*
Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring had had a bad day. Such a very, very bad day indeed. Especially as it was to have been such a triumph. For the Reich. For the Führer. And for himself. On this day, of all days, when Germany so dearly needed a triumph.
On this day, 10th Anniversary of the Führer coming to power, Hermann Göring, the Führer’s second-in-command, old friend and comrade-in-arms, was scheduled to have opened his own address to the hand-picked capacity crowd of thousands inside Berlin’s grand Sportpalast at 11am precisely. From the state-of-the-art microphones of the Sportpalast, Hermann’s words were then to have been cabled under the city to State Radio’s awesome transmitters, thence broadcast live to every radio set in Germany, the Reich, and every short-wave receiver on the planet.
Already were the BBC blabbing about how Hermann’s speech had opened at 11am with the sound of muffled shouts, possibly an explosion, then how the live broadcast cut to music, the German State Radio announcer bleating about the ‘short delay’ which he then continued to announce every few minutes for the next hour! Even now were the British broadcasting ‘unconfirmed reports’ of the whole fiasco being caused by RAF bombers. Yet Hermann had the confirmed reports: Three RAF bombers at 11am precisely and in broad daylight! Over Berlin!! When Hermann had told the whole Reich the RAF would never even manage it by night. Then, with Reichsleiter Dr Goebbels scheduled to perform his own speech at 4pm, the Brits came BACK and did it again! An exact replay of the morning’s media disaster.
And all just when things were starting to go very clearly wrong in Russia. Just when the Nazi Party needed something to go right.
Now standing behind his desk, Hermann boiled at the clutch of his groveling subordinates summoned before him. Hermann, who had been a famous fighter pilot in the Great War, picked up off his desk and flung at them a recent issue of The Aeroplane, British aviation magazine of world renown – a full-colour picture of the day’s culprit upon its cover. Then one after the other he flung at them an issue of Flight magazine, a copy of the Daily Express, the Daily Mail and The Times.
On the precipice of giving these dilettantes in uniform a blasting from which they would never recover, Hermann held breath, and held back. He would not show them his fury. He would show them his greatness. And so began…
‘It makes me furious when I see the Mosquito. I turn green and yellow with envy. The British, who can afford aluminium better than we can, knock together a beautiful wooden aircraft that every piano factory over there is building, and they give it a speed which they have now increased yet again. What do you make of that?! There is nothing the British do not have. They have the geniuses and we have the nincompoops.’
Hermann had intended to be harsher with his minions. Yet his afternoon cocktail of bliss-inducing narcotics was already kicking in. ‘Let it be known,’ he said, ‘let it be official… Any of our fighter pilots who shoots down one Mosquito will from this moment forward be credited with two kills.’
*
In the Wingco’s office, Mick and Dave Matthews marched forward, saluted, announced reporting as ordered.
‘Morning, boys,’ said Bedfords. ‘Have a seat.’
They complied.
‘Both you blokes will be pleased to know you are to be awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. For your role in yesterday’s op. Congratulations.’
The pair glanced sideways at each other.
‘Squadron Leader Perry will be receiving a Bar.’
Dave Matthews chuckled slightly, though stifled it.
‘Meaning his second,’ shifted Bedfords. ‘DFC, that is. The investiture,’ he continued, ‘will take place on the airfield. Some time in the next few days.’
Dave Matthews sat up slightly. ‘Permission to speak, sir.’
‘Feel free.’
‘Well, beggin’ y’pardon, sir, an’ I am honoured to get this; I know what it means… But aren’t DFCs usually awarded, like, at the Palace? By the King n’that…’
‘Yes,’ Bedfords sat back, ‘correct as usual, Matthews, but we can’t film you there.’
‘Eh?’
‘They’ve got a crew from the RAF Film Unit coming out here. A real director and everything.’
Mick spoke up. ‘What about our navigators, sir?’
‘Sorry, Flight Lieutenant, but you blokes are stars of this show. And, as I’m sure you can imagine, this all comes from way higher than me. Way higher.’
Dave Matthews turned to Mick, a wry grin on his face. ‘Looks like we’re gunna be movie stars, mate.’
*
Three days later, the RAF Film Unit crew arrived: three large trucks, a catering van and a WAAF chauffeur-driven Humber. In front of some parked Mosquitos, they took an age to set up, the lighting equipment alone taking a whole hour until ‘The Director’ was satisfied.
This man was a Flight Lieutenant, a fine-featured young Brit in RAF battle-dress and peaked cap and rather stylish black enamel-framed glasses. He asked Perry, Mick and Matthews to forgive the fleeced leather flying jacket he also wore – being a non-flier himself – but there was in his job, he confessed, a great deal of sitting about on cold airfields. And it certainly was a cold day, and dark, Mick in only Number 1 Service Dress and gloves feeling if anything warmed up by the large and powerful film unit spotlights beaming everywhere.
When finally the cameras rolled and ‘Action’ was called, Perry, Mick and Matthews in turn had their name called, stepped forward, saluted, and had their ‘gong’ pinned beneath their wings patch by one Air Commodore Kennett, ‘Air Officer Commanding 8 Group, RAF Bomber Command’, who to Mick looked young for his high rank. Then came a handshake and quiet word with the officer, who turned out to be an Australian himself, a step back, a salute, and the next man’s name was called. When all three were done, over a loudspeaker came the call ‘Cut’, followed by a small round of clapping from the film crew and assorted onlookers after which cocoa was served from the side of the catering van. Just as Mick took his first sip the director’s voice came again over the loudspeaker.
‘Sorry, loves, but we had a hair in the gate. I wonder if we can possibly have all that once again. Terribly sorry…’
*
Dearest Dad
I hope you are well, my friend, and I assure you you can stop thanking me by now for the money I’ve been able to send home. (I’m just glad it’s been making some sort of difference for you and the kids.) Jo at St Joseph’s College next year! Mum would have loved that, especially as I bet she named him so as to give him a head-start at the entrance interview! But seriously, please pass on my happiest congratulations to him, such a good kid and smarter than I ever was. Which would not have been too hard but anyway. But stone the bloody crows an O’Regan playing Rugby Union? We’ll be run out of Railway Terrace!
From your last letter everyone else seems to be going well, even Bridie, which is a relief to hear because I’ve got some serious news for you all.
My dear father, I have never thought harder about any one thing in my entire life but though offered the choice of heading closer to home I’ll be staying here. In the UK. As for my reasons, well, there’s a few. To try and give you them I can only continue in our usual ‘shorthand’ so as to get past the censor.
What I am flying is no longer what’s on the mantlepiece. Though is of the same material as what’s on the mantlepiece. Which is good for more reasons than you can poke a stick at but chiefly as it can be turned out in any shed just like the one you and I know so well. Yes, with Pat O’Regan as foreman of work and no error.
Another reason is I now have the sort of responsibility I never imagined I would ever have, regarding other people, that is. One I work with closer than a Siamese twin is the type who makes you want to be the best you can, or even better, because he’s so seriously bloody good at what he does, and you want to be worthy of that. Plus he’s a real decent bloke. It’s strange, sorta like you might not even be mates in peacetime as you’ve nothing much in common but you sure d
o here.
Also, it is becoming clearer and clearer to me that I am now in a position, and I mean personally, to perhaps make more of a direct difference to this war than has been possible for any one person up till now. And as a result of one or two things that have happened over here I feel I need to.
And the flying, well it’s stumped me a few times how I could ever describe it to you but here goes. Remember that time when I was real REAL sick? Way back when it was just you and me and Mum. I had this shocker of a fever thing and I was sort of ‘seeing’ or dreaming things or something, we were never sure after. Anyway just as I first started to mend I told you how I’d been flying on a magic carpet clear as day and you said you believed every word of it, bless ya cotton socks. Remember? Well the flying… It’s like that. It truly is.
All my love to you, Dad, and please pass it on to the kids. Have enclosed a letter to them, and a special one to you-know-who.
Wishing you all the very best, my friend, and proud, as ever, to be your son,
Mick.
Pat O’Regan folded the letter. The boys in the front bar of the Lewisham Hotel had made him read it aloud, and not for the first time with his letters from the young’un they remembered so fondly. The publican spoke up first.
‘’E’s a good egg, that one.’
‘An’ no error,’ said another.
Pat sipped his beer, rolled a smoke a little too quickly, lit it; just doing any little thing helped keep back the tears. ‘I know,’ he managed. ‘Just that he could’ve come home.’
February 1943
London was grey. Very cold and very grey.
The Strand Palace, though, was warm and inviting, Mick having checked himself into the favoured London roost of Aussie aircrew – particularly in light of Jessop’s claim regarding the Savoy. His small hotel room was brightened, too, by the arrival of Feliks Brozek, now leading a squadron of the new single-engined fighter-bombers, something called the Typhoon. He had, in fact, come directly off an op an hour previous – ‘Direct, my friend’ – and Mick had offered him use of the room’s shower, which he accepted. He had brought ‘wodka’.
‘Why is it you have not yet poured?’ called the Pole as the water streamed.
‘I would drink with you, my friend,’ Mick smiled, complying.
‘Ahh, is good,’ released Brozek as he washed.
‘How’s the Typhoon?’ called Mick as he filled one small glass.
‘Is big and tough. Like Feliks. Except that I am small. How is Mosquito?’
‘Magic, mate.’ Mick filled another.
‘This I have heard. …You know this drink you pour is proof that God exists and wants us to be happy.’
Mick chuckled. ‘Well, proof that Poles exist, anyway…’
‘What is this?’ The shower cut off, a muscled arm drawing a towel into the recess. ‘Oregan is not good Catholic like Feliks?
‘My mother was,’ returned Mick, more quietly now the water merely dripped. ‘But m’dad… When he came home from the last war he… he became a…’
‘Atheist,’ pronounced Brozek.
‘Yeah, one o’them. So we never went to church…’
Brozek, trousered but with only the towel draped round his shoulders, now stepped out of the bathroom, Mick handing him one of the glasses.
‘Your health, my good friend,’ said Brozek.
‘And yours, mate.’
As they drained the glasses, Mick noticed the tattoo on the Pole’s upper right arm: a scull. About the size of a fist. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
Brozek peered down to it as he dragged the towel across the back of his neck. ‘Ah yes. From my squadron back in Polska. All of us we had one.’
‘How come?’
‘It means we do not fear death.’ He looked up at Mick. ‘For it is part of us…’ He re-donned his singlet, then his shirt, speaking as he buttoned it. ‘You seem different, my friend.’
‘I do?’
‘Older. Is common.’ He pulled on and began to button his battledress jacket. ‘But in God, Mike, you still believe, yes?’
‘I dunno… Do you?’
The Pole looked up, reached for and poured two more of the small glasses. ‘I believe in Feliks.’ He handed one to Mick, picked up his own, and raised it. ‘And I believe in you, Mike.’
Mick raised his glass. ‘Na zdrowie.’
Brozek shook his head singly. ‘Death to all who oppose us.’
‘Death,’ said Mick.
And their glasses were drained.
Tuesday, April 20, 1943
‘Bombs away.’
‘Close bomb doors.’
‘Bomb doors closed. Let’s go home, Jack.’
‘Steer course 270.’
‘Roger.’
On Adolf Hitler’s birthday, from the moment the map-board curtains had been drawn back in the briefing hall – TARGET: BERLIN – Mick knew this was another ‘media special’. From the moment he’d thumbed the release button for his bombs, he knew they were dead-on-target – in the windows of the city’s locomotive workshops. Yet he knew, to achieve this op’s ‘propaganda’ objective, as Hundleby had put it, all they really had to hit was Berlin, its rooftops now rushing closely beneath the Mossie.
Jack Fraser, eyes glued to his wristwatch, now craned aft to confirm their four 11-second delay-fused 500-pounders went off. ‘Detonation in 3. 2. 1… Blam.’ Fraser paused a moment. ‘Ohh, blam indeed. Oh, that’s amazing.’ Pausing yet another moment he then turned back forward, settled in his seat, clipped up, and lowered his fold-down navigation table to its work position in front of him. He confirmed on the map the next main German towns on their track back to the North Sea coast of Holland were Brandenburg, Stendal, Wolfsburg then the city of Hanover. These they would skirt to the north, south, north and north respectively so as to avoid the known anti-aircraft positions circled in red on the map.
By the time Mick saw the tracer of machine-gun fire coming up at them they’d been hit, something whizzing around inside the cockpit already thick with cordite smoke.
‘You ALRIGHT, Jack?!’ he yelled into the intercom, his seat harness straps strangely tightening.
Hand-held fire extinguisher at the ready, Fraser padded himself furiously for injuries. ‘Yes, I think so,’ he yelled back.
At this point Mick realised he was being lifted in his seat, his torso strangled up under his straps, and only then what was happening: Something had hit the gas inflator canister for the rubber dinghy on which he sat which was now inflating. Pulling the release pin for his seat straps so as not to be squeezed to death, his leather-helmeted head was now pushed up against the canopy roof of the cockpit. No longer able to reach his controls he reached for the dagger attached to his right flying boot. When he remembered he’d given it to Jacqueline. His head, neck and shoulders now jammed up against the perspex canopy, he felt the Mosquito lift into a subtle climb, climbing at least – he had it trimmed to do so ‘hands off’ – but this would expose them to a hail of ground-fire in no time.
Jack Fraser – pressed hard right of the cockpit by the inflating dinghy – felt for his own boot dagger, found it, grabbed it and stabbed, stabbed, stabbed at the tough yellow rubber.
Which burst.
And began to deflate, Mick lowering slowly but surely from the roof and back to his controls, whose twin handles he gripped, and eased forward, lowering the Mosquito to skim the rooftops once again. Reclipping his seat harness straps he flicked his intercom switch.
‘Jack… Thank you.’
Fraser had just begun breathing again. And only just. Now flicking his own intercom switch…
‘Any time, mate.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
July 1943
Bess Underwood loved the Lancaster; for a four-engined ‘heavy’, as they were known, it was a pleasure to fly: so modern technologically, so positive in its response to control, for an aircraft so huge just so sweet, so manoeuvrable in the air. Since March, she and her fellow ATA girls had been ferr
ying an apparently endless stream of them in from the Avro factory at Woodford, one girl per Lanc, flying them the hundred miles or so across England to the operational bomber stations of Lincolnshire. Which, Bess knew, could spell but one thing.
Every single one they delivered was to replace one that had not returned from Germany.
Since March, they were calling it the ‘Battle of the Rhur’: a maximum effort RAF bombing campaign targeting the Rhur Valley of western Germany, vast industrial powerhouse of the Reich. Steelworks, coke and synthetic oil plants, armaments factories… Cities like Essen, Gelsenkirchen, Düsseldorf and a score of others had been blasted every second night it seemed and the gen said the campaign was already proving successful in its flow-on effect on German war production. Yet Bess and her friends just kept delivering Lancs.
From the subtly ‘gulled’ span of its vast wings – two Merlin engines upon each, the Lanc was indeed a thing of powerful beauty: the elegant proportions and placement of its perspex front turret and bomb-aimer’s observation dome on its chin, the long ‘glass-house’ cockpit canopy, back along the fuselage to mid-upper turret dome and twin tail fins, tail gunner between them, the whole thing quite simply looked ‘right’, and did indeed ‘fly right’.
Over England.
Over Germany they were dying.
Bess’s first flight for the day was to Lincolnshire’s RAF Scampton, a ’drome she’d landed at goodness knows how many times before, but this day someone in flight planning or traffic control had fouled up, the result being critically overcrowded landing patterns, so unacceptable potential for collision over not only Scampton but over a few nearby alternates. Bess had lost two good friends already in such accidents, and was relieved when she was routed clear out of the area, and not for the first time, today to a grass field across The Wash – somewhere called Marham.
In her early days ferrying ‘heavies’ solo, she’d more than once had career RAF ground crew chiefs refuse to believe she’d been the pilot of the aircraft she’d just landed – Must be a chap hiding somewhere still inside the bomber. Yet these days the ATA girls were getting famous – One had made the front cover of Picture Post magazine – and after Bess had landed Mick heard the wolf-whistling from quite a way across the field.
Ghosts of the Empire Page 27
