‘Now come on,’ said the woman gesturing towards it, looking back to Beck, then back to the diagram. ‘Let’s do it again, shall we? Just like the doctor showed you.’
Beck’s eyes like a tentative child’s, they lifted to it, the gentle sound coming out of his mouth.
‘Ha…’
‘That’s right,’ flowed the woman, ‘that was very good. And again… Come on now, there’s a good boy…’
‘Haaa.’
‘And…’ She wafted her hand as if conducting him.
‘Haaaaa.’
‘And we put it all together and what do we get?’
Beck looked at her. ‘Ha, ha, ha.’
She touched him on the arm: ‘That was so very good, now wasn’t it. What a very good boy we are.’ She looked back to Klaus. ‘It’s marvellous, isn’t it! They even had the film cameras in here last week! From our Ministry of Information, to film the doctor’s work to show the German People all their government is doing for our wonderful boys. All that is being done for them. For this young man, such a blessing.’
For moments Klaus could only stare at her. Until finally his own words issued. ‘This… This to you is a blessing?’
‘Well, yes…’ She faltered, as if unable to comprehend him momentarily, yet continued: ‘And you see? It’s sort of a joke, too: And laughter is the best medicine…’ She indicated the diagram once more. ‘Don’t you see?’
Klaus looked at it a final time, then back to the woman: ‘You people are fucking monsters.’
At first it seemed his words didn’t register with her, then her face struck a look as if choked.
Yet Klaus was already up and gone.
On the street outside, he put on his helmet, goggles and gloves, straddled his motorcycle, checked his fuel, stepped on the kick-starter.
Riding as quickly as he dared along the swept clear streets between the bombed and ruined building shells of Berlin, he headed for the highway leading west out of the city. The highway that would take him directly west…
Towards the Allied lines.
He would surrender to the Americans.
*
In the Boomerang Club to send home a last pay before heading home himself, at his Wing Commander’s rank Mick noted the amount was now a pleasing one indeed; Wingco – the equivalent of an army Lieutenant-Colonel – not bad for age 25, he conceded, not bad at all, though some blokes had made it higher. Still, he’d done what he’d determined to do one fatal morning back at Evans Head: risen through the ranks, sent home more and more money to his family with each rise, and he’d survived – survived to see it make a difference to their lives. And now he was heading home to them, to a Mosquito Operational Training Unit at Bankstown if all went to plan. Then at war’s end he’d knock on Qantas Empire’s door with his gongs in hand. Yet now, with a few days’ leave owing before boarding a ship Sydney-bound, he would without delay be flying across to France. There he would make his own way to a town called Saint-Saëns. And to a certain farmhouse just outside it.
Passing by the club’s reading table he scanned the headlines: They indicated Paris well and truly taken, the drive on Berlin underway with a first German surrender on their own soil, and in the Pacific the Yanks closing in on Japan: somewhere called Leyte Gulf – lots of aircraft carriers. Directly across the table, though, a young Australian Sergeant-Pilot seemed to be peering over the top of his own paper at Mick.
‘’Beggin’ y’pardon, sir…’
‘Yes, Sergeant?’ returned Mick.
‘Aren’t you with 140 Wing, sir?’
‘Yes, I lead it, but not for much longer.’
‘You’re Wing Commander O’Regan, aren’t ya, sir – I thought it was you.’
‘I am.’
‘Well, sir, I caught what you lot pulled off on Tuesday last – we all did, sir – but ah…’ The young pilot turned his newspaper around, its headline on bold display before Mick.
MOSQUITOS PUT BOMBS IN FRONT DOOR OF GESTAPO HQ DENMARK.
‘Hey, fellas!’ the Sergeant called to those nearest. ‘The Gestapo prang…’ He gestured with the newspaper towards Mick. ‘I give you Wing Commander Mick O’Regan, DFC and Two bloody Bars…’
Mick had to admit it was a proud yet strangely unsettling feeling being near-swamped with smiling faces, pats on the back and ‘Nice one, sir’s except, answering each and every one of their keen questions, for a moment he thought he’d never get out of there.
He did finally, though not before a white-coated orderly advised there was a phone-call for the Wing Commander. Booth Number 1…
It was Dom Hundleby, calling, he said, from an office in Whitehall, where the Wing Commander’s presence was required. And yes, it was an official request. Direct from the Air Ministry. Mick was to report at 0800 next morning.
*
‘I would drink with you, my friend!’
Feliks Brozek had this day been awarded the Distinguished Service Order – at Buckingham Palace – and poured vodkas in Mick’s hotel room as Mick examined the medal in its display case: a gold-rimmed white cross, at its centre a gold crown on a bed of red encircled by a green laurel wreath. Beneath its gold-barred ribbon of vertical red on blue, Mick had to admit, it was a thing of magnificence.
‘Congratulations, Feliks… What was the King like?’
Feliks proffered their filled glasses. ‘You did not meet him yourself?’
‘No, I never did.’ Mick accepted his glass, raised it. ‘Na zdrowie, mate.’
‘Na zdrowie,’ beamed the Pole, and they drained them. ‘The King, to me, my friend, he seemed nervous, which I could not understand. Yet he seemed to me good bloke; an honest man. I would drink with him.’
‘Best part of the day?’ put Mick as Feliks poured two more.
‘Hm… I would say, perhaps… a thing before the palace. A great statue, I believe is called Queen Victoria Memorial, all in white. You have not seen this, my friend?’
‘I have not.’
‘Ah, so beautiful in the morning sun. On top is a golden angel. All around are flowerbeds: red Geraniums, as well beds of purple.’
‘Beautiful,’ nodded Mick.
‘Yes. Though not as beautiful, I think, as Czerwony Mak…’
‘What’s that?’
‘Is national flower of Polska… You call it Red Poppy. …Of “remembrance”.’
‘You’ll be glad to go back, mate.’
Feliks’ brow lifted. ‘I will be glad to have her back, my good friend. And this I will… It stands to reason; Britain went to war for Polska. This was her reason, Mike. Her reason for going to war. Now that victory is but a matter of time, Polska will be returned to us. Of this I am sure. But until that great day I have more fighting to do. Yes. And a Typhoon in which to do it. The British will remember my service to them; Feliks has been a bluddy good fighter for them already. All the way from Battle of Britain up to D-Day and now beyond. From “their finest hour”, my friend, until now, I have been fighting for them. I am decorated by their King. All will be well. Na zdrowie.’
‘Na zdrowie,’ Mick smiled.
And they drained their glasses.
*
Whitehall
The meeting came to order.
Seated at a long table before Mick and Dom Hundleby were five highly senior air force officers, both RAF and USAAF, plus two men in civilian suits. At their centre and chairing the meeting was an RAF Air Marshal whom Mick did not recognise. One officer he did recognise, though, from the newsreels, was Air Chief Marshal Sir Roland ‘Bomber’ Bartlett, chief of RAF Bomber Command. He did not look happy. Yet, according to his fearsome reputation, he never did. Mick wondered who the two civilians were with this line-up of air force big-knobs… Whoever they were, their pocket-handkerchiefed suits looked expensive. As did they. But now the chairing Air Marshal began. To Mick…
‘Wing Commander. My name is Smith. Of course, that isn’t my real name, for reasons which will become apparent. In any event you may address me as “sir”
.’
‘Sir,’ said Mick.
‘Wing Commander. This meeting is about bad press.’
‘Bad press, sir…’
‘Yes. Bad. Press. Officially, this meeting will never have taken place. Hence the identities of those present is immaterial as we were never here, nor were either of you. Yet to business. Despite not being here, we wish to capture your thoughts on our continued bombing offensive of Germany between now and war’s end.’
‘Permission to speak, sir,’ said Mick.
‘Feel free, Wing Commander.’
‘Sir, I’m about to go home. To Australia.’
‘Yes, naturally we know that, Wing Commander, yet before you do, we thought it prudent to pick your brains, as it were, given your now celebrated success with these special air strikes of yours – what is it you call them?’
Mick turned and whispered to Hundleby. ‘What do I call them’
‘… Surgical,’ whispered Hundleby.
‘Surgical strikes, sir,’ managed Mick.
‘And indeed they have been,’ flowed the Air Marshal. ‘As a result they have been highly efficient and, most importantly, economical. You see, this bad press of which I speak has arisen regarding our “Carpet Bombing” of German cities. In other words, regarding our bombing policy as a whole.’ The man’s gaze so studiously avoided his direct left it only highlighted who sat there: Bomber Bartlett. ‘Additionally we seek to minimise bad press regarding our own losses, of aircrew, that is,’ – an escaping glance at Bartlett – ‘which, on our four-engined heavies, are approaching 50 per cent.’
‘Jesus,’ whispered Mick, now struck with Dave Matthews’ forecast for survival on Mosquitos over Lancasters. A 50 times better chance, he’d said. He’d been spot-on.
‘At such time as Germany is defeated,’ continued the Air Marshal, ‘we, the Allies, will become what will be known as the “Occupation Forces” of Germany. Until then, we must keep up our bombing offensive of Germany. Yet we hope to do so in a manner which might minimise resentment in the German population by such time as we occupy them, and so render them more co-operative hence easier to govern. Specifically, as a future buffer between us and the Russians. So, to be perfectly frank with you, Wing Commander, well…’ he took off his glasses, ‘from this point on how would you proceed?’
‘Sir…’ Mick’s head wavered slightly, ‘I’m just a Wing Commander.’
‘Yes, but you get good press. Oh, except perhaps for Hamburg…’
‘…Sir?’
‘Yes, Hamburg,’ the man looked down to a file, ‘over which, on the night of Tuesday, 27th of July, 1943, you operated with the Pathfinders.’ He looked up at Mick again. ‘A force founded by one of your fellow countrymen, Wing Commander… Press are calling it a “Firestorm”. The first ever, apparently… Forty-four thousand people killed.’
Mick looked hard at the man. Hard indeed. ‘You ordered us to hit Hamburg, sir. Which we did. And so accurately that I, for one, was never asked to go back.’
The Air Marshal paused. ‘Touché,’ he said, with the faintest of smiles. ‘Yet our question stands, Wing Commander: If you were us, from this point on how would you proceed?’
Mick squinted at him. ‘Sir… as for how I might proceed, I think what I’d say to you might be too simple for you to accept…’
‘Will it get us good press?’
‘Probably.’
‘We’re all ears.’
‘With respect, sir… I just wish to Sweet Jesus you’d asked me earlier…’
‘We’re asking you now.’
‘Alright… I’ll tell you what I would’ve done to begin with.’
‘Pray proceed…’
Mick’s chair gave a single creak as he carefully sat back. He angled to Hundleby by his side – from ‘the Professor’ a supportive wink – then faced back to the men before them. And blew a long, long breath…
‘We all joined up, sir, to become pilots.’ For a moment he remembered the mad, hot marathons through the outer suburbs of Brisbane, and let slip a chuckle. ‘Spitfire pilots… Only to find, of course, that most of us’d be heading off to Bomber Command. Where, on the Lancaster as it turned out, each bloke’d be part of a crew of seven, and almost certainly not a pilot. An’ even if he was, he’d be flying a bomber. …With a one-in-three chance of survival.’
‘One in six,’ whispered Hundleby.
‘Eh? ’ Mick sided to him.
‘Lancaster crews have a one-in- six chance of completing a tour.’
‘Correction, sir,’ said Mick. ‘One-in-six.’
The Air Marshal capped a fountain pen. ‘Yes, Wing Commander, but we had to send the lion’s share of you to Bomber Command, didn’t we; the bombing offensive was all we had against Germany until the Invasion.’
‘Yes, sir. But you should have put all of us on Mosquitos. Period.’
The man was silent for a moment. And perfectly still. ‘…Quite.’
‘Yes, sir. With a crew of two on the Mossie, you’d’ve been giving every bloke an even chance of becoming a pilot. And doing what he joined up for in the first place. And as the Mossie’s made of wood, you’d have freed up all that heavy bomber metal for all the battleships, tanks, bullets and tin bloody helmets we need to win the war.’
‘Yes, but of course, in the process, Wing Commander, I’d have put the metal aircraft industry out of business…’
One of the suited gentlemen touched his tie knot.
‘Well that’s as maybe, sir,’ returned Mick, ‘but what’s your objective? Win the war or serve big business?’
‘Yes, well that’s rather a direct way of putting things, Wing Commander.’
‘I’ll stop now if y’like, sir…’
The Air Marshal sat back in his chair. ‘No. Pray continue…’
‘Well, you spoke of “economy”, sir.’
‘I did.’
‘I’m a carpenter by trade, sir. But I don’t have to be to know that y’woodwork industry right here can build you all the Mosquitos you want. An’ I don’t have to be an accountant to know that four Merlin engines off a Lancaster gives you two Mosquitos.’
‘Then what, pray tell, does one do with the now engine-less Lancaster?’
‘Melt it down into bullets.’
The RAF officer beside Bartlett lent forward a degree. ‘But, Wing Commander, what about our new “Grand Slam” bombs? I’m afraid here, old chap, your noble theory falls down; at 22 000 pounds, each of these bombs needs a Lancaster to carry it.’
‘So keep some,’ returned Mick. ‘For surgical strikes. And stop killing the German population. That’s what we want now. Isn’t it?’
The man seemed about to speak again, though sat back.
At this point one of the American officers lit a cigar. ‘Commahnder,’ he puffed. ‘What’s yeur favourite automobile?’
‘I don’t have a driver’s licence, sir.’
‘Well anyway here’s the deal: our new P51 Mustang fighter is the Cadillac of the sky. And since the start of this year we’ve had whole fighter groups of this little baby to escort our Flying Fortress bomber guys all the way to Berlin and back. Waddya say to that, Commahnder?’
‘I’d say that’s a turn-up for the books, sir.’
The man smiled richly. ‘Swell of you to say so, Commahnder.’
‘But unnecessary, sir.’
‘Say what?!’
Mick turned to Hundleby and whispered fiercely: ‘ What bomb load can a Mossie take to Berlin? ’
‘The new 4000-pounder.’
‘What load the Fortress? ’
‘To Berlin, same.’
‘Sir,’ Mick focused back on the American. ‘Each of our Mossies can drop 4000 pounds on Berlin. Same as your Fortresses. Except our Mossies are twice as fast as your Fortresses so they don’t need any fighter escort.’ To Hundleby: ‘ How many crew on a Fortress? ’
‘11,’ returned Hundleby.
‘General,’ said Mick. ‘Say you send 500 bombers on a raid to Berlin. That�
��s 11 blokes per Fortress, so 5500 blokes, and most of ’em gunners to fight off all the German fighters they can’t outrun as they’re too heavy from all the gunners.’ Mick turned to Hundleby though no longer whispered: ‘What’s 500 times 4000 pounds?’
‘2 million pounds,’ said Hundleby.
‘500 Fortresses, sir, drop 2 million pounds of bombs. If you had all those blokes, all 5500 of them on Mossies instead of Fortresses – now just pilots and navigators instead of all those gunners you’d no longer need…’
‘That,’ crept Hundleby, ‘would provide crews for 2750 aircraft…’
Mick’s eyes narrowed at the General. ‘2750 aircraft instead of y’500, dropping 4000 pounds each, which makes, Dom?’
‘Er… 11 million pounds.’
‘11 million pounds, sir. But as the Mossie can do it to Berlin and back in half the time, now you can do it twice. So that’s 22 million pounds per raid. 22 instead of your current 2. And most of those blokes would make it back alive to do it again. Plus, you’d only need to do it a few times and the war would be over. OVER, sir.’
The American’s face was heading towards purple. ‘And where, WHERE are we gonna get all these millions of pounds of bombs, fer Chrissakes?!’
‘From all your melted-down metal bombers. And now you won’t even need y’Cadillacs to support them. Melt them too.’ Mick took a breath, and leant fully foward in his seat. ‘Don’t get me wrong, sir: Your “guys”… All those wonderful guys in all those bombers of yours. They’ve been five types of fantastic. But your policy, sir, y’policy has been been five types of…’ Mick only just cut himself short. ‘Anyway… I’m going home.’
The American was open-mouthed. And remained so as, after a few moments, he looked back to the chairman.
The RAF Air Marshal straightened some papers before him, a smile very firmly plastered on his face. ‘So there we are,’ he pronounced. ‘What you’re saying in a nutshell, Wing Commander, is less chaps exposed to less danger for less time and doing the job twice as quickly.’
Ghosts of the Empire Page 33
