As far as he could make out from his own best reading of the official documents central to today’s op, there were no armed Resistance forces in position around the Amiens Prison… None. Yet it was bollocks that he had been under orders to recite at the mission briefing. For crew morale, said the orders. In fact, Dom had seen no evidence that the Resistance in the Amiens area, or inside the prison for that matter, had the slightest idea of today’s op. Nor indeed had Dom seen evidence that any ‘executions’ were imminent.
One thing Dom had gleaned from his intel sources, however, was that Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, recently appointed by Hitler as inspector of his ‘Atlantic Wall Invasion Defences’, was at this moment on a personal inspection tour of invasion defences in the Pas-de-Calais region. Additionally, the Field Marshal was scheduled for a planning meeting with Hitler himself in the coming week.
*
At better than 350 miles per hour over the pure white French countryside, Dave Matthews could see they were flying so low to it they whipped up snow.
Though taking off and grouping up over England had been pretty bloody hairy, the shitty weather had cleared over the Channel, they’d crossed it low, climbed to a few thousand over the French coast to avoid flak, then dropped right back down on the deck again. Now just a bit ahead out left Dave could see O’Regan’s three Mossies leaving trails of fine powdered snow in their wakes. Sometimes it even sparkled a bit when the late morning sun broke through: silvery dust against the leaden-grey snow clouds still on the horizon.
On their all-but-final leg before the target now, soon ahead they’d see the town of Albert, the first wave probably over it this instant, then a sweeping turn to starboard and ahead would be the long, straight road to Amiens, just before it, the prison by the road on the right.
But ahead Dave spied a line of dark grey vehicles against the snow. Thumbing his machine-gun button – tracers ON target – he squeezed his trigger finger, his Mosquito’s quad-cannon thundering. At least one German Army truck blown to pieces, as he flew through the smoke Dave knew it.
He had been born for this.
*
North-east of Amiens, Feliks Brozek orbited 198 Squadron at 2000 feet, their Typhoons this morning allocated as fighter cover for whatever those Mosquitos were doing down below… It made no bluddy sense to Feliks; it was a prison. And they were late; on Feliks’s cockpit clock it said 12:02. Yet now he saw the first explosions…
From the south wall of the place shot a great fan of black onto the snow outside the prison, by the look of it buildings just inside blasted too. Then another fat, black plume outside the north wall, more mushrooms of smoke sprouting inside.
Then he saw three Mosquitos whipping over the prison east to west, with 11-second delay fuses standard Feliks counting down: 3, 2, 1 and BLAM, the prison’s east wing was no longer. But now two more Mossies whipped over north to south and curved, curved, curved to starboard round to the west and 2, 1, BLAM went the north-west corner of the prison wall.
Yet now Feliks’s blood boiled: A lone Mosquito heading north, a fighter on its tail, Feliks transmitted…
‘Polska 2 and 3, Polska Leader. Mossie heading north of prison, bandit on 6. TAKE IT OUT.’
Feliks then heard the tranmission in his own headphones, a voice urgent, definite…
‘All aircraft Sculthorpe Wing. Red – Red – Red. Repeat. Red – Red – Red.’
Then only static.
Yet now Feliks saw them…
You couldn’t miss them against the snow…
Human figures scattering like fleas in all directions.
Beyond the prison walls.
*
Dearest Mick
Merry Christmas to you from your loving sister, Gezza.
As you will know by now, Bridie has not written to you for some time. The truth is I have tried many times over this last year to write a spoken letter for her the way we used to but Bridie has not been in a good way. Dad said not to tell you this as you have enough on your mind with all you are doing but I simply could not keep it bottled up inside me any more, Mick. I just hope so very much that you will forgive me for telling you now.
Bridie had great difficulties in her first year at school but then after your letter came to Dad at the beginning of this year about you not coming home things went from bad to worse. They said at the school they could not control her and then she started staying at home. Of course we all had to keep going and Dad has to work so Bridie had to be minded by Mrs Plunket. Except she kept getting out all the time and Mrs Plunket was in a state. The doctor came but whatever he said to Dad we still don’t know. What we do know is Dad is so very sad but keeps a brave face and we all do our level best to help.
Bridie has always been so dear to us but since the change in her we have realised how dear. Now she hardly says a thing and for the first time I can remember we are not looking forward to Christmas.
One nice thing that happened during the year was when we all went one Saturday morning to watch Jo playing rugby. It turns out he is really good at it and what a glorious day it was. All those beautiful boys in blue and crimson stripes versus all those beautiful boys in blue and white stripes. Jo is 15 now and is doing very well at his studies too. He hopes to do Medicine and they reckon he’ll get a scholarship.
I am 13. As for me, more than anything in the world I would like to find a way of keeping brothers at home just playing footie against each other and being with their sisters. Jo says that will be a brand new profession but he will back me all the way.
Sending you all my love, Mick, and Bridie’s too because I know she loves you more than all the rest of us put together. But I suspect you have always known that.
Geraldine.
*
Back at RAF Hunsdon the death of Peter Rickard and his navigator was confirmed a week later: their crashed Mosquito reported north of Amiens, shot down by an FW190. Additionally, another crew of 464 Squadron had been shot down on their way back to the French coast – German anti-aircraft fire. This pair Mick barely knew, new boys both, one killed, one now a prisoner of war. At least that was something.
Receiving a summons to the office of the Air Officer Commanding 140 Wing, Mick, Stark and Dave Matthews arrived to find no Commanding Officer to salute – only Crispin Jessop who promptly stood and saluted them.
‘My dear sirs,’ he announced, ‘you will be pleased to know that you, Squadron Leader O’Regan, and you, Squadron Leader Stark, are to be awarded additional Bars to your DFCs. For our recent op.’
Stark angled to Mick. ‘That makes three for you now, doesn’t it?’
‘That it does. Congratulations to you, mate.’
Stark shrugged. ‘I was supposed to knock down the east wall…’
When all were seated, Mick put the question to their Adjutant. ‘Any news on a replacement for Rickard?’
‘Sorry,’ smiled Jessop. ‘You’re it for the moment, sir. In fact,’ his smile widened, ‘you’ve just been promoted. To Wing Commander. As of this moment, you are the Air Officer Commanding 140 Wing, RAF 2nd Tactical Air Force.’
Once they had all congratulated him, it suddenly struck Mick: ‘What about Flight Lieutenant Matthews?’
Jessop grinned. ‘Well, sir, I must confess to wishing I were him…’
‘Sorry?’ said Matthews.
Jessop turned to him: ‘You have just been posted to 616 Squadron, Flight Lieutenant. Flying jets. The Gloster Meteor. Posting effective immediately.’
Never had Mick seen Dave’s freckles looking quite so orange as they did at this moment. ‘I think I wish I was you, mate,’ said Mick. ‘Though I guess that spells so-long for us…’
Dave Matthews smiled. ‘Here’s to the future, mate.’
April 1944
‘His name is Werner Gruber,’ she said.
Dom Hundleby’s ‘intelligence contact’ was the Intel Officer for 609 Squadron, based at RAF Thorney Island on the English Channel coast opposite Normandy. Having flown himself and
Dom down for a private and very specific conversation with her, Mick’s first impression of Section Lieutenant Jillian Brown was of a slim and coldly attractive WAAF smoking a cigarette.
‘Gruber…’ said Mick.
‘Gestapo,’ she said, writing the name on a slip of paper and passing it to him. ‘He headed the Saint-Saëns office about when you were there.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Holland, at last report. Anyway, that’s your man. And you didn’t hear it from me.’
‘If I was here I’d say thank you,’ nodded Mick.
‘And I’d say “All part of the service”,’ she replied.
‘They do breakfast here?’
‘No idea,’ she said. ‘I never eat.’
Mick left Dom to chat with her; apparently they’d known each other at Cambridge.
*
It was in the dining hall of the RAF station that Mick met and talked with Daniel Quinn. Since their last meeting back on the Dieppe raid, the bloke had evidently got a grip and done well. And had clearly seen a scrap or two: With a pearl-coloured scar on one side of his face and similar on his hands, he was now leading 609 Squadron – Typhoons.
Walking together past some hangars out towards Mick’s Mosquito, Quinn motioned towards a clutch of pilots beside a Typhoon.
‘My right-hand man,’ said Quinn. ‘And just quite possibly the best pilot in the air force… Flight Lieutenant Colin Stone DSO, DFC and Bar.’ Quinn grinned. ‘Or just “Stoney”.’
As they neared the group, Mick saw the bloke expounding on some point to some obviously junior pilots, who clearly hung on his every word. Passing them, Mick saw the veteran pause a moment and seem to fix him with one eye, and with a very slight but knowing smile before returning to his lesson.
Bidding Quinn all the best and rejoined by Hundleby, Mick took them off over the vast and astounding pre-Invasion build-up of Thorney Island – massed transport aircraft, tanks, trucks, barges. With the Mosquito’s wheels up he patted the pocket of his flying jacket, within it a piece of paper. A deadman’s name upon it.
Monday, June 5, 1944
The month of May had been a busy one for the Wing; from RAF Gravesend in Kent they flew ‘Night Intruder’ ops: single aircraft sorties to attack the German airfields sending up night-fighters to attack the RAF bomber streams, some over Germany, but mainly over France – to where the Allied bombing offensive had very clearly been switched. One Mosquito per German airfield per night, each armed with two 500-pound bombs and two long-range fuel tanks mounted under the wings. Over nearby France, the extra fuel gave each Mossie what had been termed ‘loiter time over target’, on one occasion Mick receiving a green light ‘okay to land’ signal from a German control tower, to which he’d responded by turning on his own landing lights, lining up on final approach and then blasting the fuckers. Then on the way home low over France, as per standing orders for the Wing, he used up his cannon shells blasting anything that moved; if it moved at night, it was German, waste it. Tonight, however, 140 Wing was on stand-down and Mick was glad to have been able to grant them a well-deserved night off. Besides, the ground crew were doing something to the Mossies – strangely, to all of them at once. With all quiet across the ’drome, Mick thought to take a stroll round the hangars and see what, then maybe go for a beer.
Saluted by two rather animated ground crew members on their way back from the hangars to their barracks, Mick was struck by their frankly weird appearance: Even in the dark they looked like they’d just been tarred and feathered…
‘What are you two clowns up to?’ he demanded.
One of them smiled. ‘Coom with us, suh.’
Entering the floodlit interior of one of the hangars, Mick could see the pair were indeed covered in a mess of what looked like black and white paint. With no word they simply pointed to the line of Mosquitos under the floodlights…
On their upper and lower wing surfaces and right the way round the fuselage, Mick’s Mosquitos were painted in thick black and white stripes. ‘What the fuck are these?’ he gasped.
‘Invasion stripes, suh,’ said the smiling one. ‘T’make y’easily visible to Allied ground forces, suh.’
Then Mick heard it: the excited voice echoing in the mid-distance outside the hangar – It sounded like its owner was running, and this way, just as Stark bowled into the hangar, panting heavily.
‘It’s ON, sir! Tonight! The Invasion, sir! It’s ON! D-Day!’
0300 Hours, Tuesday, June 6, 1944
As Mick flew over the English Channel towards Normandy, there was but one word for what he saw below.
An armada.
A stunning armada of ships of all types and sizes from horizon to far horizon in the bright moonlight, and lit orange too by the flashes of RAF bombs impacting all up and down the Normandy shore.
These flashes illuminated also the countless ‘Invasion-striped’ transport aircraft underneath which Mick flew – DC3s carrying U.S. and British parachute troops – and whole fleets of them towing giant gliders, also invasion-striped. Though once again Mick looked ahead.
Normandy.
Far from the Pas-de-Calais.
And in a single moment he understood the Amiens raid completely…
Normandy! The greatest amphibious invasion in the history of the world was taking place at Normandy, far, far south-west of the Pas-de-Calais! Operation Overlord was its name, so Hundleby had briefed the Wing, their mission over it this night a very simple one: Inland from the beaches, road and rail traffic and junctions, bridges, convoys, anything in and around the towns of Argentan, Caen, Lisieux, Saint Lo, anything that moved, blast it; slash the arteries of German reinforcements to the beaches where, at first light, Allied amphibious divisions would storm ashore.
0459 Hours
On the bridge of the British Royal Navy battle-cruiser HMS Belfast, Captain ‘Bertie’ Hallam smiled at the sight of his ship’s two forward gun turrets sweeping round towards the Normandy shore, coming to rest at required azimuth, each turret’s triple barrels then lifting to required elevation like the fingers of a god. He knew the Belfast’s two stern turrets would have just done identically, their 6-inch high-explosive shells loaded and ready, so too the ship’s 4-inch turrets on the starboard side. In unison with every other gun in the whole battle fleet.
This, he well knew, would likely never be seen again; since the Americans entered the war, the way of the future seeming one of aircraft carriers slogging it out so far apart they never saw each other. Yet here Bertie was, glad to be here at the end. Part of this.
He peered up at the Belfast’s bridge clock. As it struck 0500 the ship’s electric claxon horn sounded. And Bertie gave the command he had looked forward to for a very long time indeed…
‘Open Fire!’
His Number 1 Officer seconded: ‘Open Fire!’
His Gunnery Officer: ‘SHOOT!’
And with 107 other warships the Belfast sent up the fires of hell to come down on Hitler’s ‘Atlantic Wall’.
*
Paris
The news reached the brothel by mid-morning. The girls were chirping like birds: L’Invasion! En Normandie! Ce matin!!
Oberstleutnant Dieter Brandt felt certain it must be a ruse; surely the invasion would come in the Pas-de-Calais; there the shortest sea-crossing for the Allies, also its proximity to Dover allowing far better air-cover for their naval forces. And what was more, their bombing of the whole Pas-de-Calais sector had rendered it Danté’s Inferno for the past three months! Yet whatever the truth might or might not be, Dieter knew he would be recalled to his fighter unit within hours – all leave was being cancelled – and so promised himself one last half-hour of pleasure while he still had chance.
This one was the talk of the cafés of La Place de la Sorbonne. Highly recommended and a real beauty too, they said. Intense, so had said Leutnant Mueller. Yet Dieter was no animal like Mueller. He would treat her well.
Having requested her specifically and paid in full f
or her at the counter, numbered door key in hand, Dieter climbed the stairs; no time to waste. On the first floor he found the door corresponding to the number on the key tag, placed the key in the lock, turned it and opened the door.
On entering, the first thing he saw was a suitcase.
The last thing he saw was the black dagger spinning towards him through the air.
*
Blessedly no sign of German fighters the whole day so far, Mick and Jack Fraser refuelled and rearmed at Gravesend in the late afternoon. It was here they got the word from groundcrew: The Allies had established a bridgehead, thank Christ… All along the codenamed invasion beaches – ‘Gold’, ‘Juno’, ‘Sword’ and ‘Omaha’ – the Brits, Americans and Canadians had taken their objectives and were now coming ashore en masse. The Americans had taken a pasting at Omaha and still they’d made it, the fear now being of German counter-attack, a thing no one did better than the Germans according to one 464 Squadron mechanic who’d survived North Africa.
On their fourth sortie of the day – Mick prayed it would be their last – he made a personal vow to himself to recommend Jack Fraser for a medal; the bloke had performed since midnight like a man possessed. Though Mick knew it was just Jack fulfilling his single, original wish: finish the war. And after so much radar and electronics he did it this day with the ‘Mark 1 Eyeball’ on plentiful ground targets. In fact, Jack seemed to have found his true calling…
‘THERE!’ he thrust, his gloved hand pointing out to port across Mick.
Mick saw it very clearly: in the day’s lengthening shadows down a long, straight highway heading south-west out of the Pas-de-Calais towards the Normandy beaches, a convoy of tanks, trucks and armoured vehicles. Coming from the Pas-de-Calais, they could only be Germans and, by the dust they were kicking up, were moving at top speed.
‘He we go,’ said Mick, banking the Mosquito into a shallow dive to port and lining up on the highway. Thumbing and squeezing his machine gun and cannon triggers simultaneously, he saw his tracers rip long, right up the road, human figures flailing into ditches on either side. Only as the Mosquito pulled out of the dive did his fire cut.
Ghosts of the Empire Page 31
