He knew that the timing of the raid had been carefully calculated to ensure that the ten squadrons taking part passed over the target area in quick succession. The worry was always that the bombers would collide or bomb each other, but the Operational Research boffins had assured them that the risk was much lower than that of being attacked by a night-fighter, and the denser the stream of bombers, the harder the task for the German defences.
The navigator settled back in his seat, reflecting on the dramatic changes since he had first trained in an old Whitley. On a night like this he would have been chilled to the bone in the drafty fuselage despite an immense swaddling of clothing. Then came the Mosquito, which at least was kept warm by the engine radiators, buried in the wings on each side of the cockpit. And now the Manchester.
He looked around the small, pressurised and air-conditioned compartment, kept comfortable despite flying seven and a half miles high and with the outside temperature sixty below. The crew numbered only four: the pilot, flight engineer, radio/EW systems operator and himself, the navigator/bomb aimer. As they headed into the danger zone, the flight engineer would be spending much of his time on his stomach, peering through the small ventral observation dome, straining to spot any night-fighters trying their favourite trick of slipping underneath to use the upward-firing cannon they had been warned about.
He sighed. Berlin – that was a nasty one. There was a distinct chance that either they, or another crew in the squadron, would be shot down in flames over the target. The Germans had some new night-fighters that could fly as high as they could, and even faster. It was rumoured that they had recently shot down some Mosquitoes, a remarkable achievement given the difficulty in tracking the “wooden wonder” on radar.
Still, he consoled himself, it could be worse. As usual at such moments, he thought of his brother, serving in a sloop on Atlantic convoy work. Now there was a grim task, trapped for weeks on end in a pitching, heaving hull, forever cold and wet, and waiting for the next torpedo. He reflected again on how unreal his own war seemed. Living a normal life at the base, with the local pub to visit on off-duty evenings, flying off at dusk to unload several tons of bombs over Germany, then returning to sleep the rest of the night in his own bed. He shook his head and turned back to his charts. One hour to the target.
Back in their flat, Don poured Mary and himself a large scotch before settling down with a sigh in his armchair. ‘How’s she been?’ he asked. Mary had insisting on returning to London as soon as Hope had been born. She appeared as cool, calm and competent as ever, but Don was still trying to get used to the idea of being a father for the first time at the age of forty-eight.
‘Fine. She went to sleep an hour ago.’ She took a slow sip of the drink. ‘How did it go?’
‘More or less as expected. We went to Bomber Command HQ first and then on to an airfield to see the crew briefed. The takeoff was impressive…’ his voice trailed away.
‘Penny for them?’
He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I lived with all of this for years, when I was researching my thesis. It feels peculiar, to put it mildly, to watch it in real life, and know that it is radically different because of my own contribution. Different technically, at least. I doubt that the…’ he groped for a word, gesturing vaguely, ‘atmosphere, the mood, is different – I think that would have been pretty much the same in my time.’
‘Does that ease your mind about what’s happening?’
He sighed. ‘I really don’t know. At least the more rapid development of the navigation aids and bombing techniques means that the planes can virtually always find their targets, and I’ve been able to persuade Churchill to go for specific military targets rather than just flattening cities.’ He snorted. ‘Not that that was easy. The belligerent old so-and-so wanted to bomb them back into the Stone Age until I pointed out that history would say very unkind things about him if he didn’t show more restraint.’ He settled deeper into his chair and closed his eyes. ‘Not that the Germans on the receiving end are necessarily aware of the difference. Many of those military targets are surrounded by housing, such as tonight’s target factory in Berlin, and all the navigation aids in the world won’t stop the bombs from falling on a wide area around.’ He grimaced. ‘Collateral damage, they used to call it in my time.’
‘Göring isn’t showing such restraint,’ she pointed out, ‘we are still getting raided every night.’
‘True enough. Although if you look at the pattern of their attacks, they’re very focused on ports, dockyards and the like. My oppo will be aware that the only chance they have of defeating us is to starve us into submission. And that’s still not out of the question.’
There was a gloomy pause, each thinking of the implacable struggle spread across thousands of miles of ocean. Convoys with fast escort ships and merchant aircraft carriers, supported by long range patrol aircraft and the specialised hunter-killer groups, against the elusive new electroboats firing homing and pattern-running torpedoes, aided by the very long range radar-equipped four-engined Dorniers which fed sighting reports directly to them. Very occasionally, Dornier met Warwick or Sunderland and a strange battle took place, the gunners hammering away at each other as their ponderous craft manoeuvred for advantage, rather like sailing ships in Nelson’s time, Don reflected. The Battle of the Atlantic see-sawed this way and that, each side gaining a momentary advantage as some technical subtlety was fielded, only to lose it as soon as a counter was designed. So far, they were surviving.
‘It seems that your “oppo” has so far succeeded in persuading Hitler not to declare war on America, despite Dönitz’s best efforts.’
Don sighed. ‘True, and there’s nothing that Roosevelt can do about that even though he recognises that Nazism is the greater long-term danger, the American people are too outraged by Pearl Harbor to want to hear about Germany. Their fleet got some revenge, but that hasn’t satisfied them.’ The USN’s carrier force had located the battered Japanese fleet as it returned to base after the Battle of the South China Sea and the resulting slaughter had effectively eliminated the Imperial Japanese Navy as a major threat. ‘Still, at least he’s stepping up the anti-submarine patrols in the Atlantic, and calling for volunteers to help us with non-combat tasks.’
A knock on the door interrupted them. ‘That’ll be the babysitter. You’d better get changed. We’re going out to dinner tonight. Peter and Geoffrey finally made it back from the Far East and want to catch up with the news that doesn’t appear in the papers.’
Don brightened. ‘Great! We’ll have a lot to talk about.’
The Kapitan checked the information for the umpteenth time, then gave the command: ‘periscope depth’. The Type X angled gradually upwards from the depths where it had been lurking, safe from detection, for the past eighteen hours. He grasped the periscope, spun a quick circle to check for trouble, then returned to focus on the vessel heading towards them. He grunted. ‘Precisely as advertised. Load torpedoes.’ For this special mission, the torpedoes had been kept out of the tubes for as long as possible so they could be carefully checked over before firing. The power loading system would make short work of the task.
He looked again at the ship; a large passenger vessel, travelling alone at well over twenty knots, relying on speed for defence. Normally, this would be safe enough, but the xB-Dienst had somehow acquired key information about this particular vessel: not just details of its route and timing but also that it was carrying some valuable cargo. Perhaps there were some important people on board? The Kapitan shrugged mentally. He had been sent out for this specific mission and knew what he had to do. He settled down to concentrate on the task.
The Heinkel 219 of Nachtjagdgeschwader 3 clawed its way up into the night sky, powerful Jumo engines straining under the high boost level, wide, paddle-bladed propellers flailing to find enough grip in the thinning air. The Oberstleutnant watched the dials carefully. The aircraft had been rushed through its development as a top priority project, and
as always had its fair share of teething troubles. He glanced up through the thick glazing of the pressurised cockpit; nothing was visible but a sprinkling of stars. He checked the gauges again. Boost pressure steady, oil pressure steady, temperatures steady. Of the engines, anyway, he reflected wryly. Outside, it was well below zero and dropping fast.
The Horchdienst had issued a warning of a raid tonight, and initial reports indicated that a large force of bombers was heading towards central Germany. The pilot recalled his visit to an operations bunker, a massive building with a bombproof roof five metres thick. Rows of seats, raked as if in a lecture theatre, faced the huge translucent map on which Luftwaffenhelferinen used light projectors to indicate the air situation. The chief operations officer was stationed near the rear of the stalls, the broadcast officer on his right. In front sat the fighter liaison officers who kept in telephone contact with the airfields. Things will be buzzing in there now, he thought.
Behind him, the radar operator was looking around, enjoying the few minutes of relaxation before he would have to glue his face to the screen surround, trying to follow the elusive, flickering contacts through the haze of enemy jamming devices, gripping tightly to the set as the big Heinkel raced and slowed, climbed and dived, after their quarry. The new centimetric radar was capable of leading the night-fighter to within a few hundred metres of the target, but after that, visual contact was required for an attack. There were rumours that radar gunsights were being developed which would enable the fighters to open fire without even seeing their targets, but the Oberstleutnant would believe that when he saw it. There were even rumours of the new jet aircraft being prepared for night fighting, but for now day fighters had priority.
At least they were well equipped to deal with the British bombers, the pilot thought with grim satisfaction. Nestling in the belly of the plane was a pair of the massive new high-velocity Rheinmetall-Borsig MK 103 cannon, each capable of firing seven of the big three-centimetre rounds per second. These guns could outrange any conceivable defensive armament a bomber could carry and just a few hits would bring down the target. Behind the radar operator was a pair of the compact, fast-firing, low-velocity three centimetre MK 108s from the same maker, angled to fire upwards at fifty-five degrees in the ‘Schräge Musik’ installation, with an extra gunsight in the cockpit roof for aiming them. The ‘Schräge Musik’ was particularly effective, partly because the bombers offered a bigger target from below and were usually more visible as they were silhouetted against the stars, and partly because the night-fighters themselves were much less visible, lost against the dark ground.
The pilot looked again at the altimeter. Past ten thousand metres, and still climbing. They would need another two thousand to reach the usual altitude of their high-flying targets. He settled back to wait.
Geoffrey Taylor sighed appreciatively as he settled back to enjoy the precious brandy. ‘Now that was a much better meal then I expected. What’s all this talk of shortages and hardship, then?’
‘Oh, that’s real enough,’ countered Mary. ‘We are privileged to enjoy some luxuries, but you go out to see what ordinary people eat and you’ll soon see what the problem is. How would you like a dinner of reconstituted dried egg powder, alternating with Spam and, for a special treat, some whale meat? Then of course, there are sausages – but it’s best not enquire what’s in them – and cheese; the ration is all of two ounces a week, the same as for tea. Most luxuries are just unobtainable. I heard of someone who was given a banana by an American the other week. She was so delighted she gave it to her child as a special treat. The trouble was, the child had never seen one before and tried to eat the lot, skin and all!’
Once the laughter had subsided, Peter Morgan put his glass down carefully. ‘Well then, Don, what happens next?’
Don looked around the table at his friends, all together again for the first time in months. Peter Morgan and Geoffrey Taylor, both still tanned from their stints in the Far East, were in other ways as contrasting as ever. The RAF man was still slim and boyish but with grey appearing in his fair hair and lines of strain on his face. Geoffrey’s powerful figure had thickened but his brown moustache still bristled as he puffed at his pipe (‘I know, I know,’ he had responded to Don’s dire warnings, ‘but when you consider all the other ways I’m likely to die in the near future, smoking is a minor threat’). Harold Johnson had thawed in the couple of years since joining the group but was still quiet and reflective, his underlying intensity only apparent at times of stress. Charles and Mary appeared least changed, he thought, Charles as ever looking so ordinary as to be anonymous, only careful study revealing the watchful intelligence in his brown eyes.
‘Well, let’s recap. Russia is somehow still fighting on despite being driven far to the east’– ‘not surprising when you consider the alternative’, muttered Geoffrey – ‘and we’ve managed to keep Finland out of the fighting by threatening to attack them from Norway. This has helped keep Murmansk and Archangel available, despite the best efforts of the Germans to isolate them – of course the Russian defence has been helped by the winter and by support from some of our forces – which is just as well as the convoys from our ports and from America, via the North Cape or Vladivostok, are basically what’s keeping the Russians going.’ Don paused, his demeanour taking on what his friends privately called his ‘professor’ look, and sipped some more brandy. ‘We’re sending them the best equipment we can: the latest versions of the Brigands and Herefords, the new Churchill tank with the seventeen-pounder high-velocity gun and so on. As long as they can hang on, we can retain the initiative because Hitler will have no time or resources for any other adventures. So the ball is in our court; what do we do next?’ He looked enquiringly around the table.
‘Do what we did in your time,’ offered Harold, ‘launch an invasion of Italy from North Africa.’
Don grimaced. ‘That’s Churchill’s favourite theme. Partly because he’s obsessed with achieving something worthwhile in the Mediterranean, partly because he’s worried about the risk of an invasion of France and determined to avoid the sort of losses we suffered on the Western Front in the last war.’
That seems a reasonable concern to me,’ commented Geoffrey, ‘and assuming that we somehow manage to get the Americans on board at some point, an assault in the Mediterranean would have the advantage of giving their green troops some battle experience before throwing them across the Channel. So why not plan for that?’
‘Let me guess,’ said Peter with a small smile. ‘Avoiding a diversion of effort, is that it?’
Don nodded. ‘Partly. The fighting in Italy absorbed a tremendous amount of resources and dragged on for years.’
‘But the Schwerpunkt theory only holds true if you are able to concentrate your forces,’ argued Charles. ‘While the Battle of the Atlantic is still undecided there is a practical limit to the forces which can be gathered and sustained in Britain. We need almost all of the shipping capacity just to keep the country going. There’s also a limit to the effort we can make in the Far East, simply because of the distances involved and the amount of shipping that it would tie up. So we might as well deploy the surplus elsewhere, where they can do some damage to our enemies and distract Hitler from his assault on Russia.’
‘What are our other options?’ Mary asked. ‘It seems to me that either we just sit tight and rely on bombing or we divert more forces to Russia to engage the Germans directly. With Norway in our hands, the journey isn’t as hazardous as the terrible Arctic convoys Don’s told us about and they would arrive at a friendly port and not have to fight their way ashore.’
‘Whatever we do, we’re faced with the logistics problem,’ Don said. ‘The sea lanes are like pipes which limit the flow of men and material along them, the size of the pipe depending on the shipping available – and of course the efforts of the Germans in blocking the pipe. Fighting a campaign anywhere in the world means not just delivering masses of men and equipment but being prepared to keep them supp
lied indefinitely. That takes such a huge shipping effort that we have to judge very carefully how we can make best use of the resources. Unfortunately, there is no simple right answer.’
‘It seems fairly obvious to me,’ declared Peter. ‘We have the means in Bomber Command to bring the war home to Germany in a way that nothing else can. We can really hurt them directly, and they have to divert fighter squadrons from Russia to counter our bombers, not to mention all the effort they are having to put into flak batteries and the like. And we can do this at a risk and cost which is very low in comparison with an invasion.’
‘But that kills innocent civilians, women and children,’ Mary objected. ‘How can that be justified?’
‘That isn’t the main purpose, but in any case, are there any such things as non-combatants when a whole nation is at war?’ countered Peter. ‘The work those civilians are doing is supporting the war economy which is keeping Germany fighting. Drive them out of the cities through the fear of bombing and you badly damage Germany’s war effort.’
Don nodded. ‘I don’t like it either, but that’s the argument that’s won the day so far. For the time being, at least, bombing it will be.’
‘Alles nach Bär! Alles nach Bär!’ The urgent voice of the fighter controller crackled in the headphones. The Oberstleutnant acknowledged briefly and banked the big Heinkel onto a new course. ‘It’s Berlin,’ he told his crewman. He thought back to the control centre again, where the staff would have at last sorted out the main raid from the various decoys which had been dropping Düppel to confuse the big Freya surveillance radars. The local fighter control would now be taking over, the Fighter Control Officer hunched over the horizontal glass-topped Seeburg table, on which the locations of various radar targets were indicated with points of light. The radars were accurate enough to guide the Nachtjägers to within three hundred metres of the target, well within the range of their on-board detection systems.
THE FORESIGHT WAR Page 28
