He pulled his hand out from his dressing gown pocket and pointed it at Simon. The snout muzzle of a Walther PPK gleamed evilly in his hand.
Somewhere over London 0015 13/5/1944
Hauptmann Helmut Berger was struggling to keep his plane on course. They were supposed to be heading for the huge Vickers armament factory located in west London, but the Liechtenstein SN-2 radar set was playing up, and it was difficult to navigate over a blacked-out city with only intermittent moonlight for help. The task was not made easier by the attentions of the anti- aircraft defences.Thankfully, the RAF night fighters had called off their efforts, at least for the moment.
The risk of them being targeted by their own side would be too great, now that they were flying over the centre of the city.
He cursed again. The mission was typical of the misguided direction that afflicted the higher levels of Luftwaffe command, almost all of it instigated by Reichsmarschall Goering himself. It was supposed to be another retaliation raid for the destruction inflicted on the Reich’s cities, the ceaseless bombing of armaments, industries and communications that determined Germany’s ability to make war. But with only eight bombers on take off, and now down to five due to engine problems, what the hell was fat Hermann trying to achieve? How could this compare to the thousand bomber raids the British and Americans mounted on the Ruhr and other German industrial areas? It was like trying to put out a raging fire with a water pistol. He almost laughed with frustration.
At least his engines were still intact. The Heinkel He-177 Greif was supposedly the Luftwaffe’s answer to the Lancasters and Flying Fortresses that were steadily demolishing Germany’s cities, but the twin-engined bomber was never produced in large enough quantities to combat the overwhelming strength of the Allied air forces. In addition, the high operational attrition rate constantly whittled down the numbers of bombers available to a level that was incapable of making a real difference to the war effort. Development had taken far too long to perfect, mainly due to recurrent problems with over-heating engines and directional stability. But at least this machine was working well. He’d been flying her for the last few months, and she’d never been less than totally reliable, giving the lie to the rather cruel but sadly accurate Luftwaffe nicknames the Grief’s unfortunate reputation had acquired - ‘flying lighter’ and ‘widow-maker’. The engine temperature dials were well inside the normal range. She carried a large enough bomb-load, almost six thousand kilograms of high explosive that would make a serious dent in any particular target selected. If only he could find the right one. Of course, it would be better to try and hit the factory, rather than just bomb randomly all over the surrounding area. But what difference would it make in the end? His force of bombers was far too small to make a lasting impression.
The plan was to climb up gradually to thirty thousand feet by the time they reached the English coast slightly north of Southend-on-Sea, and then slowly descend in a power dive to achieve a maximum airspeed of just under 650 kilometers per hour. This would be fast enough to avoid interception by the Mosquitos operating with the Air Defence of Great Britain command, unless they were unlucky enough to meet them head on. But he wasn’t too concerned about that possibility. The Greif was well protected by six on-board heavy machine guns, enough to give most enemy night-fighters a headache. No, he was more concerned about the anti-aircraft defences. To achieve a power dive onto the target he would need to keep a relatively straight course, making an easier target for the massed batteries of anti- aircraft guns that protected the capital and in particular the choicer targets- like the Vickers factory he was trying to target tonight. And the guns were now making his life difficult, angry puffs of black smoke marking the spot where shells exploded, filling a significant part of his forward view. The Grief began to bounce around, like a small boat caught out in a stormy sea. Radar-guided searchlights swept the skies. Sooner or later they’d pick him up, and then he’d have to decide just how brave and committed he was feeling.
‘How are we doing, Hans?’ Berger turned to briefly look at his co-pilot and navigator, Hans Metzger.
‘Could be better, could be worse,’ drawled Metzger, trying to appear relaxed. ‘The radar keeps on cutting in and out, but we’re on the right course. More or less.’
‘Good. The same as usual, then.’ He laughed sarcastically. ‘Not much of a way to spend a Saturday night, is it?’
‘Not really. However, you’re forgetting it’s now Sunday morning. I was looking forward to having a few beers and getting to know that new barmaid in the Officer’s Mess. Have you seen her yet?’ Metzger had a well-deserved reputation for being a ladies’ man. Sometimes Berger wondered if his friend had a one-track mind.
‘Yes, I’ve seen her. She’s quite fit. But I really think you should concentrate on the job in hand. You can dream about her on the way back. The Tommies are bound to have a wall of flak protecting the factory, so we may have to start taking evasive action soon. I get the feeling this is going to be just as much fun as Steinbock was.’
Metzger swore, but carried on checking his bearings. The target he was trying to identify was up ahead, now less than two minute’s flying time away. Berger briefly cast his mind back a few months to February. Operation Steinbock was Goering’s plan to use KG 100’s Greif bombers to attack London in retaliation for a series of heavy bombing raids by the RAF on Berlin. He remembered it well. Fourteen bombers had assembled at Rheine air base to take off, watched by no less a personage than that fat bastard himself, who had come to witness the success of his daring new plan. But the reality had proved less impressive than his dreams. Nine Greifs had either failed to take off or returned to base soon afterwards with engine problems. Of the remaining five, four had reached London, and only three had eventually returned home, including his. It had been a difficult, dangerous night, not all that much different from now.
The flak was suddenly much worse. Despite her speed and weight, the Grief was beginning to be tossed around by the force of the explosions. A hail of shrapnel clanged against the fuselage. Suddenly a searchlight beam caught the plane, like a rabbit frozen in the headlights. Before he could react a crash shook the aircraft, followed almost immediately by another explosion further away. The twin shocks threw them upwards and sideways, twisting the Greif in a gut-wrenching spiral. Berger desperately struggled to regain control of the joystick. Smoke and a burning aroma filled the cockpit, obscuring the view forward through the plexi-glass nose bubble.
‘Report!’ Berger gasped, coughing and shaking his head to clear his vision. Metzger was slumped over to his left, probably concussed by the detonations. Berger grimly hung on to the joystick, trying to operate the control surfaces. The aircraft felt decidedly sluggish, reluctant to respond to his imput. He quickly looked over to his right. The number two engine was on fire, enormous streaks of flame and smoke pouring backwards in the slipstream. Berger glanced back at his instruments. Red flashing lights lit up the displays for the right wing engine. He needed to shut down power to number two, increase power to number one in the vain hope of staying aloft, and get rid of his payload immediately. His hands flew over the switchgear as he nosed the Grief head down into a dive, at the same time applying corrective rudder to slip sideways, away from the harsh illumination of the searchlight.
‘Sir!’ It was Grabowski, the dorsal turret gunner. ‘Our tail fin’s on fire, and there’s no reply from Schmidt. Part of the right tail-plane’s been sheared off by that last hit.’
Damn! No wonder the plane didn’t feel right. Life was too short for this kind of trouble. ‘Leave your gun, and check that the bomb bay doors are fully open,’ he shouted in return. ‘I’m dropping our presents and getting out of this shit right now!’ He could hear the whine of the bay doors opening, and feel the extra drag in his slipstream. He couldn’t rely on all his instruments, and needed a visual check to make sure the doors were fully open to get rid of his deadly load. It seemed like an age before he heard Grabowski’s reply.
&nb
sp; ‘Open’, the gunner’s voice roared in his ears. Berger quickly toggled the bomb release switches, and almost immediately felt the plane lurch upwards as the heavy load disappeared through the open bay doors.
‘All clear’, came the sound of Grabowski’s shout. He pressed the switch to close the doors, and then grappled the joystick with both hands to try and wrench back the Greif into his control. At least the plane was now significantly lighter. Hopefully it would be better able to respond to his commands. Berger knew that it was unlikely they’d be able to get back home on one engine, especially with a significant amount of damage to the control surfaces, but at the very least he should be able to get them away from the lethal anti-aircraft guns. He didn’t relish the prospect of a bale out directly over an enemy city.
14 Holly Park Terrace, Hanwell 0025
Simon stared at the gun. It pointed directly towards the centre of his chest, but the hand that held it was far from steady. Simms was trembling, a mixture of rage and frustration. He couldn’t believe it - all this waiting, over the years, and his help was being rejected. The very object of his existence, the single hope that had driven him onwards in his belief of a Nazi future for England, was fast disappearing before his eyes. The story about the message from Berlin was false, a stratagem obviously designed to get him out of the way. He had suddenly become superfluous to all requirements. It was almost exactly the same as back in the days of the British Union of Fascists. Nobody had ever given him a chance to prove his worth then, and the same was happening now.
‘You can’t leave now,’ he hissed angrily. ‘I have strict instructions from Berlin to ensure that you stay, and carry out the mission.’
‘Come on, man, you can’t be serious.’ Simon stood loosely, gently rocking onto the balls of his feet, waiting for an opportunity to spring forward and disable. But could he take the risk? At this range, all Simms had to do was pull the trigger. He could not miss. ‘Look, I’ve got the message in my pocket. Let me give-‘
‘No! Keep your hands where I can see them,’ Simms shouted. ‘The letter from your masters gave me license to make sure you stayed here and fulfilled your mission. I was told to use force if necessary. I won’t hesitate to shoot.’
‘But don’t you want to see the message-‘
‘No,’ Simms said forcefully. ‘There’s no imprint on the pad. You never wrote anything down, so don’t try and fool me. I-‘
Both men looked up. The sounds of heavy gun fire shattered the silence of the street. The throb of engines high above them suddenly increased in volume.
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Simon turned back to look at Simms. ‘That’s the Luftwaffe on a bombing mission, unless I’m very much mistaken. Shouldn’t we get to the nearest air raid shelter?’
‘No, I can’t take the risk of letting you out the house. We’ll use the cellar.’ Simms desperately pointed at him with his pistol. ‘Turn around and go back towards the kitchen. Put your hands in the air. I’ll follow, and don’t try anything funny.’
They headed down the narrow hall corridor, through the open door and into the darkened kitchen. The gun fire was louder now, multiple staccato bursts from a battery of nearby guns. ‘Wait here,’ said Simms, turning on the light. ‘I’ll just fetch the-‘.
A shrieking whistle interrupted him, quickly growing louder and louder as it rapidly approached. Simon had heard this sound far too many times before for comfort. He knew it was going to be close. ‘Get down!’ He shouted, throwing himself flat across the kitchen floor. Suddenly an earth-shattering blast rocked the building. The shock wave from the explosion shattered all the windows at the back of the house, lifting Simms off his feet and slamming him backwards into the kitchen dresser. A rain of glass blew inwards, ripping curtains and smashing into the room.
Simon lay on the floor, gasping for air, and covered in dust and the debris from the detonation. He was momentarily stunned by the force of the blast. The concussion had raised him off the floor and slammed him back down again. Gingerly he felt his limbs- nothing was broken, just a few minor bruises and aches. He sat up. Suddenly, another blast rocked the house; less violent this time, then another four more in rapid succession, further and further away. His head felt sore, and something trickled down the back of his neck. He reached back to explore his head, and his fingers came away coated in blood. He could feel the raw edges of a jagged laceration half way up the back of his skull. There was a buzzing in his ears and his mouth tasted funny, but all told it could have been much worse.
Simon blinked his eyes clear and slowly raised himself into a standing position, clinging onto the kitchen sideboard for support. He spotted Simms. The pharmacist lay huddled up on the floor a few feet from him, his face a bloody mass: the barrage of flying glass must have struck him full on before he’d had a chance to seek cover. Thank God he was wearing glasses. The lenses were intact and had probably saved his eyes from a penetrating injury. He knelt down by the unconscious man, and checked his neck for a pulse. It was still there. There was no evidence of broken bones or more serious injuries, as far as he could tell. Simon went back to the kitchen sink, grabbed a towel and soaked it under the cold tap. He used it to wipe the blood off Simms’ face and pick out shards of glass that were still embedded in the wounds. Some of them were deep, others less so. The little man groaned, but did not awake.
He left him lying there and stumbled up the hallway. Simon could vaguely make out a roaring noise coming from beyond the front of the house. He turned and moved into the lounge, his feet crunching over broken glass and scattered debris. The windows had been blown in from another blast, and the curtains were ripped and torn, similar to those in the kitchen. Through a gap he could see across the street. Two of the houses opposite had taken the full force of a direct hit. Nothing remained except a raging inferno and a convulsed pile of rubble. He could feel the heat pulsing out from where he stood.
It was going to have to be the rear exit. He stumbled back into the hallway. The stairs were a shambles, and it was high time to go. His clothes could wait for another time. The distant wail of fire engines was getting nearer. Simon moved back to the kitchen, his hands searching in his pockets for the key to the back door. As he moved past Simms, his foot tripped against something heavy on the floor. It was the PPK. He picked it up, automatically checking the weapon. Yes, there was a round in the chamber, but the idiot had forgotten to switch the safety catch off! He turned to where Simms lay. The pharmacist was groggily opening his eyes.
‘Can you hear me?’ Simms nodded slowly. ‘You’re a lucky man. I’ve checked you over. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing broken - no serious injuries - just a few cuts and a blow to your head. I don’t know how much damage there is upstairs, but keep any busybodies away from the loft. And I will be back. Remember, this mission is far from over, and I still need you-understand?’
With a last backward look, he opened the kitchen outside door and stepped outside. Almost immediately the stifling aroma of burning greeted him. Heavy billows of smoke swirled across the rear garden. It was so thick he could barely see the railway embankment. He bent low, and fishing out a handkerchief, covered his mouth and nose and headed in the direction he knew the garden gate was.
Once out of the garden, he turned right, trying to find the small archway that ran under the railway line and led to the houses and gardens on the other side of the tracks. But as he moved closer, the smoke and devastation became worse. His eyes began to run from the irritation, and he coughed and choked on the fumes. A new smell, the stench of burning flesh, made him retch. The archway had disappeared- the bomb must have hit the top of the embankment, directly on top of where the arch should be. There was nothing left but a huge crater filled with mangled, twisted rail and shattered bricks. A fire was raging in one of the gardens beyond, and the wind gusted, swirling the smoke upwards for a few moments. It was enough to enable him to plot a route through the ruptured earth, before the visibility closed in again.
He was alm
ost through and out the other side of the crater when he slipped. His right foot had landed in something soft. He twisted around to where he’d lost his footing. A limbless torso and head lay there, bathed in a large pool of blood. What remained of the face looked vaguely familiar. He fought the urge to vomit, and crawled rapidly away. It was just like being back in Russia- the same horror, the same death and destruction, the same impartial brutality. He scrambled on his hands and knees as fast as he could, needing to get away from the scene of the bombing as quickly as possible. The area would soon be crawling with fire engines, police and ambulances, and the less official scrutiny for him the better it would be.
21 Holly Park Terrace 0045
Reynolds slowly levered himself onto his feet and shook the dust and muck out of his eyes. His mouth tasted vile. A chorus of church bells rang incessantly in his ears and a throbbing thumped through his head from his forehead to the base of his neck.Gingerly he traced his hands through his hair - there was a tender lump at the back of his head the size of a large boiled egg, but no blood. Everything else felt more or less in the right place. Where the hell was he? He groaned- a brief spasm of pain shot through his neck. He’d remembered the whistle of the approaching bomb, a flash of intense light and a booming noise, and then everything had gone dark.
Slowly it came back to him. They were on the night shift, peeping at number fourteen from across the road. It was Parkinson’s turn to keep watch until two o’clock, and then he’d take the next shift until five. He had been lying on the bed, trying to get some sleep when the air raid alarms had disturbed his dozing slumber. Typical. Here I am trying to catch up on some well deserved Egyptian PT, and all I need is a visit from the bloody Luftwaffe to keep me company. But the bomb had changed all that. He turned around to check where MI5’s latest recruit was, but a blinding sheet of pain in his head and neck slowed his movements down.
London Calling Page 18
