by Lazlo Ferran
“AA box!” I screamed into the mike. “Breaking left! Tommy, call the others now!”
I gunned the engines and dipped the left wing, simultaneously looking over my left shoulder for any other planes that might be there. Recently we had heard of a new danger over Germany, the Anti-Aircraft Box. The idea was to train all one’s guns on a small imaginary box in the sky, at a point where planes might fly, and wait for them to enter. Since the guns had already been calibrated it was then simple to launch a devastating rain of shells into that small box, bringing anything down that flew in it. As we reached about ninety degrees the first of the following planes entered the box and we heard the shelling begin.
“Too late for most I think skipper,” called the gunner’s mournful voice in my ear.
I jinked the plane right again to bring it around facing the route to the coast again and saw three of our four aircraft explode.
“Four down skipper and me fockin leg hurts. I think I am hit.”
“Okay, hold on Tommy. I can see cloud ahead. I will get us out of here.”
“I know you will boyo.”
There were just two planes following us, S-Sugar with onE other, and we had a bloody small chance of escaping now. There were at least twenty fighters above us, just waiting for us to get clear of the coastal guns. Our only chance was a patch of thunderclouds, maybe five miles out, which we had passed under on the way in at 200ft, avoiding the radar. Thankfully they were still there. We came under heavy fire from Bf 109s, which shattered the windscreen in front of me, just before we reached the cloud. Ferret broke the rest of the glass out of the damaged windscreeen with a Very pistol butt. The air at 200 mph was at least warm but blew everything loose around the cabin. The Blenheim shuddered as it struggled for height. I found myself humming ‘Onward Christian Solders’ which quickly became ‘Hi Ho!’
The starboard engine coughed, as if defying my small bit of hope. I looked at it reproachfully, daring it to cough again. It didn’t for several minutes but then coughed again, and then again. I was starting to feel angry now. Everything had gone against us, most of my friends had probably died and at the end, after surviving all this, the engine was going to die and we would die with it. The engine continued to cough for what seemed like an age and then finally I saw black smoke streaming out of the manifold. As we lost height and dropped out of the clouds I looked for fighters but they had all gone home.
Ferret appeared beside me and shouted in my ear, “Great Yarmouth five minutes skip. Think we can make the coast?”
We chucked everything out that we could to lighten the plane and I gunned the starboard engine to clear the cliffs at the coast but there was a large bang from the white-hot engine-cowling soon after and I had to stop it. Seeing the spires of Norwich ahead, I turned slightly north to take us around it and over Great Plumstead. We would never clear Norwich and if it had been any other county than flat Norfolk we wouldn’t even have reached this far.
I brought us in to Horsham St. Faith gently and the Blenheim settled comfortably onto the long runway. We finally pulled up near the DISPERSAL area, smoke billowing out of the white hot engine, surrounded by red fire-tenders and ambulances. I turned the engine off and we wearily climbed down and dropped to the grass. Willing hands carried us to the ambulances and as the doors closed I could see men using an axe on Tommy’s gun position to get him out.
Neither Ferret nor I were too badly hurt and after patching up and a cup of coffee and a cigarette, something I only smoked in the direst moments, we were both taken for debriefing.
I gave a full account, only mentioning that I had had hunches about the AA Box and the explosion later. When asked what had happened to S-Sugar I said, “I don’t know. Maybe he got hit by a fighter.”
My story was taken down politely and then I was released to the mess where I had bacon and eggs. Before finishing, I managed to get some news about Tommy. After finding out he was going to be alright, out of action for a few months but alright, I went to my dorm. I was so tired the bed so welcoming that I fell immediately into the deepest sleep.
At BREAKFAST one of the reserve pilots came up to me. “You’re wanted in Debriefing. What the fuck happened out THERE? You are the only bloody plane that came back. Everybody’s talking; the whole bloody RAF. Nobody can ever remember anything like it.”
I felt slightly angry at the question. “It was a bloody blood-bath. That’s what. It was a stupid plan from the start and then it just went wrong. And more wrong.” I kept it short. I didn’t want to say anything really. I didn’t want to speak to anybody.
I went to the Debrief Room again. It was highly unusual to be debriefed twice.
H. W. Wolstencroft was sitting on the edge of the desk, relaxed and smiling, holding out a cup of black coffee, as I liked it, in a white enameled mug. I felt ill at ease.
“At ease. Sit down. This is just going to be an informal chat. We just want to clear up a few details. As you may know, everybody is talking about this one! Quite a prank you pulled there. We’re thrilled, of course, that you came back alright but your story doesn’t agree with that of Flight Sergeant Ferris – or Sergeant Anton, although he could only give a brief statement given the state of his health right now. Now can you please start at the point where you say you suspected there was an AA Box? Where have you heard of such a thing?”
“Well, Sir, I think I read about it in some flight magazine Sir. And we chaps talk about these sort of things, you know?” I didn’t tell him about the tea I’d had with Paul a few weeks before. Paul had risen to the rank of Squadron Leader and then had a run in with a 109 and been wounded. He had some kind of post with Air Intelligence and we had chatted about AA boxes over tea in London.
“Not really. Boxes are not new, it’s true. But as far as I know there have been very few cases during this war. What made you think there was one there?”
“It just seemed so quiet over the harbour. Too quiet.”
“But Ferris said you thought the guns would have stood down anyway?”
My mind was working fast now as I didn’t really want to go as far as to talk about my personal beliefs in this company, thinking they would be considered superstitions or worse. “Yes, Sir.”
“That was a question.”
“Yes Sir. I don’t know Sir. It was just a hunch I guess. I really cannot say.”
He gave me a long cold stare looking right into my eyes from his perch with his sombre, Ministry-brown eyes. We always suspected Wolstencroft – Wolsey as we called him – actually worked for the Secret Service in some capacity. He often seemed to have a sixth-sense about things, as if he had some secret informants.
“Hm. Alright. Moving on to the incident over the sea. Now you cannot tell me that was a hunch too?”
“Yes, Sir. It was.”
“Even though it meant nearly crashing into another plane? And there was absolutely no warning; couldn’t have been?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Yes, Sir? You mean ‘yes sir’, you agree or ‘yes sir’, you have heard my question?”
“No, Sir. I mean I am not that facetious, Sir. I am saying that is what happened, Sir. I know it's difficult to believe but I don’t know what else to say.”
“So I am to believe that you have had two very improbable hunches in one day which meant your survival when the whole of the rest of the squadron have been lost, possibly killed?”
“Err… Yes Sir.”
“Umm. Have you had these hunches before?”
I wondered for a moment whether to deny the truth but there was a steady look in his eyes. “Yes, Sir. A few times, actually quite a few times.”
“And has it saved your life?”
I thought hard. “Maybe once. When we were training at Hendon, Sir in the Cadets Corp. We were to take turns piloting an old Tiger Moth and I let somebody go ahead of me. He was really keen to go and I dunno…” I looked at my feet at this point, I felt a little ashamed. “I just felt a little apprehensive about it.”
“So he went up first and the Moth collided with a Hurricane coming in to land. The Hurricane was okay but the Moth just fell out of the sky and hit a hanger. They were both killed.”
Again he gave me one of his penetrating stares. “How did you feel about this?”
“At first I felt guilty about it. But I have tried hard to remember how I actually felt on the line and I know I did not consciously send somebody to do something I was not prepared to do.”
“Okay. Let’s leave it there. I WILL write up a report. You are free to go. One thing though. Don’t talk to anybody else about this.”
“No, Sir.” I saluted and left.
Two weeks later I was summoned to the Station Commander’s Office and told I was being transferred to a night fighter squadron, flying Beaufighters. I was relieved. There had been a lot of talk about the Dutch mission and I often felt as if I was viewed with some suspicion by many on the station.
My time on night fighters was short. I guess I was drafted in because of my science grades at school. Airborne Radar in 1942 was in its early stages and there were many technical difficulties to sort out. On only the third mission my vision became blurred so that I could hardly see the instruments, let alone the exhausts of the German bombers I was supposed to be looking FOR while peering out into the moonless night. Then during a dawn landing my eye blurred at the crucial moment and we hit the ground REALLY (very) hard, making my Radar Operator swear in the back. HOWEVER I had already been spending a lot of time on the station learning about the new black magic called Radar and my fascination combined with my experience with photography lead me to apply for a posting in Intelligence. After a brief spell at Boscombe Down, I was transferred to Harrogate.
***
I arrived at Harrogate by train, a little disappointed. I had hoped I would be assigned to Station X, Bletchley Park, but I was soon to learn that Air Intelligence was in fact the air component of M.I.6. I now learned why I had been stationed here. I was immediately put into the photo lab where my qualifications and experience in photography could be used. I fitted in very easily and found staff there very affable but perhaps my knack of avoiding malevolent forces had attracted attention in higher quarters. Was I the observer, developing the photographs to the highest quality possible, or was I being observed?
Chapter Four
- (2777, 442, 3512, 1706, 2414, 6630, 156, 1915, 2231, 266, 3659, 1778)
“I know it can’t be long now before the Serpent puts in an appearance. Time is running out for it – its allotted year on Earth ends today so it has to show. I desperately need to find the Sword, this silver ornamental Sword that is the only weapon that can kill the Serpent, but still I have no idea where it is. If I cannot find the Sword my position is hopeless. I put these thoughts aside as I read on. Rose talks more about Annie and the effects of the tragedy on our marriage. ‘No. What has drawn us steadily apart, my darling, is your refusal to include me in your deepest thoughts. I feel like a woman who has lost her place in the castle of your mind. It’s very hard for me to go on. Yet I am hesitant to feel like this – not quite confident that I hold the ground that I once thought I did (not high, but maybe as high as yours). You were there and you saw what happened. I only have reports and briefings and rumours to keep me company. But I am a mother first and my pain is too great to be healed by ‘theories’ and ‘plans of attack’. I looked away from Rose's statement for a moment. My memory of Annie’s death is a never-healing wound, aggravated by the fact that I was the single witness, and still further by the disbelief of others. I went on reading. ‘However, I know this is not your way, and that you need to find the truth in your own way. From the antiques shop in Sofia where you first picked up a wolf statue, to your pursuit of the truth about Annie, nobody could say you are not the most tenacious seeker of truth. In short, I wish you every success for the future my love, and I hope that one day you will find love again and perhaps remember what we had. Then you may forgive me. I know your first conclusion, given the passionate man that you are, will be that I simply do not believe in you anymore. It is true that the whole drawn-out affair with Annie has been a severe drain on our emotional resources and I do not hold the same views as you, as to the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of her murder. It is also true that some have accused you of being the traitor, in some vague way that they usually cannot specify. I still know this about you however – that you loved Annie deeply and would never harm her.’ I put down the statement.
I remember the antiques shop in Sofia where I met Rose and the farmhouse where we had spent our first night together.”
I stayed with Air Intelligence until just after the Normandy landings in June 1944, and rose to the rank of Squadron Leader, a rank that amused me with its irrelevance. My day-to-day work continued with photography, although after coming up with a new developing process I moved on to interpreting photo information.
Shortly after D-Day I was visited by a man from 54 Broadway, London; headquarters of M.I.6. He was wearing a long mackintosh, unusual for that time of year, and arrived after dark.
“I won’t beat around the bush. We are looking for volunteers to do a little op for us in France. Similar work to what you are doing now. Not dangerous, I don’t think – well at least not front-line work – but we need somebody with a bit of initiative and apparently you are just such a chap.” The job in France led later to another one in Bulgaria.
Bulgaria had started the war as a neutral country but had soon joined Germany and in fact invaded parts of Northern Greece on behalf of the Germans. A large resistance movement had opposed this and Britain had supplied them with money and arms. British and U.S. agents had been in the country for years liaising with the resistance and generally trying to persuade the Government to side with Britain. On 8th September, a few weeks before I arrived, there had been an unexpected development. The Government announced Bulgaria was joining the Russians. The British had apparently feared this and had lobbied hard against it but had failed. I was now going to be part of a team to try and reverse this decision. I was dropped in by parachute from an RAF Halifax with another agent who called himself Mr Blue. Our job initially, was to listen to radio traffic from local resistance groups and the NKVD, forerunner of the KGB, and pass on any useful information on to M.I.6. Later we would be given more active assignments.
Sofia was where I met Rose.
Leaving the main market in Sofia, capital of Bulgaria, I window-shopped down a side street and an old bell clanged as I pushed open the door to a dingy antiques shop. I had gone in to the shop because it had an air of neglect; perhaps collectors might have missed something ancient, something hiding in the shadows. Circling the centre table with its piles of leather-bound, finger-browned volumes, I resisted the urge to run my fingers across their sensual surfaces, remembering how I had been allowed to do this for a moment at my grandfather’s. I lifted the cover of one very large book and then lowered it in disappointment.
“I’ll have that wrapped,” I heard a clipped strong feminine voice say to the shopkeeper in perfect Bulgarian.
“It’s for my niece. For when she gets older,” she said.
The shopkeeper replied quietly in more colloquial Bulgarian, words I didn’t quite pick up
I was drinking in the whole atmosphere of the shop; sound, light, dust on my fingers, all of it such a relief from the daily grind of intelligence.
She knocked my elbow as she passed on her way to the door, and I glanced in surprise. I saw her scowl at me, but I couldn’t think why. I shook my head slowly and muttered, ‘Rude’.
“It’s fake you know,” she said to me in crisp English, just as my glance returned to the books.
“Oh? How do you know?”
Turning away from me she muttered something under her breath before wrenching the door open and striding off towards the market in her raincoat and scarf, red shoes clippetting on the paving.
I glanced at the sallow, deflated old man behind the till for
reinforcement, but the antiquarian’s glance had already returned to a book at the end of his nose.
“Hey. What is this?” I said to myself, a few moments after my eyes first rested on the bronze sculpture, hanging by a piece of string on the side of a bookcase. I could easily have missed it, had I not had the word ‘wolf’ glowing neon inexplicably in my mind during my search. It was some kind of satyr with hind legs of a goat, chest and arms of a man, but a woolly mane and eyes and snout of what looked like… a wolf! I hefted it, a dealer’s trick I had learned from my mother – a pawnbroker’s daughter – to distinguish bronze from lead or copper, and it felt good. I ran my index finger down its neck to feel its rough metal-fur mane. It was only about six inches high so would get through customs without any difficulty.
I paid for the little statue and left. I didn't think I would see the woman again but I did, one night a week later.
***
It was late; I was late, and I was walking quickly through the shiny streets back to our little office, taking a shortcut. I had dipped into an old cinema, to see a film I had never heard of, meaning to leave before 10 pm but I had fallen asleep. I heard the sharp clatter of high heels moving quickly towards me from the street ahead. As a woman came right up to me, I tried to work out who she was. She fell right into my arms, crying.
I was shocked for just the tiniest instant but then my instincts cut in and I enveloped her in his arms. I quickly moved towards the shelter of a shop doorway. It was the girl with the red shoes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her in Bulgarian.
She shook her head. “I cannot tell you.”
I was wondering how she found me? Was it coincidence? Is she a Russian agent? I was wary but her hands felt warm and warm hands are honest hands, I remembered while noticing a curious bronze-coloured ring in the shape of a coiled-snake on her finger. I instinctively raised her chin with my fingers to look into her eyes to see what I could read there.
