Venom Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  To Yeoman, pulling out of his dive on the starboard side of the MTB, it seemed as though the last few seconds unfolded in slow motion. Every grim detail was etched vividly on his mind as the Venom, rocked now by a succession of explosions, crossed the last few yards of sea and plunged into the long grey hull of the MTB.

  A column of water and smoke climbed slowly out of a boiling cauldron of sea where the two had collided. It reached the peak of its ascent, then subsided just as slowly. A violent shock wave buffeted Yeoman’s aircraft as he turned, and for an instant he almost lost control, but he took corrective action instinctively and flew back slowly over the patch of turbulent sea.

  There was nothing below his wings but a circular, spreading area of foam, streaked with the usual burning oil and littered with fragments of wreckage.

  Feeling a little sick, Yeoman climbed away, radioing the other aircraft as he did so.

  ‘All right, that’s it. Let’s go home.’ There was nothing more to say.

  As the Venoms gained height, he called up Operations in Cyprus and gave the exact location of the engagement. There did not seem to be any Egyptian survivors, but just in case anyone had escaped the attack Cyprus would pass a polite message over the Egyptian radio frequencies so that rescue craft could quickly reach the spot from Alexandria.

  It was a funny kind of war.

  It was almost dark by the time the Venoms landed back at Akrotiri. A lot of other fighter-bombers were in the circuit too; they had been carrying out attacks on the Egyptian defences around Port Said and on a big concentration of Russian-built tanks and self-propelled guns which lay close to the Pyramids. After dark, Valiants and Canberras of Bomber Command struck at coastal guns and radar stations near Alexandria.

  That night, a lone Handley Page Hastings transport aircraft droned high over Cairo and dropped half a million leaflets, urging the Egyptian Government to accept the Allied ceasefire proposals. The Egyptians took no notice. Loudspeakers over the Cairo streets continued to broadcast a constant stream of martial music and propaganda, claiming that 185 British and French aircraft had been shot down during the air strikes.

  Meanwhile, on the crowded Cyprus airfields, ground crews worked flat out through the hours of the night to service the transport aircraft — Hastings and Valettas of the RAF, and Noratlas of the French Air Force — that were to carry out the massive air drop, scheduled for the morning of Monday, 6 November, on objectives in the Canal Zone.

  For the men of the 3rd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment, who were to spearhead the air drop on Port Said’s Gamil Airfield, there was little sleep that night. They were too busy preparing for the coming operation, making last-minute studies of target maps and photographs. Less than a week earlier, they had been in action against Greek Cypriot EOKA terrorists in the densely wooded Troodos Mountains of Cyprus; now they were suddenly called upon to drop into action in an enemy country, the first time British paratroops had done so since the Allied crossing of the Rhine in March 1945. The men of the French 2nd Colonial Parachute Regiment were much more experienced operationally, having seen combat in Indo-China and Algeria. Their dropping zone was at Port Fuad, where the Junction Canal connected the Suez Canal to Lake Manzala.

  Yeoman and his pilots went to bed early on Sunday night, as the Venom wing had been detailed to support the air drop at Gamil. Before retiring, Yeoman held a final conference with his two squadron commanders, Squadron Leaders Ernie Wells and Hugh Dalton, going over the plan to see if any points had been missed. It seemed simple enough; A Canberra would go in first, dropping marker flares three miles from Gamil on the transport aircrafts’ approach route, and would then circle overhead to act as an airborne command post, relaying instructions from the paratroops on the ground to the RAF Venoms and Fleet Air Arm Sea Hawks, which would be circling ready to deal with any resistance.

  It was not until he climbed aboard his aircraft at 0400 the next morning, with dawn breaking in the eastern sky, that Yeoman became aware of a possible major snag. The fleet of transports would be running-in to the target from west to east-straight into the glare of the sunrise.

  It was too late to worry about that now. At 0410, as the Venoms started their engines, the first waves of Hastings and Valettas roared overhead, climbing into the morning sky from their base at Nicosia.

  As he led the first flight of Venoms screaming down the runway, Yeoman could not help recalling a September day twelve years earlier, when the men of the British 1st Airborne Division had gone down to glory and annihilation at Arnhem. On that occasion, Allied close-support aircraft — which might have turned the tables — had been ordered to stay clear of the dropping zones for fear of becoming entangled with the transport aircraft. This time, there would be no such tragic error.

  The Venoms took off several minutes after the transports had thundered by, the jets overtaking the heavily-laden piston-engined machines as they headed towards their objective. They presented a fine sight; the whole air armada flew in two columns, the Valettas leading and the bigger Hastings, carrying loads of heavy equipment, bringing up the rear. The transports were in pairs, these forming boxes of six with the first two aircraft at six hundred feet and those behind stepped up at intervals of a hundred feet and fifteen seconds. Each box of six machines was separated by an interval of one minute, or about two miles in terms of distance.

  As the target was expected to be heavily defended, speed was of the utmost importance, and the plan called for the whole British paratroop force to be down on Gamil inside eight minutes. So that the men could go into action right away, heavy equipment such as anti-tank guns was to be dropped with the troops. To reduce the risk of injury, the aircraft carrying heavy loads flew four hundred feet above those carrying the paras.

  The French, with more recent experience than their British counterparts, had brought air-dropping techniques to a fine art. Their aircraft would also approach the DZ in pairs, but in a much tighter formation and at a height of only four hundred feet. In this way, they expected to complete their drop on Port Fuad in only four minutes.

  The glare from the sun, as Yeoman had expected, was truly appalling, and he led the Venoms on a course that would bring them over Port Said’s Shanty Town, between Gamil and the sunrise. The jets were at five thousand feet, so there was no possibility that they might get mixed up with the transports.

  Circling over the Shanty Town, ignoring the odd clump of flak that came up at them, the pilots had a grandstand view of the British assault on Gamil. The cascade of brilliant red target-markers dropped by the Canberra burst across the sky and then drifted slowly earthwards, pointing the way for the transports, and a couple of minutes later the first wave of Valettas was over Gamil, the sticks of paras tumbling from them.

  Yeoman kept his Venoms circling at five thousand feet while the drop was in progress, but he could see the Navy’s Sea Hawk jets darting down on Gamil’s perimeter; it was their task to keep the defenders busy, and knock out as many anti-aircraft guns as possible, during the dangerous moments while the paras were suspended in mid-air. The paratroop commanders, standing in the open doorways of the transports ready to jump at the head of their men, could see the fleeting jets too, and the sight was infinitely reassuring. Then the green lights went on, and the first sticks launched themselves into space.

  Ten minutes later, most of the British force was on the ground, the paratroops taking cover behind the sand-filled oil drums that littered the airfield; they had been put there by the Egyptians as landing obstacles and they now proved invaluable to the attackers. There were only four major casualties during the course of the drop; two men drifted out to sea and almost drowned before they managed to rid themselves of their parachutes and swim ashore, one man dropped into a minefield and was killed, and one was seriously injured when he landed right on top of the airfield control tower.

  The Egyptians fought back, and although the volume of fire was not as intense as the paratroops had expected, some of them were wounded as they tried to con
solidate their positions. Their supporting heavy equipment landed on target, although some of the aircraft had to make two runs before they could get their loads away safely. The volume of Egyptian anti-aircraft fire over Gamil was moderate, but far from accurate; none of the transport aircraft was lost, although nine were damaged by shell splinters.

  The turn of Yeoman’s Venoms came as the transports droned away towards Cyprus to pick up their second load of paratroops and supplies. Just as Yeoman was beginning to think that the Fleet Air Arm had accounted for all the worthwhile targets, and that the paratroops had the situation very much in hand, the pilot of the circling Canberra came up urgently over the radio.

  ‘Matchbox, this is Guardian. Do you read?’

  ‘Loud and clear, Guardian. Go ahead.’

  ‘Report of strong opposition in the sewage farm, believed to be two plus SP guns. Can you cope?’

  ‘Affirmative. Are the boys marking the target for us?’

  ‘Affirmative. Watch for coloured smoke. I say again, watch for coloured smoke.’

  Yeoman thought about giving the job of knocking out the enemy guns to a flight of 641 Squadron Venoms, then decided against it. The paratroops were very close to the enemy position, and it would be all too easy to make a disastrous mistake. He had better sort this one out himself. Detaching Squadron Leader Wells and two other experienced pilots to accompany him, he pushed down the nose of his aircraft and slanted down towards the objective in a long dive.

  The sewage farm lay about a mile to the south-east of the airfield. It was surrounded by clumps of trees, and from their cover the Egyptian guns were laying down some intense and accurate fire on the advancing paratroops. As he dived, Yeoman saw two tufts of green smoke suddenly sprout up, just short of one of the clumps, as the paras dropped mortar shells to mark the enemy position.

  Flattening out over the sandy ground, so low that his hot jet exhaust created a miniature storm in his wake, he watched the trees and the drifting green smoke rush towards him, framed in his gyro gunsight. At a range of half a mile he pressed his gun button, unleashing a long burst of shells from his four 20-mm cannon. His aircraft was armed with rockets, but he wanted to be certain that his target was where it was supposed to be before he expended any of them. The SP guns, if indeed they were there, were still invisible behind their camouflage.

  The explosions of the shells hurled up geysers of sand and stone short of the trees, then ripped in among them, scattering branches and stripping away foliage. Through the drifting dust, Yeoman caught a fleeting glimpse of dark figures, scurrying to find better cover; then, as he swept overhead, he clearly saw the squat shapes of two Soviet SU-100 self-propelled guns, their hulls inexpertly concealed by camouflage netting, the long barrels of their 10-cm cannon poking out towards the airfield.

  He climbed rapidly and radioed the other Venoms.

  ‘The smoke markers are right on target. Two SU-100s, possibly more, among the trees. Aim in line with the right-hand marker.’

  At three thousand feet, he turned back over the sewage farm and watched as Wells and the other two pilots slanted their Venoms down towards the copse and released their rockets, one after the other, each aircraft breaking away sharply at the end of its firing run to avoid any danger from flying debris.

  As the second Venom completed its attack, the trees suddenly crumpled outwards like matchsticks, rent by a terrific explosion. Out of the smoke, Yeoman saw what looked like a slim drainpipe appear, turning over and over; it was an SU-100’s gun.

  The third Venom unloaded its rockets into the inferno and went into a climb, following the other two in line astern, its wings glinting in the sun. Yeoman continued to circle the trees, looking down, and a minute later his vigil was rewarded. Crawling slowly out of the trees, half hidden by the smoke, came a third SU-100, its tracks drawing broad parallel lines on the sandy ground. A few men were clinging to the outside of its hull.

  Yeoman brought the Venom down in a gentle curve, levelling the wings and centralizing the SU-100 in his sight. The armoured vehicle stopped suddenly, its crew probably alerted to the danger by the men outside, and then headed back towards the shelter of the copse. It was too late. Yeoman let go four of his eight rockets, saw their glowing tails appear to waver as they sped in front of his fighter-bomber, and then steady as they converged on the brown-and-yellow striped hull.

  Two of the rockets missed the target, their warheads exploding ahead of the vehicle. The other two vanished into its hull, just above the tracks. The SU-100 continued to move ahead for a second, obscured by the smoke and dust kicked up by the first two rockets, the men who had been clinging to it now hurling themselves clear and running for their lives. A split second later, they were hurled flat by the explosion that ripped the SU-100 apart like a rotten apple, filling the air with wicked fragments of flying steel.

  Yeoman’s jet sped through the billowing cloud of smoke, and the pilot felt a metallic rattle as something hit the underside of the fuselage. Climbing, he checked the controls and the engine instruments; everything seemed to be working properly.

  The voice of the Canberra pilot came suddenly over the R/T.

  ‘Message from the boys, Matchbox. I quote: “Well done. We just swallowed pretty hard. Thanks a million.” Unquote.’

  ‘Okay, Guardian. Any more trade for us?’

  ‘Negative, Matchbox. The Navy boys are having trouble finding worthwhile targets. Suggest you get rid of what you’ve got left on opportunity targets in the area, and go home.’

  Yeoman decided to follow the Canberra pilot’s advice. He ordered those of his pilots who were still carrying their rockets to attack the railway line running along the Manzala Canal, south of the Shanty Town, and then re-form at five thousand feet over the coast.

  Ten minutes later, the Venoms were setting course for Cyprus. As they did so, they could see the French air drop going down on Port Fuad, with Corsairs and Thunderstreaks wheeling overhead. Yeoman learned later that the French had come under heavy fire from Egyptian infantry well concealed in slit trenches, and also from machine-guns and Bofors anti-aircraft guns which were able to rake the whole area. While the French took cover in bomb and shell holes, the enemy guns were quickly silenced by the supporting fighter-bombers, directed on to their various targets by a Noratlas transport which, converted into an airborne command post, was circling over the battle area, its passage marked by black clusters of antiaircraft shell bursts as the Egyptians tried in vain to shoot it down.

  Once they had overcome the initial resistance after some fierce hand-to-hand fighting, the French quickly reorganized and pushed on towards their objectives, the bridges across the Canal’s interior basin. The eastern bridge had been destroyed by air attack, but the paras assaulted the western bridge through heavy fire from Egyptian tanks, which were knocked out by fighter-bombers, and by 0900 it was in their hands at a cost of ten French casualties, opening the way for an Allied breakout from Port Said.

  The British paratroops, meanwhile, had succeeded in overcoming all resistance at Gamil in forty-five minutes, thanks to the devastating effect of their air support, and during the hours that followed they cleared the area around the airfield and began to push eastwards into the outskirts of Port Said. The first phase of the assault on the Canal Zone was over.

  Chapter Four

  Twelve hundred miles south-east of Suez, as night fell on that Monday, a long convoy of vehicles wound its way down the coast road that led through Khorat towards the mountains that formed the age-old dividing line with Muramshir. The trucks and tanks that formed the convoy were Russian, but the men inside them were not.

  The troops crammed into the trucks sang as the vehicles jolted their way along the road, over a surface that grew progressively rougher as the route curved westwards, following the line of the mountains. The songs they sang were fierce and proud, the songs of desert tribesmen; songs of conquest and stirring deeds.

  Close to the head of the column, two officers sat in a GAZ-67B Fie
ld Car, behind an expressionless driver. The vehicle, the Russian equivalent of America’s famous jeep, was far from comfortable, as two extra seats had been wedged in, but the more senior of the two officers had insisted on using it in preference to a staff car; he wanted to appear just as much a fighting soldier as the men who followed him.

  In fact, General Mohammed Orabi had never fought anyone in his life. His entire military service had been spent in the personal bodyguard of the late Sultan of Khorat, who had discovered, too late, that Orabi was a devious and treacherous man. Orabi had personally led the coup that deposed the Sultan five years earlier, had personally cut his former master’s throat and had then enjoyed a good deal of sport with the Sultan’s six favourite wives until he tired of them and they, too, suffered a similar fate.

  After the coup, Orabi’s rise from lieutenant to general had been meteoric — accomplished, in fact, in one leap, cutting out the half-dozen ranks in between. Yet none of the men who had supported him in the coup begrudged his self-appointed advancement, for there was no disputing the fact that Mohammed Orabi was a natural leader of men, one of that breed who tend to rise to the surface under violent circumstances. It was not for nothing that, among Orabi’s prized personal belongings, there were portraits of Napoleon, Adolf Hitler and President Nasser.

  In the darkness, Orabi smiled to himself. Nasser, he thought, was a fool. He, Orabi, had known what the reaction of the British and French would be to the Egyptian seizure of the Suez Canal. But, as far as his plans for Khorat were concerned, the battle for control of the Canal could not have happened at a better time. Egypt was keeping the British and French occupied, while the Soviet Union’s action in crushing the Hungarian Uprising was keeping the United States occupied. What was about to happen in Muramshir would pass unnoticed by the rest of the world, at least until it was too late for anyone to intervene.