The End of the Third Reich

by Nick Cook

  This twin-engined German jet bomber, conceived by the Arado Flugzeugwerke Company of Brandenburg during the closing months of 1940, is not only 100 mph faster than anything the RAF can muster at present (February 1945), it can also manoeuvre in rings around our own fighter aircraft. When fitted with the detachable MG 151 20mm belly-mounted cannon pack, it becomes a lethal adversary and we estimate here at Farnborough that, provided it is given a reasonably skilful pilot, it will score a kill eight times out of ten when provoked.

  * * * * * * * *

  Staverton closed the folder on his desk and tried to rub some of the weariness from his eyes. The Arado was a production bomber for God’s sake and yet it was better than their own Spitfires and Tempests. And the Arado dossier was only one such report that Staverton could remember having seen in recent weeks. There were plenty of others. The Me 262 and He 162 jet fighters were now both operational and offered the Luftwaffe a phenomenal new capability. All the RAF had to throw into the fray in the way of jets was the Gloster Meteor, but it was slower and less manoeuvrable than its German counterparts.

  Then there was the Komet rocket-fighter, the most radical combat aircraft of them all. The prospect of a new, long-range variant had allowed him little sleep.

  Staverton poured himself another cup of coffee. Churchill’s reaction to Fleming’s report had been succinct and to the point. The Prime Minister’s grasp of technical and operational matters never ceased to amaze him. His support for Staverton’s plan of action had been unequivocal.

  He looked at his watch. Nearly nine o’clock. When Fleming arrived, things would really start popping.

  * * * * * * * *

  Fleming had never seen his boss look so bad this early in the morning. His tunic was rumpled, he was unshaven and his tie and collar were loosened.

  “Come in, Robert, and get some coffee. Some for me too, while you’re about it.” Fleming called in the WAAF orderly from the adjoining office and asked for two - both black.

  “Had a bit of a late night, as you no doubt guessed.” Staverton gestured at the state of his clothes. “I didn’t finish with the Prime Minister until the early hours. He’s very concerned about your 163 report and has communicated the need for direct action. It turned out that he was seeing Tooey Spaatz last night. Spaatz is heading back to America tomorrow and was getting the treatment over at No. 10. It’s his boys who are going to catch it in the neck if you’re right about this rocket fighter.”

  Fleming did not often rub shoulders with the top brass, but he knew of almost all of them. General Carl “Tooey” Spaatz, Commander of the US 8th Air Force, was one of the most influential men in Allied High Command. He had openly come into conflict with the British Air Staff over the strategy for the bombing of Germany. Spaatz favoured precision bombing by day. The British argued that it was saturation bombing by night that would bring Germany’s

  population and its industry to submission. Spaatz had got his way for his own forces, but at immense cost to the B-17 Flying Fortress wings in East Anglia. Until the long range escort fighter had come into service in the previous year, many US day missions had ended in decimation for the Fortresses. The new 163 was set to start that process all over again.

  “Anyway, about an hour ago, this arrived.” The AVM held up a piece of paper bearing the seal of Churchill’s office. “This makes it official. The General and the PM feel the long range 163 could severely damage the morale of the American Fortress crews.”

  “I think that’s putting it mildly, sir. If that aircraft out there is what we think it is, it could destroy the 8th Air Force. It gives the Luftwaffe the ability to hit the Americans almost all the way to the target and back.”

  “Yes, I’m inclined to agree with you,” Staverton said. “But Churchill’s main concern, based on the latest intelligence reports from Germany, is that the Nazis have a plan to pull their armies back from Northern Europe and Italy and get them dug into Southern Bavaria and Austria. Basically, it would terminate the possibility of a swift conclusion to the war. Personally, I’ve never bought the idea of Hitler’s Alpine fortress. Now I’m not so sure.”

  Fleming’s mind raced. “The performance of this new 163 - let’s call it the ‘C variant, because that’s what it must be - suggests that it could operate from small strips in the Bavarian and Austrian mountain valleys and deal out a hell of a lot of punishment to any bombers trying to locate and bomb their airfields from high altitude.”

  Staverton nodded. “We cannot take any chances. Reconnaissance photos show they’ve been steadily pulling their forces back into the region. There’s evidence of intense tunnelling activity in the mountains, too.”

  “But even if they do manage to establish fighter squadrons in the mountains, surely it would be impossible to get any large-scale manufacture of the 163 going?”

  “One of our chief faults in recent weeks has been underestimating the capability of the Nazi as he retreats into his corner. Our armies have constantly been coming across empty factories throughout their advances into Germany. The Nazis have just moved the entire operation lock, stock and barrel further on down the road, if necessary. There is no reason why they shouldn’t move it just that little bit further away into the Bavarian and Austrian Alps.”

  “But could they build even short runways in time?”

  “With their infuriating ability to hide things away underground, they could build hangars for these aeroplanes deep into the mountains and launch them off straight country roads. It would be a nightmare even trying to find their bases, let alone destroy them.”

  “And it would be suicide for the army to try and storm those mountains and valleys,” Fleming said.

  “Exactly, Robert, suicide. The alternative is to put the Alps under siege and starve them out, but that could take years.”

  The drone of the air-conditioning system suddenly seemed to fill Fleming’s ears. “What can we do?” he asked.

  Staverton sucked the end of his pencil.

  “I agree with the conclusions in your report. We have no way of knowing whether this new aircraft is a prototype, or fully operational, but we need to find out fast. Churchill has made it clear that it’s up to us at the EAEU to produce an answer to whatever it is that’s out there. I think there is only one.”

  Staverton paused. Fleming was used to such dramatic gestures. There was still something of the showman in the Old Man.

  “We will have to recover one from the Reich. We must find out if we’re right about the 163C, and what makes it tick.”

  Fleming went still.

  “You can’t mean it, sir.”

  “It’s the only way, Robert.”

  “I know that one of the EAEU’s responsibilities is to ensure that as many German aircraft, aero-engine and armaments factories get captured by the Allies before the Russians get hold of them, but isn’t this taking our duties a bit far?”

  “Not at all. We came within a hair’s breadth of pulling off a similar operation several years ago. It was late 1942 and a new version of the FW 190 was making mincemeat of our latest Spitfire. We had to capture one and take it apart at Farnborough. We had a test pilot ready to parachute into France close to an FW 190 base, but at the very last minute the whole thing was called off.”

  “Why?”

  Staverton smiled.

  “It was a remarkable stroke of luck, really. An FW 190 pilot got completely lost over the channel, took a reciprocal bearing and landed his brand spanking new Focke-Wulf in the mist at RAF St Athan in Wales. He was so stunned when they came to arrest him that he didn’t even attempt to set fire to the aircraft.”

  “But that was an operation to bring a conventional aircraft out of France,” Fleming said.

  Staverton was unperturbed. “This operation is certainly going to be different. It’s required a great deal of planning and we haven’t got much time. So this is what we’re going to do.”

  Fleming put the coffee down.

  The Old Man got to his feet and walked ov
er to the map of western Europe that adorned most of the wall behind his desk. He pointed to a small area south of the Danish Peninsula.

  “As you know, the Nazis have carried out most of their rocket research on the Baltic coast at these two test centres - Peenemunde, here,” Staverton stabbed his finger at a spot on the North German shoreline, “and Rostock here.

  “We’ve had a crew on a Danish trawler keeping Peenemunde under surveillance for several weeks and it’s been dead. Not a squeak since they did their last A4 rocket tests there over two months ago. So it’s not Peenemunde - I double-checked with the trawler last night.”

  “That leaves Rostock.” He stabbed his finger once more on the map.

  “This morning, at 3 a.m., an RAF Mosquito took off from a captured airfield in Germany on a routine recce mission of Rostock harbour, only the docks were not its real objective. The pilot was briefed to cause a hell of a stir above the harbour, attract a bit of flak and then to all intents and purposes head home, hugging the trees until he was beyond the range of Rostock’s gun batteries. By sheer chance, his course takes him slap over the test centre just outside Rostock and that’s where he really gets busy. Those cameras work like billyo over the airfield, but the enemy, of course, doesn’t know that. He’s convinced that it’s the harbour that we’re interested in.”

  Staverton halted for a moment, pleased with himself. It was a favourite trick of the reconnaissance boys.

  “One of our own chaps from the EAEU at the Mosquito’s base sent back a coded message just before you got in. The photographs are positive. At least, our man Bowman has good reason to think so. The only trouble is, he has no data with which to compare them.”

  That was logical enough. Fleming was one of only a handful of people, even within the EAEU, who was allowed access to archive material on new enemy equipment. He’d given up counting the number of bloody evenings he’d spent peering through stereoscopic pairs at a maze of black and white dots that some boffin claimed formed the image of some new enemy weapon.

  He was half expecting what came next.

  “I want you, Robert, to get over to Germany right away and positively identify those photographs, one way or another. Find out if that thing is the long range rocket fighter.”

  “Yes, sir.” He thought of Penny.

  But Staverton hadn’t finished. “And if it is, I want you to co-ordinate the extraction operation. I’ve already set the wheels in motion. I need to ensure that it’s carried through to the letter and you’re the best qualified man to do it.”

  The drab walls of the bunker seemed to cave in for Fleming, but the AVM was in full stride.

  “There’s a Dakota waiting for you at Northolt. Your travel documents are at the airfield. With your papers are a further set of instructions which set out all the objectives of the trip. Read them carefully. I don’t have to tell you how important this whole thing is.”

  Fleming wanted to move, but his legs felt like lead.

  “I’ve got great faith in you, my boy. I know you can do it.”

  The Old Man, now with his back to the wall chart, arms crossed, stared fixedly at Fleming who had not moved from the hard, straight-backed chair.

  “That’ll be all, Robert. There’s a car waiting outside that will take you to Northolt. Good luck.”

  Fleming got to his feet and left. For once, he forgot to salute.

  * * * * * * * *

  As the Riley staff car swung off the Oxford road into Northolt aerodrome, Fleming felt a tinge of sadness. The wide highway slid out of view and was all but obscured by the guardroom where they drew to a halt.

  He turned round for a last look at the road. Endless convoys were sweeping into the centre of London, only a few miles away, but there was little traffic heading in the direction of Oxford. It was ironic that Staverton had chosen Northolt as his point of departure. In better days, Penny and he passed it regularly on the way home to the cottage.

  The corporal tapped on the window.

  “Wing Commander Fleming?”

  Fleming pulled back the glass and let the raw wind catch him full in the face. He nodded.

  “Papers please sir.”

  On the far side of the airfield Fleming could see his DC-3 transport taxiing over to the dispersal point. A ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and raced across the runway, passing directly over the Dakota as it drew up alongside the control tower.

  “Thank you sir,” the corporal said as he handed back Fleming’s papers. “Please make your way over to the tower and report to the duty orderly. You can pick up your travel documents there.”

  Fleming entered the tower building and found few signs of life. A middle-aged WAAF corporal was typing with her back to him behind the reception desk. The room was shabby. Fleming straightened a picture of the King which had been blown crooked by the wind as he had opened the door. The WAAF turned round to see who it was.

  “I’m Wing Commander Fleming. I believe you should have some travel documents for me.”

  The WAAF delved her hand into a pigeonhole and produced a thick bundle of papers which she handed over. Fleming went through them. A travel pass that would give him rights of passage through Northern Germany and a thin carnet with his photograph on the inside front cover which was the standard-issue passport. Also, a thick manila envelope with Not to be opened until airborne typed on the top left-hand corner. That would be from Staverton. He tucked the papers into his inside jacket pocket.

  “Corporal, I wonder if you could do me a favour?”

  “I’ll try sir.”

  “Could you post a letter for me?”

  The corporal shifted nervously.

  “I can’t, sir, it’s against base rules.”

  “I understand that,” Fleming said, “But it’s only a few words to my wife. If it makes any difference, you can censor it yourself.” He smiled warmly.

  The WAAF hesitated, then nodded.

  Fleming scribbled a note, sealed it in one of the WAAF’s envelopes and handed it over to her. He dug deep in his pocket and came up with two pennies for the stamp.

  “Thank you,” he said, “I’m deeply grateful.” He sprinted for the door.

  Outside, he could see the pilot of the Dakota waving him over to the transport. The aircraft was already taxiing to the runway threshold when Fleming was pulled aboard by one of the aircrew kneeling by the open cargo door.

  As the DC-3 lumbered into the sky two minutes later, Fleming looked to the west one last time. On a clear day you could probably see Padbury from two thousand feet.

  * * * * * * * *

  Inside the control tower building, the WAAF shivered as the wind blew through the door by which Fleming had left. She walked over and closed it and sat back at the typewriter. Her husband had been killed just under a year before on the Normandy beaches, but she hadn’t been too upset. She had been having an affair with a GI sergeant for several months by then. She was looking forward to seeing the American later on that evening. He had promised to take her to a show in town.

  She had failed to notice the wind lifting Fleming’s envelope and casting it down behind her desk.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The DC-3 rolled to a halt beside a wrecked hangar at the northernmost end of the airfield. Coming in to land, the plane had first been buffeted by the strong crosswind that whipped across the North Sea as they began their descent over the Frisian Islands, and then the rain had come down.

  When the pilot finally shut down the engines, Fleming’s battered eardrums took a few seconds to register the new sound. The rain that was being driven against the aircraft’s metal skin sounded like sticks rapping on a kettle-drum.

  As a crewman wrestled to open the Dakota’s door, Fleming pulled his greatcoat in tight around his body. The icy blast that hit his face was a chilling welcome to Kettenfeld, an ex-Luftwaffe airfield on the outskirts of Emden. As he jumped down onto the grass, Fleming felt a surge of adrenalin.

  A jeep screeched up beside the Dakota. The
driver pulled back a canvas flap and shouted against the wind.

  “Wing Commander Fleming? I’m Bowman. Jump in.”

  The vehicle sped off onto the concrete perimeter road which led to a cluster of buildings on the far side of the field. Bowman, a stocky, balding squadron leader, squinted hard through the windscreen. The wipers were fighting a losing battle against the rain.

  From what Fleming could see, Kettenfeld was chaos. Aircraft of all types littered every inch of available space. Fitters, their collars pulled up for protection against the wind and rain, scuttled around their charges, filling empty tanks with fuel, replenishing reserves of oil and hydraulic fluid, checking that rudders and elevators had not iced up.

  They passed a recovery team trying to raise the nose of a Havoc whose starboard leg had collapsed as it was being bombed up for a mission. All around, British and American aircraft were landing and taking off, their wings waggling precariously as the pilots fought to keep control in the strong winds.

  A week before, Kettenfeld had been in the hands of the Luftwaffe’s NJG 1, a night fighter unit with the hopeless task of intercepting the hundreds of Allied bombers that poured into the German heartland almost every night. At one point, Fleming thought he saw some Junkers 88s parked in a distant corner of the airfield, but they could have been Mosquitoes.

  They reached a row of Nissen huts and the brakes squealed as the jeep skidded to a stop.

  Bowman pointed to the door of the corrugated iron building and then made a run for it. Fleming was right behind him, but something made him pause by the door. A hundred yards away groundcrew were busy attaching tow lines from troop-carrying gliders to four-engined Halifax tugs. Staverton hadn’t wasted any time. Looking at the gliders, Fleming tried not to think about how many men would die. For a moment he hoped that Bowman’s photographs were not of a 163C, but a trick of the light or an act of deception by the Germans. Then he could rid himself of the whole affair, catch a plane back to England. He shook his head and moved after Bowman.