seventy-fives their Realtime medium tanks carried. The Fuchs P-3C in the same picture is the first evidence of developmental originality we became aware of, and appears to be an enlarged version of the P-2 rather than a copy of another design. Both have already proven their effectiveness in Poland and France, and have also been making their presence felt during the invasion…” he paused, before adding “…although, they’ve been somewhat upstaged by a new ‘kid on the block’ that made its combat debut today… something we’ve previously been completely unaware of…” He changed to the next image.
“This shot is of an unidentified model of main battle tank.” A ripple of recognition again made its way through the group. “Unidentified to the allies, that is, however we at Hindsight recognise it as a close copy of the Realtime Soviet T-55 medium tank. The only major variance on the copied design appears to be the mounting of a Flak-36 eighty-eight millimetre main gun, rather than the larger calibre weapon one would’ve expected fitted to a T-55…” He allowed himself a wry smile. “It would appear our interception of that last transport carrying their heavy armaments research and data had an impact after all, now we’ve seen what those 105mm main guns were intended for.” There was some faint laughter as he changed pictures once more. The next view was a montage of three pictures – one each of vehicles the Wehrmacht classified as a P-6A Marder infantry fighting vehicle, a P-9B Nashorn self-propelled assault gun, and a P-11A Wirbelwind mobile flak.
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 94
