‘We’re out,’ said Mick.
‘Ammo?’ put Fraser.
‘Gone. And so are we. Call in their position, Jack.’
‘Roger,’ he said, and got on the radio.
*
‘Message for you, sir.’
On the bridge of the HMS Belfast, Bertie took the slip of paper from his Number 1.
‘We have a new target, gentlemen,’ he said, and handed the slip to his Gunnery Officer.
This officer whipped up a telephone receiver. ‘Fire Control, Bridge here. New target. Co-ordinates to follow…’
Already could Bertie see his triple-barrel turrets swing into action on the bow.
*
Even over the noise of his BMW gunned flat-out down the highway, Klaus Steinhoff heard the evil, grinding whistle of the heavy artillery shells boring in. Then came the shattering explosions, though somewhere behind now; leaving the convoy in his dust, Klaus had had the bike flat-out since the air attack; in the sidecar close by him, Soldat Beck was hit bad.
And in the head.
Tuesday, June 13, 1944
It was a warm night at Gravesend. After a week of rough weather since D-Day, the waters beside the airfield leading out into the Channel were near mirror still. With no op for the Wing tonight – their first night off since D-Day and a status triple-checked by Mick since sundown – he now sat in the dark with Hundleby looking out at the water, an aircraftman having brought them mugs of tea from his tent nearby to their spot on the grass.
Mick sipped his brew. ‘What’ll you do after the war, Dom?’
‘Oh, back to Cambridge, I expect.’
‘What were you studying?’
‘History.’ Hundleby chuckled. ‘I study it, you make it.’
‘Eh?’
‘History, old chap. A little thing you’ve been making of late.’
‘S’pose so… As have you.’
‘You’re too kind, my friend… What about you, Michael? After the war…’
Mick held his response a moment. ‘I’ve decided to finish it at home. The war, that is.’
‘Yes,’ Hundleby sat up slightly, ‘apparently you’ve the option. Take it, old chap.’
‘It’s m’little sister,’ said Mick. ‘She’s ill.’
‘Anything serious?’
‘Yes… It’s something mental, apparently.’
‘Right. When d’y’go, then?’
‘Dom… I’ve got one more mission that’s important me.’
‘…Ah yes,’ breathed Hundleby.
‘And until then, there’s something I need you to keep a very close eye on for me, intel-wise.’
‘Anything.’
‘The progress of the invasion inland: I need you to let me know the minute they liberate a certain town.’
‘Name it.’
‘Saint-Saëns.’
Hundleby sat up bolt upright. ‘Good Lord, what’s that?! … Look.’ He pointed out across the water.
Mick saw what looked like an incoming aircraft trailing fire, the light of it reflected on the still water in between. Now he caught the engine sound – and one like no other he had ever heard: a droning, ugly sort of throb. Which grew steadily louder, the light growing nearer, its reflection now vivid on the water then lighting up the green grass all around Mick as low overhead it flew. He felt his eardrums would burst with its tearing noise as he spun to see its flame already disappearing fast on the inland horizon, this craft trailing fire.
‘What in the name of Sweet Jesus was that?!’ he loosed.
As Dom watched it go, he answered with nothing but bleak certainty in his voice.
‘A Revenge Weapon.’
July 1944
Eindhoven, Holland
The SS Gruppenführer wore the Iron Cross between the white insignia points of his tight, black collar. Another on his grey tunic chest. This officer had held Werner Gruber at attention for a long time before his desk, on one side of which rested his cap, the white ‘death’s head’ of the SS bold upon its black rim. Standing before it for so long, Werner felt as if the scull’s black eye sockets were staring at him. Yet now the SS officer drew a hand back across his close-cropped white hair, slowly pushed back his leather chair, rose from it, just as slowly rounded the desk, and stood before Werner.
‘Well, Gruber,’ he said, so close that Werner could smell the polish on his knee-length boots. ‘You really have done some amazing work.’
Werner faltered. ‘…Herr Gruppenführer?’
In a flash the man slapped Werner across the face. Slapped him hard. And let the pain sink in before he continued.
‘I suspect, Gruber, that the British would even now like to award you their Victoria Cross… The Americans, their Congressional Medal of Honour.’
‘I do not understand, Herr Gruppenführer.’
‘No, Gruber. No, you apparently do not.’ The officer turned and looked out the window of his office. ‘Since you took command of the Gestapo here in Eindhoven, you have been assuring us that the British secret services have been answering our fake transmissions to them as if genuine. For the past two years, apparently… Something which, across the entire Third Reich, has been happening only in Holland. Miraculous. Only here. On your watch. Miraculous, indeed, for Werner Gruber. But then, last month,’ his focus shot back to Werner, ‘the British quite abruptly stop answering our transmissions. Or, as any fool could see, stop playing along with us. Then their Invasion of the Reich promptly takes place. And precisely where we do not expect it. What, Gruber, do you make of that?’
Werner only swallowed.
‘I will tell you what I make of that, Gruber: That you have tortured and killed a lot of British agents and Dutch folk while Germany was duped. That your “successes” here were bogus. And kept our intelligence services believing they held the upper hand over the Allies. While they did not. As proven by the fact that Allied intelligence kept us holding our forces in the Pas-de-Calais for an invasion that would never come. Except elsewhere. Which it did.
‘We would very much like to shoot you, Gruber – It is my personal belief that you should go down in history as the man who lost Germany The War. Yet we cannot shoot you as that would send a signal to the British that we know they have duped us. This we cannot allow. For, even despite your iconic blunder, we must at least try to dupe the Allies back from this point forwards: to feed back upon them this fatal sense of false security they nutured within us via you.
‘So, as we cannot shoot you, we are sending you to nowhere. Nowhere, Denmark. There, Gruber, you will be forgotten.’
August
Bess Underwood hoped with her entire soul he would walk in; she had sought him and found him here once before – on that perfect day. All the dark blue uniforms of the Boomerang Club around her right now, just like his, she prayed his would emerge from between any two of them; why shouldn’t it?
Bess had come to a realisation about herself. And what she had realised was that, until now, she had been incapable of love. In her life until now she had proven eminently capable of so many things. And every stage of her stellar track record had taken the form of a struggle she had won. Always a fight. A fight to win. And she was a fighter. Who won because others lost. Bess Underwood had always triumphed… Though never in love. And had now realised why.
Because the very essence of love was surrender.
A thing of which she had never been capable. Until now. If only he would walk in.
…If only he would walk in.
*
‘We have received word from our contact,’ said Hundleby. ‘From the remarkable Miss Brown.’
Mick looked up. ‘And the word is?’
‘Aarhus.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A town.’
‘Where?’
‘Denmark. Where your man Gruber heads the local Gestapo HQ in the college buildings of the Aarhus University. New appointment, apparently…’
‘Well,’ said Mick. ‘It’s going to be his la
st.’
*
As he rose in the lift Crispin Jessop felt happy on this the first proper leave he’d taken in four years; he had a few drinks in him this evening and thought to mix it with a few Aussies…
What he saw, though, when the lift door drew back was the Boomerang Club’s Doric columned room looking sadly empty.
You couldn’t miss the girl; an ATA lovely by the look of it, and all by herself in the corner, the single other soul on her side of the room an aged gent mopping the floor.
Crispin made his way towards the reading table, toying with a few journals laid out on it before directing a cordial smile of acknowledgement in the girl’s direction. From her slightly run eye makeup, he could see that she had been crying. Focusing openly on her now he removed his spectacles, and spoke quietly.
‘I wonder if you might permit me to be of some assistance to you, miss…’
‘Thank you,’ she breathed, ‘yet I don’t see how. …Decent of you to offer.’
‘What’s the matter?’ he said gently.
She dabbed a small white handkerchief to the corner of one eye. ‘Thank you, but I honestly don’t see how talking about it will help.’
‘But, my dear,’ he smiled, ‘that’s the funny thing; it often does. …May I?’ He motioned to a nearby chair. Receiving her consent, he sat, though at a polite distance. ‘…Follows no logic but it helps anyway. Just to talk.’
She looked up at his eyes. They were kind. ‘I let someone go,’ she said. ‘When I should have fought to keep him. If I’d only done so… Y’see…’ her face lowered, ‘y’see there’s nothing I can’t do…’
Her tears now rolled.
Crispin drew a folded handkerchief from his tunic, handed it to her. ‘Looks like you could use “industrial strength”, m’dear.’
She accepted it. ‘Thank you.’ And blew her nose.
Crispin paused as she composed herself a few degrees. ‘My dear, this someone… If you’d care to share with me a few details about him, I could find him for you. Believe me, I’m an expert…’
‘No,’ she came back. ‘If there’s one thing I must learn to do from now on… I must learn to admit defeat.’
He considered her for a moment. And beamed as the words rose up within him…
‘Good SHOW,’ he released. ‘…Courage is what you’re made of, miss… And I do hereby request you come and be defeated with me at the Bar of the Savoy. This instant.’
‘Is that an order, sir?’
‘’Fraid so,’ he smiled.
‘Then I gladly accept.’ She put out her hand. ‘I’m Bess.’
He took it. ‘I used to be Crispin Jessop.’
*
They talked until the Bar of the Savoy closed, then strolled down by the River.
Bess felt better for being with him. A matinee idol he wasn’t, yet there was something lovely about him. He was a good man. And his sincerity… It was darling.
‘I always wanted to fly,’ he mused. ‘But my eyes…’
‘I could take you with me,’ she said.
He spun to her in the dark. ‘Really?!’
‘I’m Bess Underwood,’ she declared, ‘and there’s nothing I cannot do.’
‘Then I’m your man,’ he smiled.
She smiled back. ‘I like the sound of that…’
At which moment Crispin caught the oddest noise. A droning. Thick and heavy on the air, a gutteral, buzzing drone now echoing back off the blacked-out buildings nearest.
He sensed quick-shifting shadows all about them, then saw in the sky what was casting them: coming from the east, a streak of orange flame. Yet it doused, as did the sound.
Now only a soft, rising whistle.
With its ring of golden shock-wave to the heavens, the blast was seen and heard across London, as were several others that night.
Though never by the vapourised.
September
DERE MIKOL
THIS IS BRIDEE
THAY SED I WOZ SIK
I DON THINK I WOZ
I JUS COODN DO NUFN NO MOR WIV U NOT BEEN HEER AN NEVA CUMN
BUT NOW WEEV GOT YA LETER SAYN U R CUMN HOME ITS LIKE I COODN BREEV AN NOW I CAN AGEN
IT IS MARVLUS
U WIL B OW BIG BRUVA AGEN AN WEEL C U EVREE DAE JUS EVN TORKN OR EVN JUS DOON NUFN WIL B MARVLUS COS WEEL B DOON IT TGEVA !
DAD IS HAPEE EVREE DAE AN E IS REELEE AN TRUF I NO
SMILN ORL THE TIME
WEN U R BAK HOME IT WIL B BETA THN ENEEFN
BETA THN WEN THE SUN CUMS UP OR WEN IT RAYNS
BETA THN THE STARS WEN SUMTOMS THER NOT THER BUT THEN THAY AR AGEN !
BETA THN THE SKY
LUV U 2 PEESES MIKE
AN LOOK I CAN RITE CARN I !
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tuesday, October 31, 1944
‘At-ten – SHUN!’
Mick walked up onto the dais to address the Wing.
‘Right, you all know today’s target: Gestapo Headquarters, Aarhus, Denmark… I want this place blown apart. Blown off the map. I want it done efficiently, accurately, completely. I want these jokers dead… This war’s gunna go on till we take Berlin. Between now and that day I want every Gestapo king-pin and underling across Occupied Europe to know what we did today. And as a result to live in bloody fear. Which is precisely what they’ve instilled in the people of Europe these past five, long years. And how they’ve controlled them. With fear… Well from this day onwards the Gestapo’ll be eating it. Every morning, fear for bloody breakfast. With a bit of luck they might pack it in early…
‘You blokes’ve made a few headlines already – that’s how war is now – and you’ll be making headlines today, my friends. As a Wing effort, it’s an international effort. As for me I don’t mind telling you I want the world to know that Australians were part of that effort and that they came from the bottom of the bloody world to do it. …The New Zealanders even further. So good luck to you all and see you on the airfield. Dismissed.’
‘At-ten – SHUN!’
*
Speeding low over the farming plains of Denmark, Jack Fraser from Tuncurry saw Danes. More than a couple making the ‘V for Victory’ sign. Yet, if he survived the war and he probably would now, there’d been one sight he knew he would long remember: a horse and cart. And what looked like an old gent in a beret getting down off it. Snapping to attention. And saluting as the Mosquito ripped past.
Mick knew it was Jack’s last op; he’d done his required number plus a few. The Wing’s new Adjutant had already done the paperwork – Jessop had been last reported on leave, enquiries still pending. In any case, Jack would be staying in England for the duration, but on the technical side of things now. Mick flicked his intercom switch…
‘So, mate. What’ll Peace bring for you?’
‘Back to my studies, my friend.’ Jack smiled. ‘I might even take a drink.’
‘And back to your Dot, eh?’
‘Yep. Back to the little woman. …Besides, to be honest I don’t really want another pilot; not after you…’
Mick chuckled. ‘I wasn’t that bad, was I?’
‘No, my friend,’ said Jack. ‘You were quite the opposite… Quite the opposite.’
Leading the third and final wave of the attack, they were passing over the outskirts of Aarhus now, whipping under a line of high-tension wires across their path, a pyre of black smoke directly ahead.
*
Werner Gruber was dazed out of his mind. The enemy bombers had come in so fast there’d been no air-raid alert. Though, bleeding from his ears, he knew he had to get out, out of the building, so staggered and almost fell down the stairs to its main entrance hall.
‘THERE!’ thrust Jack.
At just past noon, the day dark with low, heavy cloud, directly ahead Mick saw lights on in the university building to which he had personally had 464 Squadron assigned. Seeing people rushing this way and that in the lit windows, ‘ Bombs away,’ he called, the Mosquito skimming over the roof of th
e building, as it did, flying through pieces of paper floating in the air, some burning.
His eardrums shattered, Werner Gruber could hear nothing, only see. And what he now saw before him, framed in the blown-open grand entrance to the building, was a shape like a giant, black truncheon pointed in his direction, slowly rotating round its own axis as it loomed larger, and larger. Not touching the sides of the doorway the underside of its bullet-shaped nose shallowly skimmed the hall’s marble floor, the bomb’s nose now lifting, its tail fins still rotating as on it came. It hit Werner in the stomach, and kept going.
Across the surface of the marble floor Werner saw his own body cut off from the waist down, legs splayed as if running, so knew the bomb had not yet exploded. In the endless seconds that followed, he saw his own blood creeping across the white marble floor towards him, nearly touching his face as the incendiary flash of the bomb turned the dark liquid to ruby, then to bright red.
Werner’s lips burnt first, then the hair in his nostrils, then his eyelashes sizzled, then his eyelids.
His last earthly awareness was of trying to scream.
*
Berlin
In the ward of the rehabilitation hospital, Soldat Beck, having recovered from surgery, was out of bed, shaved and back in uniform. Though his black hair had not yet grown over the long line of stitches down one side of his head. Klaus Steinhoff sat on the chair beside him, his friend’s young face still as ruggedly handsome as ever; those big, dark brown eyes of his – placid like a cow’s, Klaus had always thought. Yet the life had gone from them.
The woman, some sort of hospital helper it seemed, kept harping on…
‘Yes, they’re teaching our brave boy to speak again, aren’t they.’ She touched Beck’s cheek with the back of her hand. In his eyes, only the vaguest reflex. ‘ Some even sound like they’re singing! The doctor here is a wonderful man: They’re calling him the Maestro…’
On the wall close by, Klaus saw the illustrated diagram of a face towards which Beck’s chair was pointed: a ‘laughing’ clown-girl face, the mouth in an overtly square shape, the eyes above it wide and round. It resembled to Klaus a frozen moment of terror before being hit by a truck. Yes, he could see what it was intending: mouth all open in a specific ‘sound’ shape, eyes echoing, all about getting the patient to react, to copy, to make specific sounds again one by one.
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