London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  ‘Let me put you out of your misery. You’re going to have to open the hatch above you to jump out. The only problem is that the wind drag at the speed we’ll be flying at could slam you straight back into the tail section, and that’s not really a good idea, especially if you want to die in bed at a ripe old age with a nubile blonde for company.So I’m going to have to invert the ‘plane, you pop the hatch open, and out you go, head first. It’s not quite what they teach you in jump school, but I’m sure you’ll cope.’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks a lot. You might have mentioned that before’. Simon was becoming increasingly annoyed by the supercilious attitude of this Luftwaffe hotshot. Schellenberg had already mentioned that Sommer was one of the best pilots available, but that didn’t excuse the man’s irritatingly superior attitude. To make matters worse, Sommer outranked him - just.

  The pilot continued in the same amused tone. ‘Well, I don’t think it would have made much difference anyway. Your boss wanted you delivered by the quickest and safest route, so that meant this beauty. Nothing else is currently suitable, so you’ll just have to-‘. He stopped in mid sentence. His right hand automatically reached for the radio controls. The casual, relaxed manner was immediately replaced by a look of intense concentration. Quickly he studied the map that was inserted inside his plastic thigh case, and then scribbled some hurried notes on a scrap pad. Sommer listened for a few minutes more, then adjusted the heading of the Arado.

  ‘OK. That was the Luftwaffe control centre outside Den Helder.’ The arrogant banter was gone, replaced by a far more business-like manner. ‘They’ve reported a couple of enemy night fighter patrols over the North Sea, not far off our projected flight path. They’re well below us, but RAF Coastal Command radar will pick us up on their radar screens soon, and they could vector night fighters in to intercept us. An extra pair of eyes always come in useful, so if you feel like helping, keep scanning the areas behind me on both sides.’

  ‘Yes, boss, anything you say, boss,’ Simon muttered. He was still anxious about flying sitting next to a potential massive fireball. ‘Just in case something gets near us, what can you do? Are there any weapons on board?’

  ‘We’ve got two rear facing cannons, controlled by this periscope sight’. Sommer grunted, pointing at a device set into the canopy roof just above his head with a flick of his gloved hand. ‘But if we need to rely on these two persuaders, then our goose may well and truly be cooked. Like I said, we should be high enough and fast enough to outrun anything they’ve got. However, we’ll soon lose radar coverage and guidance from Den Helder, and this beauty hasn’t got any on-board radar. The Neptun radar assembly was removed to fit us both into the cockpit, along with the bombsight. So our best defence is the Mark One Eyeball, as always. Do you think you can cope with that?’

  ‘Looks like we’ll have to cope’.

  ‘Good. OK- here’s what you do. Make up a search pattern like this’ he indicated with his left hand, ‘and keep scanning from left to right, up and down. If they come, they’ll most likely be below and behind us, so concentrate on those areas. I’ll check the front views, and back you up as well.’

  They flew on, both men performing a silent vigil, straining to catch a glimpse of a rising shape or a flash of reflected moonlight off a wing or tail surface. As the Arado powered its way high over the sea, all that could be heard was the humming throb of the jet engines, and the occasional rustle of Sommer’s leather flying jacket as he shifted in his seat. Simon’s neck was starting to ache, thanks to the repetitive twisting from left to right and back again, made even more restricted by the tight, awkward position he was stuck in. Fifteen minutes passed, with no sign of trouble. Then suddenly Simon thought he caught a glimpse of reflected moonlight on a dark shadow, well below and to their left.

  ‘There are aircraft below us, about seven o’ clock!’ He shouted out.

  Sommer immediately twisted in his seat, straining to check the area and catch a glimpse of their pursuer. ‘See him?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No. Wait a moment…I’ve got him. Yes. He’s got to be several thousand feet below us, at least.’ Sommer appeared cool and relaxed, his training taking over. There wasn’t the slightest hint of concern in his voice. ‘Keep watching him. If he gets any closer, let me know’. Calmly, he resumed scanning his instruments and the sky in front.

  ‘What sort of ‘plane is it?’

  ‘It’s probably a Mosquito. The RAF use them a lot on night fighter duties, both escort and interceptor. They’re very fast, agile and pack quite a punch. Normally we’d have our hands full if this was a piston-powered aircraft, but I doubt he’ll catch us.’

  They flew on for a few more minutes. Simon kept the enemy plane under observation, despite the ache in his neck and shoulders. Suddenly he twisted back and shouted.

  ‘He’s firing!’ Multiple twinkles of light rose from the wing areas of the aircraft far below him. Streams of coloured tracer drifted up lazily in their direction, like blind fingers groping for their prey. But the lights faded out well before reaching them, and the twinkles of light soon stopped. The enemy aircraft flew on, paralleling their course, but gradually began to ease further back as the minutes slipped by.

  ‘No problem. He’s out of range,’ Sommer grinned casually, looking as cool as ever. ‘It was just trying to spook us. It was nothing more than a friendly wave, a courtesy call. Piece of cake! I told you we’d be OK.’

  Simon kept looking at the enemy aircraft, but soon it changed course, banking away to the left and heading home to base. He followed it as it descended until it disappeared from view. He kept up the routine checking of the surrounding skies. But nothing else rose to take its place- at least, not yet. The sea below began to break up into tiny waves, and suddenly a strip of coastline came into view.

  ‘Feet dry,’ Sommer spoke. ‘We’re over England. Keep looking. I’m sure they’ll send us some more uninvited friends to keep us company.’

  Chequers, Buckinghamshire 0130

  General Sir Bernard Law Montgomery, KCB DSO, was tired, very tired. His eyes ached, not only from the lateness of the hour, but also from the clouds of irritating cigar smoke that belched forth from the Prime Minister’s monstrous cheroots. He stifled a yawn. It was way past his bedtime. Normally Monty would have been safely tucked up in bed hours ago - usually half past nine at the latest. But this was not a normal night. He had been invited to dine with the Prime Minister at Chequers, the PM’s private retreat. Afterwards he would give a résumé of the final preparations for Overlord, the invasion of continental Europe. Dinner had started late, but it was pleasant enough. The briefing that followed should have been over after an hour. However, the PM constantly kept interrupting Monty’s discourse with questions designed to show off just how good his own grasp of strategy and tactics was. The PM also wanted to know much about the state of the invading armies.

  Monty was forced to listen wearily while the Prime Minister rabbited on, interspersing his ramblings with stories about his time during the Omdurman campaign in the Sudan as a very young subaltern. And for good measure, Churchill threw in the usual tales about his exploits in the trenches during the First World War. The Prime Minister was, as usual, establishing his military credentials- I was there, and I know better than any other politician the trials and tribulations of army life. This was the first problem with Churchill – it only took a few glasses of champagne and off he would go, as garrulous as ever. Sometimes he became quite emotional. Monty knew that, like any politician, he loved the sound of his own voice. But what else would you expect from the most senior figure in the government, and probably the most important man in the country?

  Every now and then he would fire off fantastical ideas covering a wide variety of military matters on which he considered himself an expert. Some of the ideas had merit, but most were either impractical or unworkable. But it would take a brave man, and one who was very sure of his ground, to stand up to such a formidable and powerful adversary. Monty had declined alcoh
ol, preferring to keep a clear and alert mind. It would be very unwise to let one’s guard down, even for a moment. He was well aware that, despite the PM’s fondness for champagne, Churchill possessed a formidable intellect. He had a razor sharp brain that could still function, even when most other men had succumbed to the vast quantities consumed.

  The other problem with the PM was that he considered himself a master strategist. Granted, he was a capable and original thinker, but his interference in military affairs had caused endless trouble. Take the example of the desert generals, those senior officers who had led the Eighth Army in North Africa until Montgomery took over in the summer of 1942. They had an almost impossible time of it, fighting off Rommel’s Afrika Korps on the one hand, while dealing with a constant stream of demands, warnings and interference from the Prime Minister on the other. In the end all of these generals had failed - captured by the enemy, sacked by Churchill himself or invalided out under the colossal strain. But in Monty’s acerbic opinion, with few exceptions they had all performed incompetently, anyway.

  Monty was proud that he had secured an unbroken string of victories since turning the tables on the Germans and Italians at El Alamein. Up until now, his relationship with Churchill was based on a mutual, qualified respect, and it seemed to work. However, both men were wary of each other, each sensing a strong and domineering personality that brooked no criticism or intrusion in their own matters and personal spheres of influence. Most of the time they had communicated by coded cable. But since Montgomery’s return to England at the beginning of the year, Churchill was able to far more closely scrutinize his leading general’s preparations. This was the big disadvantage of being back at home. So far everything had gone well, but he sensed that Churchill had chosen tonight to air his criticisms and concerns. He had never faced a disgruntled Prime Minister before.

  Monty was supremely confident in his own abilities. He very rarely took counsel of his own fears about the unknown challenge lay ahead across the other side of the Channel. He also took great pains to present an air of imperturbable confidence wherever he went. There was no reason to worry, he told those who needed to know. The plan was good. The enemy appeared not to have discovered the area of the invasion, judging by their troop dispositions and the reports from SHAEF intelligence. All the preparations were virtually complete. The four Allied armies were in the final stages of getting ready to move to the embarkation ports.

  The PM never ceased trying to become involved. Sometimes he behaved just like an especially irritant Yorkshire terrier, constantly yapping and barking, never letting go of his objective until he had finally achieved success. Small wonder then that the Chief of the Imperial General Staff, Monty’s superior, mentor and friend, Field Marshall Sir Alan Brooke, was going quietly mad in trying to cope with the old boy’s mood swings, petulant outbursts and increasingly bizarre ideas. Most of the time Brooke was able to curtail the PM’s wilder ideas into something resembling military sense, but occasionally Churchill got his own way, with unfortunate consequences.

  The recent fiasco at Anzio was a classic example of the PM’s interference from afar. It was still fresh in Montgomery’s mind. Churchill had developed the idea, along with Eisenhower’s help and tacit approval. The American had virtually no experience in commanding troops in battle. Sure, he was charm personified, warm and personable and a great administrator and servant of the Allied cause. But was he a field commander? Monty had serious doubts.

  Montgomery’s job was to prepare thoroughly the armies to land in France, defeat the enemy, and win the war in the West. Such was his belief and inner confidence that he was convinced that the Germans would be defeated, so long as outrageous misfortune did not interfere. Moreover, Churchill had appointed him, recognizing his skills and attributes as the senior fighting general in the British Army. Montgomery was the man who had engineered the renaissance of British military prowess after the disasters and debacles of the early war years. But the PM could just as easily dismiss him, however unlikely that might be. After all, he did possess that power. Churchill was the final arbiter in all matters of British command, and nobody was indispensable. It would be well to keep in his favour. As a result, Monty had to choose his words carefully in all matters while dealing with the highly irascible, pugnacious and sometimes unpredictable head of the wartime coalition. Equally, there were times when someone had to take a stand against unwelcome and possibly dangerous interference.

  ‘So tell me, General Montgomery, what do you think of my ideas about diversionary operations?’Another enormous cloud of cigar smoke belched forth his way. Monty sighed inwardly. Churchill rarely called him ‘Monty’ to his face, usually preferring a more formal approach. He sensed that a row was looming. Even so, he would still speak his mind and not shirk a challenge, although it might be best to tread carefully.

  ‘To be frank, Prime Minister, I think they’re often unnecessary. Sometimes they can lead to a dangerous dispersal of effort’.

  ‘I see.’ The PM paused, and took a few more puffs from his cigar. His voice suddenly sharpened. ‘I presume you’re referring to the operations in the eastern Mediterranean at the end of last year?’ Churchill spoke in an irritated, prickly tone.

  Monty cursed to himself, knowing immediately that he was on a very sticky wicket. Churchill was almost certainly referring to the disastrous invasions of Kos and Leros, islands in the eastern Mediterranean. Both were examples of bad planning and inadequately resourced operations, foisted on local commanders by a peevishly aggressive Prime Minister. Both had met with humiliating failure. The Germans had responded quickly and ruthlessly, crushing the British defenders in a lightning operation using paratroops and special forces. Monty was commanding Eighth Army in Italy at the time, a more than interested bystander, and had been highly critical in several private letters home after the events. Blast! Some bastard must have had leaked his views.

  He decided to bluff the older man out, brazenly but politely.

  ‘No, Prime Minister. All my efforts are currently devoted to the invasion of France. I feel we must concentrate our strength on the successful prosecution of our overall plan. Any dilution of this, in ventures further afield, could only be considered a distraction from our primary target – the defeat of Germany.’

  Churchill smiled thinly. ‘In that case, may I count on your support when I bring up the proposed Allied invasion of southern France with our American colleagues?’

  So that’s where the old man was fishing, the sly bastard. A neat little trap! Churchill’s views on Operation Anvil, the proposed invasion of the Mediterranean coast of France later on in the summer after Overlord had taken place, were well known. He considered it an utter waste of time. Instead, the PM wanted the Allies to concentrate on driving the Germans out of Italy and attacking them further via an invasion of Yugoslavia. Churchill was wont to harp on about the so-called ‘soft under- belly’ of Nazi-occupied Europe that could easily be accessed by such a route. But any such venture would require considerable force, and would depend heavily on American cooperation.

  Both Eisenhower and his boss Marshall, the US Chief of Staff, were fundamentally opposed to such an adventure. They preferred instead to use part of the Allied forces already present in Italy to bypass the Germans and invade the south of France. The idea was to drive up the Rhône valley towards the north, and help to cut off the Germans in the rest of the country by assisting the Overlord landings in Normandy.

  The PM had scoffed at this strategy, considering it unnecessary. The route through Yugoslavia and into Austria and Southern Germany was currently unprotected by enemy forces. Such an indirect approach could easily catch the Germans completely unawares and overstretched elsewhere. But if the Americans were reluctant to act - so too were the Russians. Churchill seemed to have forgotten that Stalin was also against the idea of invading the Balkans. It was an area historically considered by Russia to be within their sphere of influence. Or maybe it was another devious ploy by Churchill to limi
t the post-war spread of Communist influence in central Europe? One should never underestimate the extent of the PM’s wily schemes. But however important the political future might be, the application of successful strategy and tactics was another matter entirely. From a military point of view, Churchill was obviously not aware of the fact that the mountainous terrain in the Balkans was just as bad as, if not worse than that in Italy. There, a numerically inferior German army had mounted a skilful defence against numerous powerful head-on Allied attacks.

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister. I’d be happy to support your views on that’. Monty was momentarily relieved. After all, the only thing he might be called upon to do would be to write a polite letter to his superior, Eisenhower, expressing his own views. And Eisenhower would certainly write back, equally politely and tell Montgomery it was none of his business. The Mediterranean was now outside Monty’s sphere of command, and Anvil would be composed almost entirely of American and French troops.

  ‘It’s a complete waste of our resources,’ the PM continued, fuming all the time. ‘Our American cousins simply cannot see the folly of attacking there. Surely there must be something we can do to make them change their minds?’ Churchill grumbled on, suddenly sticking out his jaw like a prizefighter in a village fair, a well-known caricature that symbolized both his and Britain’s defiance against the Nazi juggernaut.

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ Monty said smoothly. ‘Naturally, I can’t help but agree with you. However, I’m not sure what we can do. From what I’ve heard, the Americans will not be dissuaded from pursuing this objective.’ He smiled at Churchill. ‘You know what they’re like- attack, attack, attack, all along the line. No concentration of effort for a decisive strike in any particular area. There’s little subtlety in their approach. They think that this is the only way to defeat Germany.’

  ‘I agree. Harold Alexander is very critical of their military abilities,’ Churchill carried on, referring to the Allied Commander in Chief of the Mediterranean theatre, who just happened to be British. ‘He doesn’t rate them anywhere near as good as our boys. What do you think? You’ve worked with Bradley in Sicily and Clark in Italy - your opinion please, general.’