by Terry Deary
‘And was the girl with him?’
‘A girl? Have you come all this way to arrest a girl?’
Gauführer Linz jabbed a furious finger at the cockpit. ‘We cannot let the under-humans escape. We have to find her, take her back and execute her in front of all the Dachau slaves.’
‘Wish I could help, Gauführer Linz, but she probably jumped on a train at Cambrai and she’ll be at the English Channel by now. You’d be best searching the ports.’
‘Do not tell me where I should be searching,’ the Gestapo officer raged.
‘Give my love to my brother when you find him,’ Ernst said, then shouted to the crew below the cockpit, ‘Ladders away – chocks away – as soon as that car is shifted, we’ll get on with the raid.’
Gauführer Linz stalked back to the car, pointed in the direction of the main gate and drove off. Manfred felt the engine note rise and the plane move forward. ‘Ernst! I’m still on board.’
‘I know – let’s talk about it later. Sit in that seat by the navigator, put on your seatbelt and let me get this thing on course for England.’
Manfred obeyed and sat down trembling. He wasn’t sure if it was the plane or the shock that was making him shudder till his teeth rattled. As the plane left the ground, his stomach seemed to jump into his mouth, and the roar of the engines as it climbed left him half deaf. At last, the plane reached its ceiling and Ernst handed the controls to his co-pilot. He stepped back to sit next to Manfred.
‘If you’d got out back in Cambrai, your friend Gauführer Linz would have snatched you in no time. Our mother would have killed me. So let’s keep you out of his way for tonight. When we land, we’ll think of what to do. Maybe you can stay with me at the air base till the heat is off.’
‘Thanks, Ernst – sorry I’ve got you into so much trouble.’
‘Ha! You’re not so much trouble as Spitfires over England,’ said the pilot. ‘Well, not quite. But there’s no reason why Gauführer Linz should think we helped his slave escape. It’s such a crazy plan, he’ll never believe we could do it. So forget about him and enjoy the flight.’ He patted his brother on the shoulder.
As they sped up the east coast of England, Ernst pointed out the places they were passing below. The other Heinkels and Junkers kept them company and made Manfred feel safe. The mass of German planes looked too solid for a few British fighter planes to damage. Beneath them, the dark land stood out like a black cutout set against the glittering moon-blue sea.
‘Turn west-north-west,’ the navigator said into his microphone. Target three-hundred and eighty kilometres.’
‘The first wave should be there by now,’ Ernst said. ‘We’ll be about two hours to target. Bomb fuses primed?’
‘Primed and ready.’
Ernst took off his microphone mask and spoke to Manfred. ‘Why don’t you go into the bomb bay? You can see your bomb drop and say goodbye to your Polish friend.’
Manfred nodded and squeezed through the narrow cabin door into the main fuselage. It was lit with a faint green light that made the bomb-aimer look like a dummy on a ghost train ride.
Irena sat in a corner, face shadowed by the hat, holding a blanket tightly around her. She looked up, puzzled, as Manfred climbed over the sections of airframe and sat down beside her. ‘Not long now.’
‘Why are you here?’ she asked.
‘Came along for the ride,’ he told her.
The young airman in the bomb bay sent a message to Ernst Weiss to say the bombs had been slid into place and were ready to drop as soon as they reached the target.
‘I hope they hit factories not houses,’ Irena cried. ‘I don’t want innocent people to die.’
‘They won’t – only if their name is Tommy,’ Manfred laughed.
The engines were loud. But the sound of bullets exploding into the Heinkel was louder and the whole plane lurched. Manfred was thrown towards the open bomb doors and Irena snatched at his coat and tugged him back.
‘What was that?’ Manfred called to the airman.
The airman listened in his headphones. ‘We’re under attack. Spitfires from the English Channel defences – Group 11. They’ve done no harm.’
‘Will we crash?’
‘No, but we’ll face a lot worse than that when we get over the target. They may send up some fighters from Fighter Command Group 12 in the Midlands, too. Then we’re into Group 13 in the North. The sooner we drop these bombs, the happier I’ll be. We could be in for a rough ride home!’
The Heinkel turned north and kept the English coast under the port wing.
Chapter 34
Firbeck air base, England 12 December 1940
The control centre at Firbeck was underground, safe from bombs that could fall if the Luftwaffe decided to attack the airfield.
An RAF officer wore a uniform bright with medals and brass buttons and gold braid. ‘Have we tracked the German’s X-Gerat beam?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What’s tonight’s target?’
‘Sheffield, sir.’
The officer looked closely at the map. ‘If they get close to the steelworks, they could cause a lot of damage.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The officer took a deep breath. ‘And we can bend this X-Gerat beam, you say? Send them off course?’
‘We can bend it about five degrees, sir.’
‘Do it.’
The man at the flickering green screen turned a knob and heard the machine hum. He paused. His hand hung waiting over a dial. ‘Five degrees, sir – that takes the bombers directly over the city centre. To be exact, the Duke of Wellington pub in Carlisle Street.’
‘Yes.’
‘There could be a lot of people round there, sir.’
‘That’s why they have shelters,’ the officer said sharply. ‘I have to make a choice – lose the factories and lose the war, or risk the lives of a few people.’
‘Yes, sir.’
For half a minute there was no sound but the humming of the machines. At last, the officer said quietly, ‘Bend the beam. Let them bomb the city centre. And, Parkinson?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You do not repeat what happened here in this bunker tonight.’
Pause.
‘No, sir.’
The call to the pilots came five minutes later, at 18:47 hours. Bronisław Maniak took the call and repeated it out loud as he heard the orders.
‘Enemy bombers spotted on radar off the east coast … three flights of about a hundred each … turning west at Hull … probable target Sheffield, South Yorkshire or West Yorkshire … scramble Group 13 … seek and destroy … good luck!’
The pilots gave a soft cheer as they threw down what they were doing and raced across to the hangars, where the mechanics already had the Hurricanes lined up and waiting. The pilots climbed into their cockpits, fixed their parachutes and started the engines. They had practised this for weeks.
Paul took off after his wing commander and flew above and behind the officer’s starboard wing for protection.
‘The lads from Coastal Command have had a pop at them,’ the wing commander told his squadron. ‘But don’t worry, there are still plenty left for us to shoot down.’
The Firbeck Hurricanes climbed steeply and headed for Sheffield. Barrage balloons shone in the brilliant moonlight and the oily River Don looked like a silver ribbon down below. Searchlights were slicing the sky and some nervous anti-aircraft gunners on the ground in Sheffield were already sending out explosive bursts, even though the Luftwaffe bombers were still a quarter of an hour away.
‘Idiots,’ the Wing Commander said over the radio. ‘I hope someone stops that before they hit a Hurricane.’
The squadron circled and waited. Suddenly the radio crackled into life.
‘I see them, sir,’ Bronisław Maniak shouted. ‘Heading this way from east-south-east – looks like Alexander the Crystal Seer was right!’
Chapter 35
Sheffield, England 12 December 1940<
br />
Everyone we saw in the streets seemed to be the Blackout Burglar. A woman hurried along, pushing an empty pram.
‘That would be a good place to hide your loot,’ Sally said.
A coalman was delivering sacks of coal on his cart and tipping them into the hatches of the coal sheds in back yards. The horse’s breath steamed in the freezing air. Its droppings steamed on the cobbles.
A man hurried out of his house to scoop up the horse-droppings into a paper bag. ‘Nice bit of manure for me leeks,’ he said. ‘Dig for victory!’
‘A coalman could make a good cover for a burglar,’ Sally said.
We reached the end of Mrs Grimley’s lane and huddled in the shadow of a gateway. At least it was out of the cold wind, but still my hands were freezing.
We heard Hurricanes flying overhead – I knew the engine sounds. There were flashes from the anti-aircraft guns on the ground. I groaned. ‘Don’t they know an RAF plane when they hear one?’
People on the streets were running for home. ‘It’s all right,’ I told a frightened girl from Sally’s class. ‘They’re our planes. It’s not a raid.’
The girl looked at me with a fierce scowl. ‘Those anti-aircraft shells explode in the sky and bits of metal fall down. If one of them lands on you, then you’re dead. I’m not running from the planes – I’m running from our own shells. And if you had half a brain, you’d do the same.’ Then she ran off.
Sally smothered her laughter in her grubby little hands. ‘If you had half a brain, Billy Thomas! Sounds as if Marjorie knows you as well as I do!’
‘Shut up,’ I said, as we turned into the back of Jubilee Terrace.
‘Put out the light,’ Warden Crane shouted, and his voice echoed down the walls of the alley. He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. ‘“And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death …”’ he began to recite.
The boxes that held our gas masks were a pale cardboard and they caught the bright moonlight. Warden Crane saw us and strolled over. ‘Hello, young Thomases,’ he said.
He was going to ask us what we were up to. I had to take his mind off the question. ‘What was that you were saying about dusty death?’ I asked quickly.
He lifted his face to the moon. ‘Ah, Shakespeare again. “Life’s but a walking shadow …” and talking of shadows, what were you doing in the shadows?’
‘Which play?’ I asked.
The warden frowned. ‘That is a good question. It’s a play called Macbeth, and they say it is cursed. Theatres have burned down, accidents have happened. In fact,’ he said in a low voice, ‘it’s unlucky to recite the words of the play or even speak its name. Actors usually call it “The Scottish Play”.’
‘Oh, Mr Crane!’ I cried. ‘Does that mean you’ll be cursed?’
‘I hope not. The curse is only supposed to work when you speak the words of … erm … the Scottish Play … inside a theatre. But who knows? Maybe tonight I’ll have an accident and that’ll teach me.’
Before he could get back to asking us what we were up to, we heard the low drone of the siren as it started its warning wail.
I glanced at Sally. It was what we were expecting. A false alarm to get the people out of their houses. All we had to do was walk around the block and return to our hiding place when everyone was in the shelter – everyone except the Blackout Burglar.
The navy sky was carved with the golden rods of searchlights. Doors began to open and people walked out grumbling into the dark.
‘Another false alarm,’ a woman’s voice said.
‘Never mind, Ma, there’s nothing good on the radio,’ a boy replied. ‘And I can play cards with the other lads.’
‘Hurry along,’ Warden Crane shouted. ‘And turn out your lights before you open your doors. There’s more light in this street than at the Sheffield Opera House. I’ll fine the lot of you!’
‘Aye, we don’t want to help them invisible German bombers, do we?’ a woman shouted back.
I heard the planes before anyone else. ‘Listen!’ I shouted. ‘There really are planes up there.’
‘They’ll be the Hurricanes from Firbeck,’ an old man said.
I strained my ears. The sound was like a double drumbeat – pock-a, pock-a, pock-a, pock-a. That’s the way German aircraft engines sounded. The British planes just made a steady brrrr noise.
‘They’re German,’ I said. ‘It’s not a false alarm this time.’
People began to shout and their shoes clattered on the cobbles as they ran. The sound of the shoes was joined by the banging of the guns trying to shoot down the attackers. Brilliant lights lit up the sky.
‘Parachute flares,’ I told Sally.
She raised her pale face. ‘What do we do, Billy?’
A car skidded around the corner and its engine screamed as the driver raced for a shelter. ‘A Lanchester,’ I said. ‘It’s Mr Cutter’s car – what’s he doing out driving at night?’
The rumble of engines was growing louder and flashes of orange light were followed by claps of thunder that rattled the gates in the alley. People were screaming and fire-engine bells could be heard in the distance. Dogs barked in panic and the pop of anti-aircraft shells stopped, only to be replaced by the rattle of our fighter planes’ cannon, invisible in the glowing sky.
‘Let’s get to a shelter,’ I said.
‘We’ll miss the burglar,’ Sally shouted.
‘No – the burglar only goes out when he’s phoned in a false alarm. He wouldn’t be daft enough to go out in a real raid.’
‘Maybe,’ Sally said.
We turned and ran.
Chapter 36
Over Firbeck, England 12 December 1940
The Firbeck wing commander turned to meet the enemy and his squadron of Hurricanes followed. The bomber’s moon that helped the Luftwaffe bombers see their targets also let the Hurricanes see the bombers.
Flashes sparked across the sky as Spitfires from Group 12 at Cranwell near Lincoln were already attacking. Tracer bullets ran from the fighters to the bombers in four-second streams and the fire was returned by the gunners in the enemy planes.
The bombers flew on, as if they were rhinos being attacked by annoying but feeble wasps. Still, as Paul drew nearer, he could see a Dornier with one of its engines streaming smoke. The pilot turned it to make a run back to a German airfield, but two Spitfires pounced and drove it down.
‘Attack the formation to the north,’ the squadron leader said. ‘Keep out of the way of the Cranwell Spits to the south.’
Paul saw his commander begin to dive towards the leading Heinkel He 111 and he followed. Just when he thought he had the enemy in his sights, he saw flashes of cannon-fire coming from the top gunner and heading straight towards him. He kicked the rudder on the Hurricane and slid sideways in a panic, then found himself past the German and diving towards another group.
He’d already lost touch with his wing commander and there was no chance of joining him again in the darkness. Again, a top gunner spotted Paul and sent a volcano stream of canon shells towards him. This time the pilot held his nerve. He side-slipped just enough to avoid the enemy fire, then turned to get the bomber in his sights. He managed a one-second burst of fire that made the Hurricane shudder, then he pulled back the joystick to soar upwards and aim for the belly of another bomber, a black shape against the purple sky.
Time after time Paul attacked, but never managed more than two seconds on target and none of the enemy seemed hurt by his wasp stings. Still the black shapes rolled forward, unstoppable as the tide.
He finally found a Dornier whose gunner wasn’t firing – maybe he had been killed in a previous attack, maybe his cannons were jammed, or maybe he was out of ammunition. Paul lined up his Hurricane for a killing run. He dived, pressed the firing button and waited for the shots to shake his plane.
Nothing.
He had run out of ammunition. Paul pushed the nose of the Hurricane down. He rushed over the silver fields and found the glittering
Don. From there, he worked out the position of Firbeck.
Sheffield was starting to burn. The first bombers had dropped their explosives and now the incendiaries – the flame-makers – were doing their work. The fires would light the way for the next flight of bombers and the Spitfires and Hurricanes would not be able to stop them all from getting through.
Paul Grimley’s landing on the dark airstrip was rough enough to smash a Spitfire’s undercarriage, but the Hurricane was tougher and he bounced and careered over the grass till he was rolling quickly towards the hangars. He threw back the canopy and shouted at the engineers, ‘More ammunition and refuel her.’
‘There are a few holes in her, sir,’ the engineer said, walking around the hot, hissing plane.
‘Can they be fixed?’
‘Give me an hour, sir.’
Paul nodded and went over to the canteen for a strong, sweet tea. Sheffield glowed crimson and orange against the skyline twenty miles away. By the time he’d finished his tea, more Hurricanes were landing and rolling towards the hangar.
The wing commander was one of the last to land. ‘Sheffield air-raid defence says the bombing has stopped for now. Radar stations are warning a second flight of a hundred planes is about fifty miles east. We take off as soon as they’re in range.’
‘Any casualties?’ someone asked.
‘We’ve lost three planes – won’t know if the pilots crash-landed or bailed out till tomorrow morning. But Jerry lost more. At least twenty were sent down or driven back home. Let’s aim to get more next time. Put up your feet, grab something to eat and be ready to go in an hour.
Sheffield, England 12 December 1940
Sally and I slipped out of the shelter after that first attack. It was quieter now, though we heard the odd explosion in the distance as a bomb with a timer fuse went off.
We ran through the streets to check on our suspects.
The door to Mrs Haddock’s sweet shop stood open and the woman was standing in the doorway looking up. ‘You need to get to a shelter, Mrs Haddock,’ Sally told her.
