England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  “You know him personally, then?”

  “Have we met face to face yet…? No…” Brandis shook his head slowly… thoughtfully, “but I know him all the same, and that’s how I know you’ll both work together well. He’s going to need your expertise and your strength, and there will be times when you’ll need his.” He yawned suddenly and held his palm up, cutting off Rupert’s next question. “In any case, I’m dead tired and I need some sleep.” He checked his wristwatch, then slipped the spectacles back over his eyes. “It’s not too late yet: you might still make the Dorchester at a reasonable hour — give them a call and see if Nick’s still there.”

  “I should think I’ll need a drink or ten tonight after all these revelations,” Rupert observed dryly as Brandis turned for a moment to close and lock the box he’d opened.

  “Take my car… I’ll not need it tonight.” Reaching into his trouser pocket, Brandis took out his car keys and tossed them to his PA, the man catching them deftly in one hand. “Just don’t drive it home if you get too pissed.”

  “I’ll have it back first thing in the morning,” Rupert promised as his boss turned away without another word, walking slowly toward the stairs.

  “We’ll go over all the details tomorrow, Rupert,” Brandis added, pausing for a moment at the base of the staircase. “Be a good chap: turn out the lights and lock up for me as you go out, would you…?”

  “You never did give me a name or a real age…” Rupert Isaiah Gold observed with a wry smile, knowing full well he’d never get a real answer.

  Lowering his glasses just enough to stare at the young man over the frames as a faintly mischievous smile crept across his face, James Brandis indeed gave no reply. He did however begin to sing softly to himself — something that was quite unexpected and out of character for the man Rupert had known for so many years — and as he turned to climb the stairs, it was clearly obvious that he was singing loudly enough for the young man to hear. He was also surprised to discover that his employer had a rather pleasant tenor singing voice. The melody was unlike any Rupert had ever heard before, and seemed as unusual as the lyrics Brandis sung: there was of course no way he ever could’ve recognised The Rolling Stones' Sympathy for the Devil, a song that wouldn't even be released for another thirty-eight years.

  Brandis never once looked down as he made his way up the spiral steps, working his way through the entire first verse as Rupert stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring upward with an intrigued expression. He paused for a moment, right at the top, and delivered the first two lines of the first chorus as he disappeared inside the loft apartment. The moment those last two lines were completed, the door at the top closed softly and Rupert heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. He continued to stand and look on for a few moments longer, the strange lyrics echoing in his thoughts.

  Eventually he roused himself and went through the process of turning off all the lights once more before making his way through the now-dark warehouse to the caged garage area. The door guards outside opened the gates the moment they heard the Humber’s engine kick over, and Rupert took great care as he reversed the car out into the evening air once more. He fought with the gears for a moment before finally managing to get it into first and moving slowly away down the cobblestone drive, the slitted ‘wartime’ headlights giving barely enough illumination.

  In the hours ahead, Rupert’s night would be filled with fitful, restless sleep, and throughout it all, those eerie, almost foreboding lyrics would continue to turn round and round in his mind and his dreams.

  PR aircraft ‘B-for-Baker’

  Maidstone, Kent

  Tuesday

  August 13, 1940

  Squadron Leader Eric Richardson scanned the sky in all directions for enemy fighters as he had countless times during the 20-minute flight down from Oxfordshire. In that vague half-light between night and the first rays of morning sun, it was probably too early for the Luftwaffe to be out and about in force, but he wasn’t the type to take things for granted. Richardson was relatively new to the field of aerial photography, and had only been with the RAF’s Photographic Reconnaissance Unit for a few weeks. The PRU’s ranks had been decimated by heavy attrition throughout 1940, and it was an unfortunate reality that the huge majority of PR aircraft the RAF sent across The Channel never returned, falling victim either to ground fire or, more commonly, to the predations of radar-directed Luftwaffe J-4A fighters that were too fast to outrun.

  The PRU had formed in the last week of September 1939 at Heston Aerodrome, west of London, for the purpose of conducting photographic reconnaissance over Europe. Originally known simply as ‘Heston Flight’, its mission had since grown in size and scope and it had gone through several reorganisations prior to being designated by its current title. Heston was easily within range of the Luftwaffe following the Fall of France, and the unit had been forced to move further west to Oxfordshire in early June due to repeated aerial attacks that had all but reduced the place to rubble and made the runways completely unusable.

  As a former fighter pilot, Richardson had already been shot down once but had been fortunate enough to have been over British soil at the time, and had parachuted to safety as his Spitfire spiralled into the ground in flames. He’d been ready to jump straight back into combat, but a shortage of aircraft had left him without a unit for a week or so and had made him an excellent potential recruit for the shattered and reforming Photographic Reconnaissance Unit. The fact that he was an experienced fighter pilot came as a huge advantage in the eyes of the RAF (the fact that he’d survived long enough to become experienced in the current climate even moreso) and even he had to admit that he’d found the specialised PR training relatively easy to pick up. What had been more impressive was the brand new aircraft they’d given him to train with. Manufactured by North American Aviation, the Mustang Mark I (soon to enter production in the United States as the P-51A) was a truly amazing aircraft.

  North American were a relatively small, unknown aviation manufacturer whose only notable other military aircraft to that point had been the excellent B-25 Mitchell medium bomber. As had been the case in Realtime, the RAF had originally asked NAA to build Curtiss P-40 fighters under licence. North American had shown a good deal of foresight and initiative, and instead pleaded for the opportunity to design a completely new fighter altogether, so confident in their proposal that North American agreed to purchase RAF wind tunnel testing reports for the P-40 to seal the deal in spite of the fact the data would never be used. The resulting low-wing monoplane fighter was new and state-of-the-art in every respect, and took just 100 days of development from the start of planning to the roll-out of the first prototype. In Realtime it would go on to become what was generally considered the finest piston-engined fighter ever to see combat in the Second World War: the P-51 Mustang.

  Still a North American design, albeit conceived at least a year earlier than had been the case in Realtime, the Mustang that Richardson now flew had been ordered specifically from NAA by the RAF under the direction and assistance of Nick Alpert. Alpert had been able to supply detailed blueprints outlining some requirements for modification to the original design, following which a greatly accelerated development and production program had been initiated.

  Aircraft ‘B-for-Baker’ was one of the first three dozen Mustangs to be supplied under contract from NAA and delivered via cargo ship in separate fuselage and wing sections. Reassembly had been carried out at secret locations in Scotland and in the north of England, far away from likely prying eyes and ears, and of those first completed models, twenty-four had been assigned to form two new fighter squadrons, while the remaining twelve had gone to the PRU for vital reconnaissance work.

  The Mustang I was almost identical to the Realtime P-51H model, save for being armed with two 20mm Hispano cannon in each wing rather than the normal US practice of arming their aircraft with .50-calibre machine guns (usually six). While there was only enough space to carry 120 rounds per gun, the
cannon were far more powerful than the .303 machine gun armament standard to RAF fighters at the time, and only a few hits from four such guns would be lethal enough to deal with any enemy fighter and most enemy bombers. The Mustang was also fast… very fast… and its new-model, fuel-injected Merlin-61 engine was at altitude able to take it to speeds of over 780 kilometres per hour — over 480 miles per hour in Imperial measurement. Like its Realtime equivalent, the P-51H model, it was a lightweight version of the more common P-51D which had the same ‘cut-down’ rear fuselage and sliding, ‘tear-drop’ canopy.

  Mustangs entering service with RAF fighter squadrons carried the usual RAF land temperate camouflage scheme of large blotches of brown and dark green on upper surfaces and fuselage sides with sky blue beneath. Richardson’s aircraft was built for reconnaissance however — its full RAF title was Mustang PR Mark IA — and it sported an entirely different camouflage scheme as a result. Save for its red/blue tail markings, RAF roundels and its ‘LY — B’ unit letter recognition codes (barely visible on either side of each fuselage roundel in faded grey stencilled letters), it was completely painted on all surfaces with the very same sky blue that fighters usually sported on their undersides only.

  A set of high-quality still cameras had been installed behind the pilot, two looking directly downward through a plexiglass panel in the fuselage floor while the lens of a third camera pointed out to port at a right angle through a slightly bulged, clear ‘blister’ of Perspex that formed what would otherwise have been the central red spot of the Mustang’s RAF roundel on that side. The four wing cannon had been removed in the PR variant, and in their place were just two .50 calibre Browning machine guns with 400 rounds apiece.

  It was a relatively weak armament, but the modification had a threefold effect on improving the aircraft’s performance: the removal of the cannon meant a marked saving in weight, while also leaving increased space inside the wings for extra fuel. As was the case with the Realtime P-51, it also meant that the machine guns’ muzzles could be mounted flush within the wing. The 20mm cannon of the fighter variant were powerful weapons with a high muzzle velocity, and as such were substantially longer than the Browning M2 machine gun. As a result, the cannon barrels protruded almost a metre beyond the leading edge of each wing, firing outside the disc of the propeller.

  This small but notable disruption to the aircraft’s aerodynamics had a direct effect on its top speed, and speed was all important to a PR aircraft. Speed was life as far as recon pilots were concerned; particularly those engaged in exceptionally dangerous low-level missions known colloquially as ‘Going Dicing’: a shortened form of the phrase ‘Dicing with Death.’ At high altitude, a Mustang PR was out of range of ground fire and was too fast to be caught by enemy fighters. Down low however, both were a very real threat and Dicing missions were always tense, stressful affairs as a result.

  Richardson carefully watched the sky ahead as the Kent countryside slipped past beneath his nose and away behind. He’d found the A20 just outside of Lewisham and followed it south-east as it cut through green pastures on its way toward the coast, the Mustang rarely rising above treetop height for most of the journey. Had it not been for the unmistakeable howl of its Merlin V12, the aircraft would’ve seemed little more than a ghost in the grey, pre-dawn haze.

  He diverted around Maidstone, skirting the city’s southern boundaries. Using local landmarks to assist with navigation, Richardson easily located the grounds for the Kent County Cricket Club and the children’s orphanage at Mote House — positioned as they were within 180 hectares of parkland just a kilometre or two from the centre of town — and used them to bring him back onto the A20, which took the name of Ashford Rd as it ran past Mote Park’s northern border on its way south-east. The A20 would take him right through to Folkestone and The Channel, both of which were now only five minutes away at his cruising speed of almost 500 kilometres per hour.

  Ashford Road took him past Harrietsham, Lenham and Charing before he again diverted course slightly, this time skirting north of Ashford and rejoining the A20 as Hythe Rd on the other side. Dawn finally broke over France and the distant horizon as the Mustang howled past overhead at Smeeth and then Sellindge, and as Richardson finally broke away from the A20 just five kilometres or so from the coast, the first rays of sunlight were finally reaching out across the surface of The Channel.

  He was glad of the veil of broken cloud spread across the eastern sky that effectively prevented him from being blinded, flying, as he was, directly into the rising sun. Folkestone was visible ahead now, as was the distant French coast beyond, and Richardson went through several final rechecks of his instruments and the status of his aircraft’s systems, including preparation of the cameras mounted in the fuselage behind him.

  The Mustang carried a pair of 250-litre auxiliary fuel tanks beneath the wings. He’d been flying on that extra fuel for the entirety of the trip so far, and those tanks were now almost empty. As Richardson passed overflew Sandgate, south of Folkestone, and continued on out over The Channel, he pulled a lever on his instrument panel and the pair of tanks fell away, striking the surface of the water 20 metres below the aircraft and disappearing in twin sprays of foam. The event was instantly noticed in the cockpit, and the Mustang literally surged ahead as their extra aerodynamic drag suddenly disappeared. Richardson selected the appropriate heading east-south-east and edged his throttle forward, the engine’s pitch changing dramatically as he pushed the aircraft toward full power.

  Below him, the glinting surface of The Channel slipped quickly away behind as his airspeed crept upward. Even for a seasoned fighter pilot, the acceleration and speed were exhilarating, and he couldn’t help but allow an almost childlike grin of excitement to spread across his face beneath his oxygen mask as the Mustang topped out at its sea-level limit of 700 kilometres per hour. Adrenalin was coursing freely through his system now, his breathing faster as a result: forty kilometres ahead, his target was just four minutes away across the water, and it was now that he was at his most vulnerable.

  Dawn had spread across the whole of Western Europe now, and right along the French coast, Luftwaffe pilots would be warming their engines and preparing to take to the skies on combat air patrols intended to seek out and shoot down RAF aircraft exactly like his. The Mustang was currently heading toward danger at a great rate, and it was only after Richardson had passed his target and taken his pictures that he could finally turn back to the west and seek safety in altitude.

  SS Special Heavy Battery 672(E)

  Near Sangatte, Pas-de-Calais

  Edward Whittaker had been working from dawn until dusk every day for the last eight weeks: one man among thousands of POWs and forced civilian labourers now working there at the compound. Like the rest of them, he’d return every night to the prison camp with his hands scuffed and bleeding, his back and shoulders aching from the day’s hard work, but he also had to admit he was a good deal fitter as a result, and his previously pale skin was now quite well tanned from weeks of working shirtless in the summer sun.

  They’d arrived with the dawn and had barely climbed down from their trucks that morning as air raid sirens released their piercing wails all over the installation. Non-essential Wehrmacht and SS soldiers and officers immediately headed for slit trenches dotted strategically about the area. The prisoners didn’t bother however, although all of them were of course deeply concerned: they’d learned the hard way during numerous air raid drills over the last eight weeks that POWs weren’t permitted such luxuries as shelters or protection, and only the sheer volume of flak weaponry positioned about the surrounding area stood between the unwilling labour force and potential death from above.

  Whittaker was part of a small group working closer to the beach at the far end of the main branch line, beyond the northernmost of the two huge guns. As such, they were in a perfect position to catch sight — briefly — of an RAF fighter as it darted past above the treeline that ran along the installation’s western perime
ter, its pale blue camouflage no more than a momentary flash of colour in the morning sun. Some of the nearby lighter flak guns attempted to engage, but the aircraft wasn’t interested in hanging about and made off back toward the English side of the Channel at full throttle, quickly darting out of range once more before anyone could react.

  The volume of fire that should have been brought to bear should have ensured its certain destruction as soon as it’d drawn within — at best — two or three thousand metres, but an almost complete lack of an RAF presence anywhere near the coast since the last weeks of July had caused the flak batteries’ crews to become relaxed to the point of outright negligence. They’d paid for that negligence by allowing that single fighter to escape unscathed, and the Commander-in Chief, Home Forces had his detailed photographs as a result…

  Richardson kept his throttle at full power and took the Mustang into a steep powerclimb the moment he’d cleared the target area and got turned onto a course for home. His heart was pounding as if it threatened to burst from his chest, and the adrenalin coursing through his veins and arteries meant the exhilaration he felt at the successful completion of his mission was all the more intense.

  He’d come in at wave-top height for the entire trip across The Channel, much as he’d travelled the entire landward leg of his approach barely above the trees, ensuring there’d been no chance of German radar stations along the coast having any chance whatsoever of detecting him. That had also ensured the masses of ack-ack protecting the target had been given no prior warning of his presence and enabled him to take his pictures without any opposition.

  If there were fighters in the area now, Luftwaffe command would already be vectoring them on to his tail, and if there were none in the air nearby, there’d certainly be some lifting off within seconds. It’d all be to no avail, however. The fighter variant of the Mustang was slightly faster than the new Focke-Wulf J-4A at all altitudes, and the PR Mark IA version, thanks to its weight savings and streamlined armament, was faster still. Now he was at higher altitude and headed for home, there wasn’t an aircraft anywhere near that had a chance of catching him. The Mustang hurtled on westward, following the dawn as Richardson allowed himself to relax — finally — and began to think about how much he’d enjoy his morning coffee.