Near Dover, tunnel doors were flung open, planes taxied out and to their dispersal sites, engineers making final checks. Fifty cal rounds were loaded, fuel topped up, control surfaces checked. Pilots sat in the underground bunkers, their aircraft under the camouflage netting and between trees, nestled between six feet high brick walls backed by earth, the walls painted green and brown.
In Canada, sixteen bomber variants had taken off at staggered intervals, heading to Nova Scotia to refuel, thereafter to Scotland. The aircraft were now painted in RAF colours, camouflage green and brown on the top, a pale blue underneath, RAF roundels displayed.
Over southern France, the RAF pilots transporting the American Brigade adjusted their course in sight of Marseilles, and headed towards Grenoble. Twenty minutes later they began a steep descent through broken cloud, flaps down, engines throttled back. Approaching a grass strip used by civilian fliers, they cheekily put down, bouncing along the grass surface.
The local flying club members had been listening to the radio, and to the news of the German invasion, scared rigid by the giant planes coming into land. They ran like hell. The first Buffalo turned at the end of the grass and halted, soldiers piling out with weapons ready, running to the airfield edges and taking up position as the second plane bumped along the grass. It pulled in besides the first, cargo soon being handed out to an ant-like chain of men.
With all the aircraft down, and in varying stages of unloading, the local police arrived with ten soldiers, for all the good that would have done them. The Brigade Major in charge walked out to them.
‘American Brigade,’ he carefully, but loudly, stated. ‘Germany invade you – we fight. OK? Now fuck off, there’s a war on.’ He left them with that, the police and soldiers sensibly withdrawing.
As the first aircraft to have landed now powered down the runway to take off empty, the main elements of the Brigade started their march east and to the hills that straddled the Italian border. Thirty men remained at the airfield to secure it for the second wave of men and equipment.
It was a fine day as the Brigade walked east, crossing a few roads and surprising passing motorists. They were soon on side roads and climbing higher, the airfield in sight behind them, heavy packs lugged. Three hours of a fast march brought them to a high ridge, cliffs to the south. The Major pointed at the cliffs. ‘Captain, take three platoons and hold that area, watch the roads and the airfield.’ He plodded on, higher into the hills on the pleasant and sunny day.
By sundown he could hear aircraft, figuring it was the second wave. Splitting his men into four units, they set off in different directions, each with a target area in mind.
North of them, in Belgium, British units were pulling back as German armour pushed towards them. Many had already been leaving - even before the dawn, making me wonder just why the hell they had been there in the first place. And the Germans, they were giving the British time to leave, save wasting ammo. If the Germans could take the place without shots fired, then why the hell not. Their paratroopers hand landed in Holland during the day, securing bridges over rivers, and frightening the locals. Their light tanks had rolled forwards without opposition, the bridges soon held.
Along the French border, their soldiers crept through the forests, securing bridges, small skirmishes with French units, many prisoners taken. But that first day the Germans did little other than to secure Dutch bridges, roll back the British, and sneak into France. The Italians had not attacked their border with France, and were awaiting the Germans to do the job for them from the north.
All that first day our people made ready, curious civilians shot on sight - save the detail of our people being passed to the Germans. By nightfall, the various tank squadrons were spread out, the furthest units sat almost twenty miles from each other. During the day, a handful German aircraft flew overhead, no sign of any Stukas so far. As night fell, our Buffalos returned, the strip illuminated for them. Eleven landed in sequence, boxes unloaded down the ramps, stores distributed. And so far not a shot fired, save at a few civilians.
The American Brigade were now all down and in position, two flights having landed during the night, the furthest units now in sight of the Italian border. At dawn they reached a peak above the border, and promptly shot dead the Italians guarding it with fifty cal rounds.
The airfield at Grenoble was now stacked high with stores, locals volunteering to help, trucks used to transport stores up the hills. That night’s drop would be the last risked by a landing. Thereafter, the Brigade would have supplies dropped by parachute.
Other units of the Brigade reached the border in their own allocated sectors, and fired down, rudely announcing their arrival. That put the Italians in the odd situation of seemingly being invaded by France. Italian soldiers were marshalled and moved forwards as a response, their intelligence reports suggesting that there were no French soldiers attacking the border, but that the French were massed to the south and dug in, well back from the border.
All that day, Italians at border posts were sniped at, many killed, the Brigade seen moving around on the peaks. It was time for action, Rome wanting results. Six thousand Italian soldiers moved forwards, not part of the agreed plan with Germany. Having walked for an hour and a bit, the tired Italians stopped at a comfy spot, a soldier soon stepping on a mine. Five were killed, twenty wounded. Others ran to help their wounded colleagues, and tripped additional mines. It was not such a comfy spot after all, RPGs fired down at the men as they dragged wounded away, automatic fire wounding many more. That pattern was repeated along the border, the Italians soon realising that their incursion into France would not be a walkover.
The second day in Belgium saw British enlisted men passing the camouflaged Rifles as they headed to the ports, and a speedy exit by ship. No bridges had been blown yet, although a few British engineers were under orders to do so. Stukas started to arrive, bombing Dutch and Belgian positions, known barracks, fortifications near bridges. But the long lines of British vehicles were not attacked, as they had not been attack in our timeline. Those British units that had actually decided to earn their keep, and stand and fight, were now being bombed from the air or shelled by artillery.
That front line grew ever closer to the coast, and to the pocket, and that second night the rumble of distant explosions could be heard by the Canadians. The Rifles sat ready and played cards, their nightly supply drops the only break in their routines.
In our era, the advance had taken almost ten days, but there were now fewer British soldiers, and they had been ordered back sooner; the Germans must have thought that they were better than they really were. No air war had started over Britain, but Spitfires had tangled with Stukkas and 109s that second day, gaining the upper hand. The arrival of more Focke-Wulf variants and new ME109s tipped the balance, but the third day’s action saw fifty British or allied aircraft downed for sixty German aircraft, a similar tally to our era.
That third day also saw the Maginot line crossed with relative ease, the French Air Force throwing everything it had into the skies. Eighty French fighters were shot down, for almost that number of German aircraft. But those eighty French planes represented the backbone of their best aircraft and their most experienced pilots. They knew they had lost on the fourth day.
The Spitfires kept fighting, and kept inflicting losses on the Luftwaffe, evenly matched with the upgraded German aircraft. At this time though, aircraft were not flying across from Britain, just from the forward base in France. That base received fresh supplies each day, fresh aircraft and pilots, many having been trained in San Diego. The high altitude dog fights were evenly matched, the low altitude Stukas easy prey if caught.
On the fourth day the Germans used their paratroopers to leap-frog, and landed a large force behind French lines just before dawn. That force was just thirty miles from Paris, and panic spread, Parisians starting to evacuate to the west or the south. The French Government broke down quickly, a few odd reports about battles near Grenoble ignored. German units in Belgium turned south instead of attacking the British head on, the British seen to be evacuating. And all the while, the Polish watched in horror, figuring that they were next. In our era, Poland had been first to be attack, followed by Denmark and Norway, not including Austria and Czechoslovakia. Now the Germans had other ideas, one of which included a British surrender with negotiated terms. They would be disappointed.
On the fifth day, a large push of German divisions into France - bypassing Belgium, gave the British time to leave, and the French a heart attack. The French Government made ready to surrender. In the far southeast, the American Brigade were not part of any surrender agreement, and inflicted heavy casualties on the Italian soldiers day and night, some three thousand wounded men sent back to Italy, four hundred men killed. The best Italian Alpine units were sent forwards to replace the infantry already in the hills, and the new units included snipers and mountain climbers.
Those new units grouped in a gorge where medical tents and had been set up to treat the wounded. Maps were consulted, teams organised, equipment checked. The lead unit made ready to move out, just as six Battery Grenades landed amongst them. The move out was put on hold for a while, and for a new unit to arrive. Still, they had been close to the medical tents, it wasn’t all bad.
That fifth evening the flood of British soldiers eased, the roads now quiet; Belgium had surrendered after its impregnable fort had been rudely breached by a few German gliders. The Canadian tank brigade made ready, and now it was just them facing half the entire German army.
During the night, men on pushbikes with rifles, and speaking German, ventured along roads, stopping to check signs and maps. All were shot when noticed. Then all men on pushbikes were shot, just to be sure, a few local postmen in the wrong place at the wrong time. As the grey dawn revealed an early morning mist, the fields moist with dew, a German tank column rolled down E17, heading west and towards the coast. The lead tank halted when it saw something move, its tank commander lifting his binoculars. Peering through his binoculars into the mist, a gentle breeze slowly revealed one of our main tanks, its barrel pointed right at the lead tank. The tank commander jumped down and shut his hatch a second before his tank disintegrated, its turret thrown clear, flames and smoke filling the air, the blast scattering starlings from the nearby fields.
The other tanks turned their turrets and fired, several direct hits scored. Waiting, they observed the smoke clear, the tank’s long barrel move slightly, the second tank in the line blown to pieces. Ten minutes later, all eleven tanks in the convoy had been destroyed, two trucks, a staff car driving off at speed. Our tank withdrew through the mist.
Reports of heavy British tanks reached the High Command, who so far had swept aside all tanks and all British resistance. This was something new. Spotter planes and Stukas were sent to the area, German armour directed to the locations.
Dunkirk had come and gone, this time with the men all getting off, so who was left with these heavy tanks? The spotter planes failed to live up to their names, nothing to report, Stukas pounding the French instead, just a few hours before the French surrender was offered. A few miles north, near Antwerp, a German tank column approached a bridge, the first two tanks actually on the bridge when it blew. Two miles away, German light tanks approached another bridge that blew, soon four other bridges to the south blown, two north of Antwerp, a further six across important rivers. Getting about in tank just became a whole lot more difficult, some of the bridges being major steel and concrete structures.
This new development puzzled the High Command, who were making great advances everywhere, and now the French surrender at 2pm. These bridges could be repaired, but it was a great inconvenience, Antwerp now mostly cut off from its surrounding area. Could it be resistance fighters? No, Belgium had surrendered. Reports of tanks came in, across the other sides of the bridges, the only way to now reach that area being a detour to the south and up. Units from south of the pocket were ordered north, a mix of infantry and armour.
They advanced through the warm afternoon sun, only to find large holes in the roads, water-filled ditches either side, a few small bridges blown. Engineers were called forwards to fill in holes in roads, no one visible across the obstacle, a mile or so of good visibility available. As the engineers were toiling away, timed Good Morning grenades blew, placed back along the road. Columns withdrew in poor order after four or more grenades detonated along several of the blocked roads. Infantry were sent across fields, less than a quarter mile covered before the first mine was tripped. Darkness fell as the infantry withdrew, this odd little pocket now surrounded on two sides.
With darkness assisting the Canadian SAS, they crept forwards to a busy junction, firing .223 rifles with silencers from four hundred yards, the Germans sat about the campfire and fully believing that all British soldiers had now left. The Germans returned fire, their campfires quickly doused. Then nothing for ten minutes; silence. A flash, a bang, a whistling sound, an airburst RPG detonated over them, many wounded. They fired outwards and crept forwards, to the areas they believed were not mined.
A gentle crack of the air, a man falling. Another crack, like a twig breaking, someone else falling. With half a platoon dead, the rest pulled back. Artillery was called in, the infantry units pulling back, a ten-minute barrage laid down. As the smoke cleared, wafting past, nothing was seen or heard for a few minutes, then a whistling sound, mortars landing amongst them – and the crack of the air around them as men fell. The infantry unit pulled back further, many now wounded.
In the morning the High Command were furious, not least with their own troops. They ordered every building in the area to the flattened by Stukas. That Stuka attack had just got underway when Spitfires pounced, scattering the Stukas, more Spitfires dog fighting high above. Artillery was directed onto the pocket, but it was a big pocket. Still, they had a lot of artillery. All day long the flat farmland was pounded, German tanks across canals firing at buildings in the distance, a great many civilians killed. At 5pm, an hour after the barrage had ended, wounded civilians carrying white flags began walking out, hundreds of them, many pointing back and informing the Germans of British soldiers.
The high command received word of this pocket of British soldiers that were trapped and surrounded. They sent in people with white flags, who were shot at, but not killed; the offer to surrender had been rudely passed over. As the sun lowered, more than ten thousand German soldiers made ready to enter the pocket from a variety of directions, mostly from the southwest. Marshalling and moving off, many of those advancing soldiers in the southwest tripped mines, and pulled back. The advance was over before it got started.
To the east, small boats had been brought forwards, silently carried to the edges of rivers and canals and eased in. With soldiers aboard, they pushed off silently, a crack of the air causing the soldier at the front to slump, soon followed by others who had been earnestly but quietly rowing. Soldiers dived into the water as the growls of tanks could be heard, light tanks charging forwards at speed, automatic fire from fifty cal machineguns raking the far bank - and the soldiers waiting there.
On the estuary, large riverboats edged quietly along, blown apart a second later by a tank on the bank, trucks and soldiers on the far bank targeted with fifty cal fire. Closer to Antwerp, our main tanks fired from half a mile away at trucks moving along roads across the canals, creating havoc. And the Germans surrounding the pocket were all certain they heard aircraft land during the night. But the road that our aircraft made use of was covered in a fine layer of mud and dust, only made useable by lights.
The next day, advance German units rolled into Paris, the Parisians traumatised by the sight of the grey German tanks trundling down their streets. A new reality had dawned on them with the rising of the sun over their city. But despite the surrender, the Italians were still taking casualties on the border, and there was that odd pocket in Belgium.
Frustrated and furious, the High Command ordered the infantry back into the pocket, spotter planes to look for invisible tanks, and for German artillery to pound the hell out of the men in the pocket. German tanks lined up across the canals, firing at any buildings they could see, clusters of trees, greenhouses, anything that might house soldiers. The barrage lasted two hours, soldiers moving forwards in the footsteps of the man in front, everyone being very careful. With the barrage now ended, the smoke still wafting, a distant popping sound could be heard in several areas, just before artillery shells slammed into lines of German tanks, one shell landing every six feet along some roads, the distances having been measured from accurate maps by our people. MLRS rockets slammed into fields being negotiated by infantry, heavy casualties inflicted, one in four rockets being airburst.
Spotter planes could see the smoke trail left by the rockets, and turned towards the sources, finding sheds and greenhouses, but no other suitable targets. It was time for the Germans to get clever, as they had been in taking the impenetrable Belgium fort, the one that had been so easily penetrated. Gliders were made ready. Knowing that the land was very flat, mostly ploughed fields, the pilots would land in the dark at random points, and look for British soldiers. The men who had taken the Belgian fort would be making this trip as well, confidence high.
The gliders were towed into the air and released shortly afterwards, silently descending towards ploughed fields, the outline of the fields below clear on this warm night. The first to land was hit in the nose with an RPG before it had come to a rest, raked with automatic fire from the side for thirty seconds. No one stepped off the glider. The second glider had not seen or heard the fate of the first, landing in a field and halting, coming to rest just fifty yards from a main tank. That tank fired into the ground under the nose of the glider, slicing it in two before raking it with fifty cal fire, no one emerging from the burning wreck.
The third glider was hit in the wing-join by an RPG as it descended, its wing detached, the glider not providing a safe landing for its passengers, who slammed into a water-filled ditched, raked by automatic fire before those that were still able to move made a move. The fourth glider landed in a lucky spot, and not close to any of our people, but was seen on mobile radar and tracked. Its cargo of men emerged, grouped up and moved out quietly. They reached a clump of trees in two lines, noticing the light tank at the last minute, just before it opened up. The survivors ran away, most picked off, a few wounded walking off, only to run into our other positions.
At dawn, the local commander had no contact with his glider force, a spotter plane reporting them all down, damaged or destroyed, bodies on the ground. The local commander had to explain to the High Command how the best men they had, the heroes who had taken the Belgian fort, were now all missing, presumed dead. Fists banged tables, voices were raised, the pocket shelled again at length before a force of fifty 109s strafed anything that looked out of place. But by coming in to strafe, the aircraft were close enough to hit with fifty cal machineguns from light tanks and half-tracks, three shot down, several damaged.
Medium German bombers flew out that night to pound the area, and after they had headed home to a warm bed the German artillery raged all night, more brought up, additional German tanks positioned. And there the rage of the Fuhrer helped. Before dawn, RAF Boeings took off in numbers, arriving at the pocket in daylight, a large number of tanks and artillery pieces all bunched up for them. They swooped down releasing RPGs in quick succession, and once spent of ammo returned to the UK at low level and high speed, Spitfires circling high overhead.
The Boeings returned at 3pm, more than sixty of them, flying low level over the channel, over the pocket itself, and onto the clusters, succeeding in causing much damage. As darkness fell, the Germans had no option but to disperse their tanks and artillery. They still pounded the pocket, but from a greater distance, no tanks now with a line of sight on anything worth firing at.
And there the Germans made their second mistake. In the morning, they sent most every medium bomber they had to bomb the crap out of the RAF airfields, and those Boeings. We had triggered the Battle of Britain early. The RAF airfields in the south of Britain were heavily hit, the fixed radar installations, barracks, Dover castle, and all the while the RAF’s Spitfires and Hurricanes - as well as a few Boeing Mark 5s and now even Mark 6s – were tangling with the 109s and 190s. All over southern England, con trails were stared up at in wonder by schoolboys in short trousers and cloth caps.
The RAF airfields took a pounding, but the Luftwaffe lost sixty bombers, more again damaged. Forty RAF fighters were downed or seriously damaged, forty-five German fighters destroyed. At this rate of loss, neither side would have many aircraft left soon enough. A second day of attacks on RAF airfields saw heavy losses amongst German bombers, but we kept our prop fighters out of it; they were the strategic reserve.
At Dover’s air defences, at noon that day, British soldiers stared at a funny rocket that looked like a giant penis.
‘What the hell is that, Sarge?’ a soldier asked.
‘It’s a rocket,’ the RAF sergeant explained. ‘Now, stand well back in case it’s faulty - and kills us all.’ They moved away, the RAF sergeant to a van behind sandbags. ‘Ready, sir,’ he reported.
‘Approaching aircraft, seven thousand feet. Set.’ The officer peered into what looked like a periscope. ‘Here they come. Second wave is bigger, so let’s try for that one.’
The sergeant peered into a second periscope. ‘I see them, sir.’
‘Then let me know if we hit anything with this confounded oversized toy. Standby … standby … here they come … firing.’
A tremendous whoosh was heard as the rocket fired, lifting straight up. The third wave of aircraft saw the smoke trail, and radioed warnings, but too late. The rocket reached seven thousand feet and detonated, tearing apart the two closest bombers, wings pulled off like they were made of paper. Metal sharps flew out to puncture the nearest aircraft, as well as sixty bomblets. Those bomblets exploded after one second, puncturing four bombers. Two aircraft had disintegrated, four now spiralling on fire, two more damaged and turning back, the flight behind horrified at what they had just witnessed.
‘I make that six, sir,’ the sergeant excitedly reported, everyone in Dover now peering skywards and wondering just what the hell had exploded.
Outside, a soldier said, ‘Here mate, what do you call that thing?’
‘It’s called a Merlin Rocket.’
‘Ya got any more?’
German soldiers were now moving across France unopposed, disarming French soldiers, frightening civilians. But well behind them, that damned pocket was still being pounded. And it was tying up a whole division. Men were being sent in from all sides, sneaking in on their bellies, but none returned or made contact. Small arms fire could be heard, but nothing was seen. Spotter planes reported bodies, but little more. Those planes had to remain above a thousand feet, because any lower and they picked up damage from fifty cal rounds, one having been shot down.
What the German didn’t realise, was that twenty of our people had been killed by random fire, that number again wounded and flown out at night. And the British press, they reported the pocket still fighting and holding out. They also now reported the American Brigade in southern France, the German High Command now realising why they were getting the odd reports after the surrender. The Italians were furious, and wanted blood, still mad about the Spanish Civil war. The Germans, however, wanted to keep America out of the war, and so ordered the hills contained, but not attacked; they would try and starve the men out. The Italians were having none of that, and launched bombers and fighters, prize money offered to their soldiers for killing members of the Brigade.
We rubbed our hands, leaking the Italian offer to the American press, who were only now getting to hear about their Brigade in France. But the Brigade was not alone in France. At the outset of war, many of the French Brigade desired to go and fight for their homeland – minor charges against them or not, but the surrender of France came quickly. We gave them a way to fight, so long as they wore British uniforms with “France” on the sleeves. They agreed. The British Brigade were picked up from Tunisia and Malta, giving the Germans and Italians in western Libya a respite, and flown over Spanish territory and up to the Brest peninsular. There they landed at an airfield whose aircraft had all gone, helping their owners to flee to Britain.
Local civil control had broken down, people trying to flee to America from the Atlantic ports as the Germans drew near. Eight hundred French soldiers, and eleven hundred British soldiers, had landed over the space of six days, RAF Buffalos landing with supplies and weapons, enough to start a war. A British merchant vessel risked the journey to Brest, jeeps and half-tracks offloaded whilst desperate people on the dockside offered money for the return trip to England. The vehicles drove inland with British soldiers at the wheel, whilst everyone else was driving towards the ports.
The British newspapers then reported the fact that British soldiers had landed in Brest, and would create a second front. The High Command were furious, since France had surrendered, the Luftwaffe now tasked with finding these British units and bombing them. They found no soldiers, and bombed no one, reporting the fact. Advance German units raced to the peninsular before any British force could dig in. They reached it as a line was thrown across the peninsular, the first German vehicles hit by RPGs front on, racked by automatic fire.
German advances through France had slowed a little, a few units brought back to attack the pocket, but now those units reversed course to attack the British at the peninsular. And just to be cheeky, the RAF flew thirty Boeings to the airfield in Brest, mechanics and supplies. Advancing German columns soon found themselves attacked from the air, their own fighters not this far forwards yet. Columns were halted, vehicles destroyed, narrow roads blocked.
In the southeast, aerial bombardment of the American Brigade had achieved nothing, some eleven thousand fresh Italian soldiers sent forwards, as well as artillery. Spotter planes were sent up each day, fighters ready to strafe anyone they found. They found no one to shoot at, but the Italians kept taking casualties. Then, with a nudge from us, the Brigade snuck down to the German lines in the west, around Grenoble, left Good Morning grenades, and withdrew. Hundreds of German soldiers were killed as they sat in their canteens or barracks, an act that could not be ignored. The Fuhrer gave in to his generals, and ordered the Brigade attacked.
At the Antwerp pocket, the SAS had ventured outside of the pocket to have a look at the German positions. With concentrations found, they hid nearby and called in artillery. Shells soon slammed into German tanks and support trucks, the aim adjusted after each salvo. Twelve different locations were hit, the damage great, the number of German casualties high. Withdrawing, the SAS left grenades under culverts, managing to blow many of the roads that ran towards the pocket, many miles out in some cases. They also blew the main routes running east-west, south of the pocket, a wide detour for supply convoys, the pocket now a growing cause of annoyance.
That annoyance led to a large armoured push being prepared, an attack from the southwest. The German armour moved into position during the hours of darkness, and made ready. So did we. Before the German armour could make a start at an attack, our entire force of artillery and MLRS units fired on them, the German positions accurately known. That barrage lasted two hours. All the while, ten of our main tanks and twelve light tanks were moving towards the armour. Smoke shells were fired after the barrage ended, and through the smoke our tanks rumbled, emerging just a hundred yards from the lead German tanks, and opening fire.
Our tanks sat in a line abreast, light tanks between them firing at infantry, and moved forwards slowly, hitting everything visible before moving on. They pushed six hundred yards into the armoured division, decimating it before reversing course. Leaving the German armoured formation, our artillery and MLRS started up again, another thirty minutes of barrage around the edges of the German formation.
The High Command received word, incredible word, that the entire armoured division had been wiped out. France had surrendered, Belgian and Holland, but this pocket remained. Hitler was in the mood for another mistake. He directed his medium bombers away from the RAF, and back onto the pocket. That meant that the RAF knew exactly where the German aircraft would be concentrated.
The pocket’s radar picked up the approaching German aircraft the next morning, some of those aircraft based within just a few minutes flying time, and our people radioed the RAF. The RAF sent every fighter it had, it’s Spitfires circling high above, Hurricanes and Boeings lower, and engaged the German bombers all day. German aircraft frequencies were jammed from within the pocket, which greatly assisted the RAF. Several aircraft collided, it was that tight a scrap, and at the end of it the RAF had lost thirty-five aircraft, the Germans down eighty-five aircraft, mostly bombers.
‘A good day’s action,’ I commented at the hotel.
‘Eighty-five,’ Cookie said, shaking his head.
‘And that pocket is still there, they’ve hardly scratched it. Now there’s fierce fighting in the Brest Peninsular, and the American Brigade are now shooting Germans and Italians.’
Jimmy approached, Cookie handing over a tea. Jimmy said, ‘Sykes believes that two entire German divisions have been wiped out at the pocket, if not three. Troops massing near Denmark and Poland have been moved, and aircraft. They’re hurting.’
‘Time to hurt them more?’ I nudged.
Jimmy considered it. ‘They haven’t quite filled France with soldiers yet, or Denmark or Norway. Oh, an odd move: the Free Spanish Socialist Volunteers … have mobilised five thousand men, and are moving through Basque country towards the border. That’ll give the Germans another headache, drawing away more soldiers again.’
A note arrived. ‘Oh dear,’ Jimmy sarcastically let out.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Sykes says that the Germans have brought in hundreds of anti-aircraft units to put around the pocket.’
‘They mean to shoot down the re-supply planes.’
‘Which will now switch to parachute drops above the clouds, and then only on dark nights.’
I smiled. ‘Radar controlled approach. I do love it when we plan ahead.’
The Luftwaffe returned to attacking RAF airfields, a few units used to attack the pocket each day. But we knew they were hurting. A nudge to the RAF, and the Boeings lifted off the following evening with night sights. They flew across to northern France, to Belgium and to Holland, to where we knew the Germans had forward airfields, their medium bombers soon hit by RPGs and set alight, sixty aircraft destroyed on the ground. It was a devastating blow, forward German bases moved back, back beyond the RAF’s range.
Not much was going right for the Germans at the moment, apart from the fact that they now controlled three countries. With the RAF’s airfields taking damage, we decided to turn up the heat a little more, and nudged Churchill to bomb a town in the Ruhr valley using Wellington bombers, a night raid.
‘If we hit the Ruhr, he’ll hit London,’ I pointed out to Jimmy as we sat in the town’s Chinese restaurant.
He took a moment to chew his food. ‘I had figured we’d spare the population a while longer, but … but I have a mind to attack a few German cities, and to do that we need the Luftwaffe bombing London first. Besides, when they start bombing British cities we can get the newspapers over here fired up.’
‘Play the sympathy card,’ I noted, Jimmy nodding. ‘But the Americans are focused on the Philippines; be hard to get them fired up about Europe.’
‘The American Brigade is getting newspaper inches, and we need to do all we can to balance this out, or one side of the campaign will fail and be dragged out.’
‘And Churchill?’
‘It’s not an easy decision for him, since he’ll be seen as the first to attack cities and civilians, and he knows they’ll hit London. But he also knows that we could pound their cities when we choose and shorten the war. So it’s one weighed up against the other.’
It was a difficult decision for Churchill to take, since he knew what the consequences would be. He was confident, but it was an unnecessary escalation ahead of time. The Ruhr town was hit a day later, a town with many factories, modest damage done, but the Germans had to respond in kind to save face. They switched to the night bombing of London, which was what we wanted at this time. And it gave the RAF airfields a break.
In response to the resulting nightly attacks on London, Churchill gave RAF Special Unit One the green light a few days later after consulting with us in code. Six bomber variants took off from Scotland that evening, a course out over the North Sea, over Denmark – not yet occupied, and over the Baltic Sea before turning south, the track flown at seventeen thousand feet, chaff dispensed as the planes crossed the German coastline.
Berlin was covered in cloud, and it was raining, but our aircraft benefited from radio direction finding, three signals being sent from Britain and triangulated, the signals started at a prescribed time only; a burst on for thirty seconds, then off. Tracks were adjusted, maps and watches checked. Aiming for the Chancellery building itself, the final burst corrected flight paths, stopwatches clicked to judge flight time. On the ground, they could hear the heavy drone of bombers just as the first bombs were being dropped.
Nine hundred and eighty bombs were released, two thirds of them being delayed-fuse bombs. No air-raid siren had been sounded as the bombs slammed into the centre of Berlin, the tight grouping causing a rolling ripple of destruction about four hundred yards long for each stick of bombs. Berlin was ablaze, the shock palpable, panic on the streets. Numerous government buildings had been hit, senior officers killed. But as fires raged and people ran around – fire-fighters trying to tackle the blazes, nurses trying to help the wounded - the delayed-fuse bombs went off, one every five minutes.
At dawn, a pawl of smoke hung over the city, fires left to burn, bombs still going off sporadically. The centre of the city was a no-go zone, people afraid to venture out, seemingly random explosions bringing down buildings. And that dragged on all day.
Hitler could not leave his command bunker for two days, furious, which was how we wanted him to be. He directed all of his aircraft towards London, our prop fighters sat ready with the latest night sights.
This was another decision that Churchill feared, as much as welcomed, since the Germans would know the capabilities of our aircraft and change tactic, or adapt, or develop their own night sights if they could.
At the hotel, I sat with Jimmy and Hal after lunch with Susan.
‘Our prop fighters will go up today,’ Hal mentioned. ‘First time.’
I took a moment. ‘We’ve hit Berlin,’ I began. ‘That must have been a shock for them, and now the prop fighters. Is there … a danger of an early collapse?’
‘Unlikely,’ Jimmy responded. ‘Not when ninety-five percent of their army is still in one piece. The Luftwaffe has taken a hit, but not that much more than they did the first time around in our era. Surrender now would be out of the question, and Sykes says that their aircraft production is fantastic now, a few planes a day. If they survive a few months they’ll have filled in the gaps.’
‘And their tactics will change,’ Hal unhappily noted.
Jimmy nodded. ‘We have to get more of their men and armour out of Germany and fighting, or we risk it still being there after a forced surrender. Still, that’s a while away yet.’
Our prop fighters took off in no particular hurry as radar picked up the German aircraft crossing the coast, all anti-aircraft guns ordered to stay silent this night. Fifty of our aircraft went up, each given a different sector and height, and came at the German bombers side on, firing fifty cal rounds with phosphorous. The British anti-aircraft gunners peered skywards as German fighters burst into flames, hitting the ground - only to cause damage where they fell. The waves of bombers came over all night, and all night the fighters shot them down, returning to refuel when necessary.
The morning’s sunshine revealed havoc over the south coast of Britain, crashed German bombers everywhere, fires still burning. But the effect had been devastating for the Germans, unbelievable for the British Government and the British public alike. Four hundred medium bombers had flown across, thirty-eight had returned home safely. The reaction in the German High Command must have been a stunned silence, followed by disbelief.
We didn’t wait to find out what their reaction might be, we launched sixteen bomber variants in daylight, and sent them to Germany. Each bomber had its own target, the day fine and clear, visual bombsights employed. They cruised at seventeen thousand feet, no aircraft the Germans operated getting close. Over their chosen targets they released their bombs, the centres of sixteen cities hit with two hundred and sixty bombs in quick succession, no timed fuses used on this raid.
Returning to re-arm and refuel before dusk, the planes adopted incendiary bombs, designed by us. They returned to their previous targets, each now dropping a hundred and sixty incendiary bombs on a staggered release, from one end of the target cities to the other. Germany was ablaze.
In the days that followed, we saw no practical differences in the resulting German strategy, save that their medium bombers flew at night now, at greater altitude, varying courses, and often through cloud. They still pounded the pocket, and they consolidated their hold on France, a large force tied up attacking the Brest Peninsular. That resistance to the Germans in Brest had attracted volunteers from the local population, who were duly armed, and who now helped out with supplies.
The force in the Brest Peninsular received additional men, four thousand regular British soldiers landing at night by ship, a merchant vessel risking docking and offloading at night. Its munitions were mostly unloaded before it was attacked by German medium bombers at dawn, sinking in an inconvenient spot.
The force fighting on the peninsular possessed no tanks, and fought a guerrilla war with no fixed lines. Their anti-tank RPGs were proven to be most effective early on, German tanks held back as infantry crawled along hedgerows, small groups of men fighting each other close up. Our snipers took a heavy toll of advancing Germans, but most casualties had been inflicted behind the German lines after our people had snuck through the fluid lines and left grenades near German marshalling points or bases. Our people also fixed German positions for attack by the Boeings at night, very effect targeting employed.
The combined force had lost a hundred men killed so far, another sixty flown out and back to Britain by Buffalo transport. Numerous German advances had been allowed to progress, only for the Germans to trip mines or Claymores, or to find our people popping up behind them and causing the Germans to fire towards each other.
Considering the pocket in Antwerp, and our desire to destroy as much German hardware as we could, we sent both the pocket and Churchill a signal. The pocket made ready, and Churchill needed a whisky as he read our note.
That evening, the SAS and SBS in the pocket slipped across to Antwerp in boats as our artillery pounded German anti-aircraft batteries to the west of the pocket. Once in the dark and quiet streets of Antwerp, our troops split up, pistols with silencers used on many unsuspecting German guards.
At the prescribed hour, they approach the main German barracks in the town, another group approaching the police station. Gate guards were cut down with 5mm MP5s fitted with silencers. In position, the men checked their watches, counting down the seconds. At the agreed time a flare was fired into the dark night, Battery Grenades thrown over walls or through windows, more then twenty thrown simultaneously.
The barracks blew apart and collapsed, survivors picked off as the police station erupted, those combined actions drawing German reinforcements from the east. A small group of SBS waited for them as the remainder of the force crept through the town looking for German soldiers emerging from houses, bars or brothels. As the reinforcements arrived, headed by light tanks, the bridge they started across blew, grenades now detonating back along the road, the column devastated. It also meant that the good citizens of Antwerp would have a long way to go to leave the town.
Northeast of Antwerp, several other bridges blew, most dotted with German guards that had been dead long before the bridges blew. The SBS fought quietly through the port, and by dawn there were no German units left operating in or around Antwerp. As the sun rose, the fixed-position anti-aircraft units were attacked en masse by British soldiers who had crept forwards during the night. Having captured the anti-aircraft units for thirty men killed or wounded, the guns were loaded and turned west, fired off at random at the minimum elevation, thousand of rounds dispensed, no particular targets in mind.
That barrage went on all day, our artillery and MLRS joining in and using a large part of their stocks. Any and all German units within five miles of the edge of the pocket were hit, repaired roads dug up by falling shells, a curtain of smoke hanging around the pocket all day. As darkness fell on what had been a very loud day, our tanks moved to the southern end of the pocket, our half-tracks with 105mm to the east, right up to the canals.
Supplies continued to be landed by Buffalo, the anti-aircraft units still firing outwards and making a racket, as twelve thousand British soldiers landed by ship in the port and by landing craft on the estuary. The existing Canadian and British positions displayed three vertical green lights, the soldiers moving into the pocket and to the stores of weapons and ammo. RPGs were broken out, one between two men, with each man carrying ten projectiles. Weighted down, the soldiers walked southwest and towards the tanks.
At dawn the tanks moved forwards, the anti-aircraft positions abandoned and blown up, the German’s now receiving reports of tanks pushing south. They mobilized. Our lead tank units pushed on, firing at any German units encountered, a wide front created. Each main tank was at least a quarter of a mile from its nearest neighbour, light tanks behind them, infantry in jeeps further behind. The tanks met stiff resistance as they advanced, but easily destroyed those German tanks that they encountered, our light tanks moving in fast to attack infantry or armoured cars. Overhead, the Luftwaffe turned out in force, fighters and Stukas attempting to hit our advancing units whilst the RAF threw everything it had at the Luftwaffe.
Reaching the outskirts of Brussels at dusk, our tanks took up position over the main roads, the infantry catching up and digging in. The fighting raged all night along a wide front, RAF Boeings with night sights brought in when German convoys were spotted in the distance. During the night, a steady stream of Buffalos landed with supplies, another nine thousand men landing in Antwerp, most destined to hold the canals and rivers whilst their colleagues moved west. The town of Gent was taken by infantry during the night, light tanks pushing up to the coast and into Dutch territory.
At dawn, the main force of our tanks moved west, and met a German armoured division head on. A fierce battle raged all day, both the Luftwaffe and RAF trying to attack each other’s ground units, as well as tangle with each other overhead. At 3pm, with the Germans bunched up and reinforcing, a line of sixteen heavy bombers came in from the north at fifteen thousand feet, carpet bombing the German positions.
Through the smoke and the confusion, our main force inched forwards, MLRS and artillery raining down ahead of the line of tanks, all carefully coordinated. Fighting erupted at close quarters, our tanks firing on German medium tanks from fifty yards, light tanks ramming German cars or running over German infantry, the Canadian Rifles coming in behind in jeeps, automatic fire and RPGs used at close quarters. The battle raged till sundown, small engagements fought throughout the night.
Sykes intercepted the relevant German signals, the Germans throwing everything they had at the pocket, many units from Germany heading towards Belgium through the night. The first of those units figured that the eastern end of the pocket was empty, and so approached the canals to try and get infantry across. They were met with aggressive RPG fire, mortar fire, and sniper fire, the 105mm hitting vehicles at distance. The rear of the pocket was safe for now.
By dawn, our advancing units had moved to the coast and regrouped, supply trucks brought up, a rest taken, the main battlefield left behind. All of our main tanks were in one piece, but four light tanks had been destroyed, eighty infantrymen killed, twice that number wounded. But during the night the entire British Airborne Brigade had parachuted into the pocket, some eight hundred men. Issued RPGs, mortars, AK47s, they moved south and towards Brussels, where a remnant of our tanks still held the line. Before dawn the British Airborne had moved men into Brussels itself, fighting the Germans street by street, whilst the Canadian SAS and SBS had penetrated deeply around Brussels to the south side, roads and bridges blown, German units harassed all night long.
Sat studying a map of the enlarged pocket, I was wondering what must have been going through the minds of the High Command. Common sense was not at the fore, that was for sure, because they clogged the roads on the Belgian/German border. The RAF heavy bombers returned an hour after dawn, and found the choke points we had been hoping for. Sticks of bombs fell on road convoys, the convoys decimated, the roads made impassable. That was the cue for the Spitfires to cover our prop fighters as our prop fighters headed for those same roads, well within range from Dover.
RPGs streaked down at the convoys, at trains, and at trucks parked waiting, at any target of opportunity, more than eighty prop fighters now deployed on this one raid. They flew in at low level to Antwerp, turned southeast and made their attack runs, flying back out at low level and high speed a different route to avoid collisions. Refuelled and re-armed, they each flew three sorties that day, the RAF kept busy above. We lost two to a collision, two more to random ground fire and lucky hits, but the German Army lost a great deal more on the ground. Thirty miles of roads had been turned into a killing ground, the haste of the re-supply contributing greatly to the damage done on the ground.
As night fell, RAF Boeings with night sights lifted off, attacking German positions around Calais, and to the west of where the main battle had taken place, hundreds of sorties flown that night. I sent the US President a note: ‘Will it just be Britain occupying Germany?’
He could see the pocket, and the fact that it was growing. He also received updates on the casualties that the Germans had received, but so far there was no movement by the US military towards Europe. The American Brigade were doing well, inflicting casualties each day, and so far not dislodged from their lofty firing points, the Italians suffering greatly and throwing away men in anger and frustration. The Italians predicament was not about to get any better.
Desert rats
Ngomo had moved the tank brigade from Chad to Tunisia when the British and French Brigades had left. Supplemented with Kenyan Rifles, that tank brigade now consisted of forty main tanks, sixty light tanks, forty half-tracks and a hundred or more jeeps. The Brigade assembled near the coast, and moved over the border, air cover provided by two squadrons of prop fighters based in the Tunisian desert.
The Italian units they encountered were swept aside and massacred, tanks rolling over trenches, through buildings, crushing vehicles. Forty miles in, and they came across the first German armour, engaging it as the prop fighters tangled with 109s and 190s in the skies above. Our tanks moved to within six hundred yards, taking hits and near misses before opening up and destroying thirty German medium tanks. With the Germans withdrawing, our tanks pressed on at speed, hitting each German half-track as our light tanks circled around to the south. At the same time as our pocket in Belgium was preparing to break out, an entire German armoured brigade had been wiped out in western Libya. That achieved, the unit pulled back and waited.
In Ethiopia, meanwhile, Abdi went “all in” and attacked with every man he had at his disposal, the Kenyan Rifles attacking from the northwest. Italian and German units were wiped out, or pushed back towards the centre of the country. But with much of the terrain mountain goat country, the going was slow, jeeps not much use in many places.
At the hotel in Trophy, Susan joined Jimmy and me as we sat with coffees. ‘How’s the pocket?’ she enquired.
‘They’ve achieved their aim,’ Jimmy began, ‘in that they’ve dragged in many of the reserves from Germany. A side aim has been to wear down the best German armour, and to bunch them up for aerial attack. That’s all going well.’
‘And British morale must have received a boost,’ she suggested.
Jimmy nodded. ‘From Dunkirk to Antwerp – in a roundabout sort of way.’
‘The Brest peninsular is holding out as well,’ I put in. ‘And the American Brigade in the south. So they can hardly claim to have quelled France or Belgium.’
‘And in Libya they lost a whole armoured brigade,’ Jimmy told Susan before grabbing a biscuit. ‘Heavy casualties in Ethiopia as well now.’
‘Could Italy be separated from Germany ahead of time?’ she asked.
‘Good question,’ Jimmy responded, facing me.
‘They’re taking a lot of casualties, but the idiot at the top doesn’t give a crap,’ I said.
‘Then maybe … we use the bombers to make him give a crap,’ Jimmy suggested.
I shrugged. ‘Would have to hit Rome, but then have decade of grief from art lovers the world over.’
‘It would be the RAF, not us,’ Jimmy pointed out.
‘You’d hit Rome?’ Susan asked.
‘Half the Italians don’t want the war,’ I pointed out. ‘If they got a shock and a jolt ... maybe that would be enough.’
‘They can see the fighting in France,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘So they must be wondering already if the Germans can pull it off. And a few more weeks like this … and the Germans will be wondering if they can pull it off.’
Churchill risked sending a troopship at night to Brest, another two thousand men disembarked safely with supplies. Feeling confident, Churchill then made use of our gliders and sent more men across, this time with RAF engineers aboard. They set up at the abandoned airfield, Boeings soon flying in, the kettle on for a good old English cuppa, an operational base created.
Since the prop fighters were – technically - under his control, he ordered them to hit the areas beyond the German lines in Brest, day and night for two days, three aircraft lost to ground fire. Fifty aircraft hit the Germans near Brest, the remainder supporting the pocket. The heavy bombers had returned to the Belgian/German border after their initial attacks, the RAF utilising Wellingtons and Blenhiems at night, our RAF bomber variants in the daytime.
At the pocket, the tanks crept west a few miles every day, more men and machines landing at night, a few re-supply boats sunk at the hands of German surface craft and shore batteries. The British soldiers holding the canals, those marking the easterly side of the pocket, were tested every day - and every night, artillery wounding many, but no significant force had yet been able to cross the canals and rivers. What the Germans now feared was that Calais would be threatened, as we hoped they would. Units that should have been attacking Poland, into Denmark, or fighting in North Africa, were being tied up in northern France.
Seeing our tanks creep towards Calais along the coast, the Germans went all out and attacked from the west, but that simply put them closer to an obvious aerial attack, the prop fighters based less than thirty miles away. From take-off, those fighters could hit German convoys in under six minutes, and did so often, a round the clock carousel of aircraft attacking. Our airfield near Dover had been struck many times by German medium bombers, but that simply meant that the RAF had to fill holes in, the grass strip an easy item to repair, the aircraft well dispersed. Any aircraft destroyed on the ground would be as the result of unlucky hits.
Boeing delivered another two hundred aircraft to the RAF, all Mark 6s, the deliveries made after an epic flight from Seattle via Canada, Greenland, Iceland and Scotland, many stops made along the way, drop tanks utilised. If was fair to say that if an aircraft made it, it passed the initial test stage, the log book getting a tick in the right box. Three had disappeared over the north Atlantic, the pilots never picked up, and two crashed, but speed in delivery was of the essence. The aircraft were pressed into service with hardly time to cool their engines, soon hitting German convoys in northern France, or in Belgium. In particular, they were used to attack fixed positions around Calais, and in the port itself.
Those pinpoint attacks served two purposes: to weaken the German grip on Calais, and to convince the Germans that we were trying to weaken their grip on Calais. Day and night the Calais region was hit, Spitfires tangling with German fighters high overhead. With German units tied up in that region, Churchill sent thirteen thousand men in ships to Brest during a storm, a rough crossing for the nervous men. With the RAF providing air cover, the men and the machinery were quickly offloaded, soon heading south down the peninsular, British light tanks and medium tanks in the mix.
That gave the High Command a headache, since they were now facing an attack from the rear, a large-scale attack, whilst still taking heavy casualties around the Antwerp pocket and losing the air war. But their aircraft still hit London and other British cities at night, for all the good it did them.
Spain then finally came around to our point of view, no longer fearing an attack from Germany. Months of negotiations, and the dangling of large carrots, finally tipped the balance. British ships docked in ports in northern Spain and on the south coast, troops allowed to advance on the Spanish/French border, the airfields we had created pressed into service and taken over by the RAF. Boeings, Wellingtons and Blenhiems soon started to hit targets in central and southern France, British soldiers on the border finding little in the way of German units to harass.
I sent the US President another note: ‘Won’t be long now before Britain liberates France, a triumphant stroll through the Arc De Triomphe by Churchill.’
The city of seven hills
Figuring we should give Rome a taste of what Berlin had suffered, the RAF loaded twelve aircraft with incendiary bombs, and sent them off in daylight. They flew over the Alps, the Italians aware of their approach well in advance, but unable to do anything. The bombers reached Rome, fair weather highlighting the ancient city, and dropped almost two thousand bombs, spread right across the city. The tail aircraft circled for thirty minutes, reporting the city to be shrouded in smoke from end to end.
The effect on Italian morale was great, the firestorm raging for three days and killing thirty thousand people, thousands of buildings destroyed by those “Vandals” the RAF. Rome effectively ceased to be the Italian capital, the seat of government moved to Milan, Sykes reported. Even the Vatican suffered serious damage.
But we were yet to see a pull back by Italian units anywhere. Their casualties in Ethiopia were high, and any sane leader would have withdrawn. Jimmy sent Mac a note, and the tank Brigade in Libya moved forwards again. The German advance in Egypt had stalled, and had become an infrequent artillery duel, re-supply an issue for the Germans; tanks and men were needed elsewhere.
Hearing that the Italian Government had moved to Milan, we sent our bombers there at night a few days later, the aircraft arriving just at dawn. They hit the city with as many incendiary bombs as Rome, the Renaissance city soon ablaze, most of the museums destroyed, their ancient artworks destroyed. Seeing an opportunity, the RAF in Malta sent all of its medium bombers to Naples that evening, much damage caused, fires started.
But neither the Italians nor the Germans were in a mood for a step back from war, at least their governments weren’t. But in Italy, the mood of the people was changing to one of “look what that idiot dictator has brought upon us”. Sykes reported dissent in the streets, and we saw an opportunity. We could have hit additional Italian cities, as we could have done in Germany, but we didn’t want an end to German aggression yet. Italy was a different case, since we knew that they were fifty-fifty, and would not be a problem after the war if their soldiers went home.
Mac sent our prop fighters up from Kenya to join those already in Tunisia. From there they hopped across to Malta, the black faces of some of the pilots causing a bit of a stir. The RAF were handed twenty of them, crossover training simple enough, a test flight causing huge silly grins on the faces of pilots who thought that a Spitfire was good. Within a day of arriving, the aircraft were being armed, RPGs flown up by Buffalo, along with plenty of fifty cal ammo. The prop fighters flew out the next day with Spitfires high above, and battered an Italian convoy heading for Libya. Ships caught fire, munitions exploding.
With that success under their belt, they next hit several ports in Sicily, mass attacks with Spitfire top-cover. And once the RPGs had been expended, the prop fighters climbed and joined the Spitfires engaging Italian and German aircraft. With drop tanks fitted, they next hit the toe and heel of Italy - as well as the soft bit in the middle, ships set alight in port, convoys struck as they left port or attempted to return. To add insult to injury, they fitted their night sights and attacked the Italian ports at night, in addition to those convoys who falsely believed that darkness may offer them some protection.
Supplies in Libya had already been short thanks to RAF Blenhiems attacking convoys, but now the Italian enlisted men on the ground would start to feel the effects.
At the hotel, I said to Jimmy, ‘We need to remove the Italian leadership. Then … maybe there’ll be a power struggle and a surrender.’
‘Sykes has contacts in their communist cells, people he met in the Spanish Civil War. If they could pin-point the leaders position…’
I sent Sykes a note, then one to Churchill, who liked the idea. All we needed was to know where the Italian leadership were meeting, and where they slept at night. Reports came back almost straight away, Sykes in contact with communist agents by radio, coded messages exchanged. The Italian military junta met at a barracks outside of Milan, no one knowing where they slept. Hell, it was worth a try, we decided.
Eight bombers took off four hours before dawn the next day, kitted with thousand pound bombs for the penetration of the old castle that was the barracks. They reached Milan just before dawn, and used visual sighting of the barracks to make final adjustments as they approached. Each aircraft dropped forty bombs without staggering the release, the aircraft bouncing upwards after the bombs had been dropped. The barracks and its surrounding area were hit several times, smoke and dust preventing accurate bomb assessment.
What we didn’t know at the time was that the person we wished to kill was out for an early morning horse ride. With bombs going off nearby, his horse had bolted, throwing its rider, who suffered a broken neck. The man was still alive, but would not be holding any meetings for a while. Sykes reported a change of leadership, and we puzzled it, no reports of the deaths of any of the senior leaders. That new leader then stood at a balcony in Milan, and gave a speech, vowing to fight on. His speech ended abruptly, a single shot to the chest from across the square; the Italians were changing leaders as fast as their governments in our ear.
A new man stepped forwards, only this time not wanting to give a speech in public. He suggested a “withdrawal with honour” from Africa, as the British has suggested before leaving Palestine. He lasted a day, his own people killing him. Rioting and protesting on the streets followed, and those daft enough to still want the job finally figured that the war was a bad idea. They sat and discussed what to do, and agreed to a withdrawal from Africa and an end to hostilities – but not a surrender. That they announced, and that made the Germans mad.
Abdi was asked to allow the Italians to surrender and to leave, but not with any weapons or equipment, the British notified of that fact. Mac was so advised, and the tank brigade would target Germans only from this point forwards. The RAF in Malta stopped attacking convoys and Italian ports, but made use of the confusion to launch an all-out dawn raid against two bases used by the Germans, attacking the German aircraft as they sat on the ground, and destroying many.
With that last punch thrown at Italy, our prop fighters and their RAF pilots were flown off Malta and to Algiers. Refuelled, they flew across to Spain, and to the southerly airstrip that the RAF now operated from, to be gainfully employed in attacking German vehicle convoys across the border in France.
In Hong Kong, Big Paul had fought the Japanese to a standstill, not least because the prop fighters went up each day and tore up the roads, and any make-do bridge repairs. The eight thousand British soldiers garrisoned in the colony were now proficient with AK47s and RPGs, and so were sent out to attack the Japanese west of the colony, a front started.
Mao had taken delivery of almost fifty thousand AK47s and a great deal of ammunition, his men now to be seen carrying RPGs. The Japanese losses were astonishing, astonishing in that they kept fighting. Still, it was what we wanted, that cruel wear down of Japanese resolve through the removal of its young men. A food convoy, protected by the Royal Navy, finally arrived in the besieged colony, docking at night, the Royal Navy now venturing as far east as their own colony, the one they were supposed to have been protecting all along.
In the Philippines, supply lines were back to where they had been previously, Japanese ships now wary of the submarines that lurked beneath the waves. That meant a conference was called for, and we flew down to Chicago, the President and his team flying up to meet us.
Aboard his aircraft, I said, ‘This old bird still flying?’
‘I have it on good authority from your salesman, that she’ll fly for another twenty years,’ the President quipped.
‘If only everything in life was that reliable, eh?’ I commented, getting a look from Jimmy as we sat.
The President took his glasses off and cleaned them as drinks were brought in, just Jimmy and myself sat opposite the President and the Secretary for War. With his glasses back on, he said, ‘The Philippines now resembles Flanders of the last war - mud and fighting, but little progress.’
‘Except the large number of casualties on the Japanese side,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘Or so I’m lead to believe.’
‘They throw themselves at us with a religious fervour, and when wounded try and set-off grenades to kill themselves along with a few of our soldiers,’ the President noted. ‘An occupation of Japan seems … like throwing men onto a fire and asking them to stand guard for a while.’
‘A good reason why few Japanese soldiers should return home,’ Jimmy pointed out.
‘Do the Germans in Europe fight like that?’
‘No,’ Jimmy emphasised. ‘Although they have their pride and arrogance.’
‘It seems that the situation there is changing rapidly, Italy now out of the war, the British attacking into France – as Paul points out to me often.’
‘We aim to force a surrender by the end of August,’ Jimmy informed them. ‘One way … or another.’
The President glanced at Jimmy over the top of his glasses. ‘You’re confident of that?’
‘We are, we could end it in a day,’ I put in. ‘We’re not doing that because we’re trying to wear down the German armour, as much as their resolve, so that they don’t survive to come back around later. It parallels your dilemma with the Japanese exactly.’
The President took a moment. ‘Such a … strategy would have us all condemned if known.’
‘Not really,’ Jimmy countered with. ‘You’re trying to safeguard the next generation of Americans by thoroughly destroying the Japanese military. And if we dropped atomic bombs, the number of dead civilians would be higher than the soldiers that we’re suggesting don’t make it home.’
‘And the position around Hong Kong?’
‘We believe that at least sixty thousand Japs have been killed, three times that wounded, and they’re not keen for it to end yet,’ Jimmy reported. ‘Around Manchuria they’re also suffering, and they take daily losses at sea.’
‘And your casualty estimates for the Philippines?’ I asked.
‘Hard to pin down, but we think that over twenty-five thousand Jap soldiers have died, many again wounded. Unsustainable losses.’
‘Depends on how fanatical they are, and how ruthless the leadership is,’ Jimmy stated. ‘The Japanese are not like the Italians.’
‘And do you believe that they will break?’
‘Only after horrific losses, and after a devastating strike on Japanese cities,’ Jimmy coldly stated. ‘Not before. We can’t judge them by our standards, Mister President.’
The President slid over a sheet of paper. ‘Your aircraft carrier floated today, so we’ve bought it.’
‘That’s more money than it cost us to build it, so you’re in credit,’ Jimmy told him.
‘Kind of you. Boeing are flying planes onto it now, and she’ll set sail as soon as humanly possible, delivering aircraft to the Philippines. Hope to have those subs ready soon.’
‘And if they were ready, what would be your strategy?’ I asked.
‘To sink as many Jap ships as possible, of course.’
‘Perhaps, if those subs were strung out around Japan, they’d prevent infantry returning from China, as well as supplies leaving,’ I suggested. ‘Combined with the other subs, the stranglehold would be … effective.’
‘It’s something we considered ourselves,’ the Secretary for War stated.
‘And if Japan decided to unilaterally halt hostilities and withdraw its troops…’ I posed.
‘What do you mean?’ the Secretary asked.
‘Would you be happy for a ceasefire, and for those troops to go home?’ I pressed.
‘You seem to be suggesting that surrender is total,’ the President noted. ‘And I agree. Any half-measure would simply be pushing a problem off onto the next administration.’
‘So we throw a necklace around Japan,’ I said. ‘A necklace of subs. That will attract its destroyers home as well.’
‘And then?’ the President nudged.
Jimmy eased forwards. ‘And then, when the time is right and you agree, we’ll level a few Japanese cities for good measure, but without using atom bombs. That will force a surrender, an absolute and unconditional surrender.’
I now eased forwards. ‘The exact same principle applies to Germany, although the way it’s going there will be British tanks in Paris by the weekend.’
‘We’re very stretched,’ the Secretary suggested. ‘A second front in Europe would be very hard for us right now.’
‘Then you’ll not shape the future of Europe,’ I stated.
Jimmy added, ‘You have only a matter of four to eight weeks to move troops to Europe, should you wish to shape a future Europe. Twenty-five thousand men should do it, landed in southern Spain.’
‘We’ll look at resources,’ the President offered.
‘Four weeks of submarine activity around Japan could make a big difference,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘A big difference.’
They exchanged looks.
Back in Canada, we signalled Big Paul, and he spoke to the naval representative at his hotel command post, who would then signal our subs at a prescribed time each evening. One was heading back to re-arm anyway, the other not far behind it. Both would now be tasked with patrolling the waters off Japan itself, joining the four others, who the President had dispatched from the waters off Hawaii. En route, the subs were ordered to damage as many Japanese ships as possible.
Second wind
Sykes now reported that German factories were increasing aircraft production, and that designers were seeking higher and faster aircraft. Well, that would take them a year or so at least. We aimed to have this wrapped-up before then.
After a lull of a week, we returned to the heavy bombing of German cities. Twelve aircraft hit Berlin in the daylight, a staggered release of bombs that blanketed the city and left it shrouded in smoke and dust. Then, after much debate, it was judged time to test the fuel-air explosives. Hamburg was picked, a night raid, four bombs per plane, two aircraft on the raid. The bombers left not long after sundown, the wind speed over the target good – in that it was low, and reached the target by following coastline and rivers, a final fix from the RAF’s directional radio bursts. From ten thousand feet, the bombs were dropped with breaks of ten seconds, not wanting one to affect another, their chutes seen to open on time.
With the bombs drifting down, residents peering up at them, stopwatches were stared at before the crew of the lead aircraft banked steeply to peer down. A bright flash lit-up the dark city below, the city’s features suddenly clear and looking like a road map, followed by three more bright flashes at ten-second intervals. But each bright flash did not simply flare and die, each point of bright light did not diminish completely. After each flash a large area would glow and burn, the areas soon joined and overlapping, the four explosions setting the city ablaze.
What the pilots didn’t know, what we wouldn’t know for a few days, was that the super-heated gas had set alight everything beneath the bomb, including people. The bomb pattern had been random, but unlucky for the city. Every area of the built-up centre had been touched, explosions overlapping, the resulting firestorm moving outwards quickly, air sucked in – and out of the lungs of the citizens. An estimated eighty thousand people died in the first half hour, a further hundred and thirty thousand during the night, the fire never ending and fanned by light flames in the morning, moving out to the surrounding farms. Smoke killed people miles away, as well as everyone housed in the numerous concentration camps and work camps that the city operated.
When I read the report I was stunned, and horrified, everyone was, even Jimmy became reflective. Hamburg no longer existed. And probably two hundred thousand people had died.
Churchill sent a note. ‘What a terrible business war is, and what terrible people are we that we engage in war. Considering certain special bombs, I am sick to my stomach.’
A few around the hotel were a bit sick as well, heads low, no smiles on faces, the US President asking if either we or the British had used an atomic bomb. We may as well have, it may have saved some suffering.
The US President had seen the figures about Hamburg, staggered by them, and was not feeling like Britain needed much help right now. But this was politics, post war politics, and the shape of the future. America declared war on Germany a day later, citing attacks on convoys, US troops dispatched in haste.
Unable to sleep that night, and a fidget, I threw on a robe and stepped out at 3am, finding Hal sat nursing a drink. It looked like whisky. ‘You’re up late,’ I softly stated as I sat. A second glass lay there, a little whisky in the bottom still. I topped it up.
‘Just sat thinking,’ Hal commented before taking a sip. ‘You know, I never really knew my father, he … he hit the bottle and left when I was eight, maybe nine. He had post traumatic stress disorder, but back then no one gave a fuck; half the returning soldiers had it.
‘I hated him of course, leaving like that, but years later I tracked him down, was going to give him a good beating. I found a broken down old man that screamed at night, seeing his buddies blown to pieces in some shit-hole jungle. And he had been bayoneted twice in the guts by the Japs, spent a long while in a field hospital.’
‘Have you looked to see what he’s doing on this world?’ I asked, staring into my drink.
‘He’d be in high school now, soon to flunk out and get a job as a car mechanic. He’d be drafted in … 1942.’
‘Not this time around, we’ll be done by then. Your other you may be born to a … dad that stays at home.’ I sipped my drink. ‘Your younger self never wanted to settle down?’
‘Wanted to, sure, was just crap with girls.’ We laughed. ‘If the right one had come along, sure, but when Vietnam heated up I figured some adventure might be nice. First real sex I had was in Vietnam, blowjob from a cute little hooker, and I thought the place was great. Beer was cheap, flying was great.’
‘How long was it before you became disillusioned?’
‘Wasn’t the fucking VC that did that, it was my own people; they didn’t know what they were fighting for, and they didn’t care. And that attitude spoilt it early on, maybe eight weeks into it. You know, I was sat in a bar one night, a base bar, and some sergeant got drunk and blew his own brains out right there. I was horrified, but half the people just kept drinking, some stepping over him.’
‘Any ... problems with this war?’ I ventured.
He took a sip. ‘Like everyone here, I’d rather fly white Hueys to rescue people, but I know what we’re doing is right, and shortening the war. Not looking forwards to what comes after.’
‘After?’
‘Cold War American politics, the worst – and in some cases the best - political leaders we ever produced.’ He looked up. ‘Have we shot Nixon yet?’
I smiled. ‘I’m not sure, I’ve not seen him on any lists.’
‘We put some right idiots into the White House. But not this time, this time we do it right; our way.’
I raised my glass. ‘To screwing with the establishment.’ We clinked glasses.
‘Next week I’ll fly to Britain, I’ve persuaded Jimmy.’
‘Bombing?’ I softly enquired, swirling my drink.
‘Jet bombing; precision.’
‘F15s?’
He nodded.
‘I envy you, Hal.’
‘And I envy you.’
I lifted my eyes for a moment, then just nodded gently. Slipping into bed with Susan, she complained about my cold hands. ‘I wouldn’t swap you for a job flying fast jets.’
‘You can fly fast jets if you want,’ she softly commented.
‘I can?’
‘Yes, because having your balls cut off will make the harness more comfortable.’
A note from Sykes suggested that the Italians in Ethiopia were just about to run out of supplies before they agreed to stop fighting. It wasn’t a surrender as such, just an offer to stop fighting. Meanwhile, the combined Kenyan Rifles and Canadian tank brigade decimated a second German armoured brigade in the Libyan deserts, and now reached the outskirts of Bengasi. With the RAF, and now the Royal Navy, hitting supply convoys, the Germans left in the region would suffer a serious lack of anything explosive to fire off at the British.
‘The Germans will have to invade Italy,’ I said. ‘To attack Malta, re-supply Crete, and to re-supply their people in Libya. They won’t abandon them.’
‘He’s not that stupid, and he doesn’t have the men or equipment,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘He may have in a year, but not now.’
The next day a note arrived: Germany was moving into Italy. We were stunned.
‘I knew there was a reason we never assassinated Hitler,’ Jimmy said. ‘This is suicide for them, real brinkmanship.’
‘He’ll try and open the supply routes and … probably he’ll try and win in North Africa.’
Jimmy was sat shaking his head. ‘Incredible. He’s handing us France and losing the war.’
‘He attacked Russia in our era. Now that … was incredibly poorly judged.’
‘Get a map of Italy.’ We sat about the map. ‘Here,’ Jimmy said. ‘Choke points on the roads, and rail track close by. And I fancy Ancona as a stopping-off point.’
Churchill received a note, the RAF bombers re-directed immediately. First the bombers flattened the port of Ancona in daylight, devastating the small town. Next the bombers hit a road north of Rome that both ran next to rail lines, and was suitably bracketed by hills, a stretch of it some two miles long destroyed. Three aircraft from that mission hit a road on the east coast, and the RAF followed up the next day by flattening Brindisi on the heel of Italy.
Any movement by train or by road would now be hampered for weeks, and that was all that we figured we’d need; there would be no one left in Libya to re-supply by then.
In France, the Brest pocket was being contained, in that the Germans were containing the British armour despite air attacks day and night, and the Belgian pocket was also being contained, but at great cost. In Brest, close to six hundred wounded men had been returned by ship or plane to Britain, and around the pocket we now listed a thousand men dead, mostly from the British units fighting around Brussels.
We had no idea of German loses, but they must have been staggering considering the daily air strikes, and the destruction of armour and vehicles. The roads from Belgium into Germany were still blocked, and still subject to attack, alternate routes being used by the Germans. And the Germans didn’t seem to be short of fighters, 190s and 109s constantly in the air and attacking the RAF. We were down more than twenty prop fighters, mostly as a result of large calibre ground fire, a few lost to collisions.
Having bombed strategic sites in Italy, the RAF heavy bombers turned their sights on the Ruhr Valley, and to aircraft factories, daylight raids peppering factories with delayed-fuse bombs. They also hit road and rail links around Essen, and points close to the Belgian border, at a time when the US Army was gearing up to cross the Atlantic.
The terrible destruction of Hamburg was having little effect on the Germans - that we could see, but it was an odd situation. They must have known that the RAF could damage other cities just as badly, even Berlin, but the Germans were fighting on without a pause. If anything, they were gearing up and getting more aggressive in their tactics. The pocket was shelled each day, bombed at night, and we wondered just how much more they could throw at it. It seemed that men and machines alike were coming off the factory lines and being sacrificed, more to be produced the following week.
At Trophy, we still had a stockpile of prop fighters under sheets, and now sent them on a long journey towards Britain, drop tanks fitted, numerous stops along the way to be negotiated, weather permitting. Hal was also about to make a long flight, because the jets would not have appreciated a long sea voyage. I flew up to Lemming Base to see him off, eight jets about to give the Germans something else to think about.
‘All set?’ I asked him, finding him sat in the pilot’s lounge next to the control tower. The other pilots waved or nodded.
‘Had a laxative off Susan yesterday, we all did,’ he informed me. ‘Long way to go if you want to take a dump. Still, the bird will be carrying me twenty pounds lighter.’
We laughed.
‘You take a drink and some food?’
He nodded. ‘With drop tanks we can go almost eight hours; you do get peckish.’
‘You going to stay over there a while?’
‘May be a need for me to take up the B52, but not for a month or so. I can come back if necessary. Besides, we have plenty of lads here who can handle her; she’s an obliging lady and good to young pilots.’
He took me for a walk to the hangars, showing me the latest variant Cobras and Hueys. ‘We shipped out eight Cobras to Britain, and eight Hueys. Be there in a week or less.’
‘Be vulnerable to fighter attack,’ I thought out loud.
‘Cobra has all over armour, but I wouldn’t want to put it to the test,’ Hal commented. ‘They were supposed to go to Ngomo and the desert, but that campaign should be over soon.’
‘Well, Hitler is moving men south down through Italy, so he’ll try and re-supply Libya. We know he landed a convoy at night in Crete, a few transport aircraft. If he does try and send more equipment we’ll let him; the more damaged kit the better.’ I peeked into the cockpit of a Cobra, wishing I could fly one, even into battle.
I spent the night in the subterranean hotel, a Chinese meal with Hal and Hacker, which went straight through them, and at 5am I stood on the control tower roof. The jets all displayed two large drop tanks, and now screeched around the taxiway on this pleasant morning. They moved onto the runway one at a time, powered up and disturbed the tundra with a roar as they lifted their noses, gear up and a gentle turn to the right, to the east. I stood and observed all six take off, watching the last aircraft climb away, peace reclaiming the tundra, the midges now left to swarm, mate, and die.
Hal settled back at twenty thousand feet and knocked on the auto-trim, next stop Nova Scotia. Hacker was his “rear” for the flight, and probably for any action they’d see. Both men now looked over their right shoulders, and down at the line of jets following in formation. Each aircraft was around a hundred feet lower, the same distance away laterally.
Hal moved his thumb to transmit. ‘Radio check. Sound off.’ They each reported their radios functioning. With little to do, Hal requested fuel gauges, engine temperatures. ‘Anyone got a pack of cards?’ he finally asked.
Hacker said, ‘I’ve got our radio direction finder on, something ahead, maybe a Goose.’
‘Or Radio Canada,’ Hal quipped.
They noticed the con trail of the Goose below them a few minutes later. Hal altered his radio setting, and transmitted, ‘Columbia Airlines Goose on bearing zero-eight-zero, respond over.’
‘This is Charlie-Alpha seven-two responding.’
‘This is Hal from Trophy Aircraft, five thousand feet above you, passing over the top now.’
‘Hal, you old dog, it’s Bud Swenson.’
‘Bud, you still got acne?’
‘I did have when you taught me to fly, but that was a heck of a long time ago. I can see your trails … what in the heck are you flying?’
‘It’s secret, Bud.’
‘And how fast are you going?’
‘A steady six hundred, taking it easy.’
‘Where ya’ll headed in such a hurry?’
‘England, to do our bit.’
‘I asked if I could go join the RAF over there, and Mister Silo told me no.’
‘We can’t stop the airline, Bud, it makes money to pay the wages of us lazy test pilots. You heading to Toronto?’
‘Vancouver-Toronto run, five days a week. But I’m not complaining, have two little ‘uns in Vancouver and another on the way.’
‘Take it easy, Bud.’
‘Ya’ll have a safe flight, Hal.’
Just under three hours later, Hal led the flight down and to a refuelling stop, the ground crews stood waiting for them, most of the staff at this refuelling point never having seen a jet before. The isolated coastal strip offered a concrete runway, and had been in use for almost twelve years now, right since the early days of the Goose flights to Britain. It wasn’t a scheduled stop, but an emergency runway if need be, its radar and radio direction finding gear assisting aircraft in bad weather, and the first point of contact for aircraft approaching Canada or America.
The pilots clambered down from the jets as their fuel was topped up, the toilets used, coffees downed. The next leg would be attempted in one go, although runways were available in Greenland, Iceland, and the tip of Scotland if need be.
Hal climbed the tower stairs. ‘Keeping busy?’
‘We don’t see much traffic, but we’re always in contact with transiting aircraft, day and night,’ the manager explained.
‘And we’re very popular,’ a second man said, headsets on.
‘Popular?’ Hal queried.
‘Hardly a day goes by when a plane hits some bad weather and needs to check their position. Some pilots do it to break the routine, others because they’re nervous. We give them a bearing and range, and the station up the coast does the same, so that fixes their position well enough. And we give weather updates, course corrections.’
‘A pilot’s best friend,’ Hal noted.
The manager pointed. ‘I know I’m not supposed to ask, but just what in the heck are they?’
‘They’re jet fighters, propellers on the inside, and they’ll push over forty thousand feet and a thousand miles an hour.’
‘Jeez.’
‘We’re going to use them against the Germans.’
‘God help those German fellas is all I can say. And they have two tails.’ He shook his head.
Fuel topped up, Hal put on his helmet and climbed up the ladder, Hacker already inside, external power on. The ladder was removed, the canopies closed and locked, a finger tapping the green strip to be sure.
‘External power is on,’ Hacker noted as Hal adjusted his straps. ‘We clear?’
They both checked for ground crew stood too close to the aircraft.
‘Starting one,’ Hacker stated. ‘Starting two. Turbine speed climbing, temperature climbing, hydraulics … at nominal, electrical power good.’ He gave a “thumbs up” to the ground handler, the man pulling out the generator plug and dragging it away. ‘Internal power, all in the green, fuel … right to the brim, windscreen washed. All yours.’
‘Special Flight One to tower, taxiing,’ Hal transmitted, throttling up. At the end of the runway Hal lined up, taking a moment to observe the other F15s as they followed around the taxiway. ‘Special Flight One to tower, any traffic near?’
‘Special Flight One, there’s traffic at fifteen thousand, thirty miles off the coast.’
‘Roger, tower. Taking off.’ Hal eased the throttle forwards, the nose rising and falling, soon racing down the runway and lifting the nose. ‘Under carriage up,’ he said to Hacker.
‘Wheels up, three green lights.’
Hal turned to the east and climbed gently, listening to the other aircraft take off in sequence. At twenty thousand he knocked the auto-trim on, glancing over his right shoulder as the other aircraft moved into position, soon a line of seven aircraft visible.
The course that they were on would put them two hundred miles east of the Greenland strip, the course adjusted afterwards to fly south of Iceland by a hundred miles, and on to the tip of Scotland. It wasn’t the shortest route, but a compromise based on safety. Cockpit heaters were adjusted, the outside air temperature falling rapidly at altitude.
They passed a con trail heading east, another heading west. Hal said, ‘Right now, those pilots are seeing our con trails and wondering just what the hell we are.’
‘UFOs,’ Hacker commented. ‘In a tight formation.’
Hal adjusted his auto-trim at what he figured was the correct point off Greenland, calling out the incremental changes to the other aircraft, changing the compass heading just two clicks at a time and in a coordinated ballet. Off Iceland, pilots were sure that they could see mountains in the distance, to the north. That would put the flight a little too far north. Hacker radioed the two stations in Iceland, getting a bearing. He also now figured they were too far north, auto-trims duly adjust a few degrees south.
Six hours after leaving Nova Scotia, Hal spotted land through the clouds. ‘That’s either Scotland, or we’re going to invade Norway … and upset Jimmy’s plans.’
‘Fly around the coast, and I’ll check the shape on the map.’
‘Hal to flight, adjust auto-trim, nose down two clicks … now. Throttle back one click … now.’
‘That looks like the Isle of Lewis, so we should hit the mainland in a minute,’ Hacker said from the rear. They waited. ‘There. On this track we should have land to the south, water to the north, then and island to the north and a small channel, then we turn due south.’ Ten minutes later, Hacked added, ‘That’s got to be it, it all matches up.’
‘There’s a little channel ahead,’ Hal noted. He hit “transmit” with his thumb. ‘Flight, line astern half a mile, follow me down.’ He knocked off auto-trim and nosed down, throttling back at the same time. Turning south, he followed the Scottish coastline through partial cloud, not much daylight remaining.
After fifteen minutes, Hal called, ‘There, the coast juts out, off to the east.’
‘Follow it, I’ll try their frequency.’ Hacker altered the radio settings. ‘Lossiemouth, this is Special Flight One, receiving, over.’
‘Special Flight One, this is RAF Lossiemouth, we have you on radar. Come to heading zero-nine-three, land east to west, runway lights are on, over.’
Ten minutes later, Hal said, ‘There, two o’clock. I’ll stay on this track at three thousand and come around.’ He pressed “transmit”. ‘Lossiemouth, this is Special Flight One, on approach, three thousand feet, due north of you, coming around, over.’
Banking hard, Hal watched the speed drop, flaps set, undercarriage down, landing lights turned on. Facing west, he could now see the lights of the other aircraft as he lined up with the runway below, the local wind buffeting the plane as she slowed and descended. He touched down smoothly a quarter of the way down the runway, easing down on the throttle but keeping a good speed to clear the runway for the others. Seeing the control tower over his left shoulder, Hal turned left at the end of the runway, bumping along the taxiway to the apron as the other aircraft touched down. He didn’t think they’d be unwelcome, since they were now in RAF colours and roundels.
A ground handler with white coloured sleeves and orange ping-pong bats directed him in, and to a halt, the engine knocked off, the canopy popped to let in the smell of cut grass, and the whine of the engines as they powered down. Ladders were brought up and fixed, RAF crews reaching in to help unbuckle harnesses, and to unplug helmets from radio sets.
‘Got the kettle on, old chap?’ Hal mocked, getting a smile as he clambered down.
An RAF officer approached, a blue-grey uniform with many stripes around his wrists, a few other officers behind him. ‘Welcome to Scotland.’ They shook.
‘I didn’t bring my golf clubs,’ Hal quipped. ‘No room.’ Ground crews now fitted covers to the air intakes, chocks to the wheels in the fading light.
‘This way, we have a few comfy rooms for you, and we’ll get you a hot meal soon enough.’ They set off towards a line of cars. ‘These things you’ve brought look like menacing beasts. And they really fly as fast as they say?’
‘They do,’ Hal confirmed.
‘We have uniforms for you, an assortment, in case you chaps are shot down over France or Germany, and false identity as Canadian fliers serving with us.’
‘It’s been a while since I pressed a crease into a trouser leg,’ Hal said as he and Hacker eased into a car whose doors opened forwards.
‘You each have a batman.’
‘Batman?’ Hacker repeated. ‘Like … Batman and Robin?’
They pulled off, Hal hiding a grin. The officer said, ‘I don’t know what you call them in Canada, here the batmen are … well, batmen. They’ll iron your trouser leg for you.’
‘Cool,’ Hacker said.
‘Perhaps,’ the officer began, ‘you may maintain a lower profile without American slang.’
‘Right oh, old chap,’ Hal mocked.
‘Much better,’ the officer genuinely commended.
Later, in the bar, and stood in the their dark blue RAF uniforms, each now displaying the rank of Pilot Officer, Hacker whispered to Hal, ‘What’s a wizard prang?’
Hal shrugged. The other RAF pilots on the base flew maritime Goose and Avro Anson’s, all keen to learn about the new aircraft, but were also under strict orders not to try and learn about the new aircraft.
‘Are our bombs here?’ Hal asked the senior officer.
‘They came by battleship no less, offloaded down the coast in the dead of night, all very hush hush. Two thousand pound bombs I’m led to believe.’
Hal nodded. ‘They’re designed to punch through ten feet of concrete.’
The officer cocked an eyebrow. ‘What on earth has ten feet of concrete above it?’
‘They have other uses,’ Hal said, deflecting the officer away from the bombs special purpose. ‘If you hit a building they’ll burrow themselves deep before exploding. They’ll bring down a building. We dive onto the target, releasing the bombs at six hundred miles per hour or more. The momentum helps to penetrate buildings.’
‘Seems like a great deal of effort, for just one building,’ the officer noted.
‘I can’t say too much more,’ Hal pointed out with a shrug, his RAF trousers itching, the rest of the pilots feeling odd in the uniforms, all of them Canadians. At least the shoulders all displayed “Canada”.
Hal woke to find a man in a white jacket with a cup of tea. ‘Your tea, sir, you did say 5am.’
Hal sat up and accepted the cup. ‘Thanks, buddy.’
‘I’ll leave the tray there, sir, two boiled eggs with toast, and your uniform is hung up ready.’
‘Thanks, again,’ Hal offered as the man withdrew. ‘He doesn’t look anything like Batman,’ Hal commented before sipping his tea.
At 6am, he met the other pilots on the apron, leather flying jackets all now worn, silly scarfs adopted, Hal shaking his head. The aircraft were now being checked by Canadian engineers from Trophy, three bombs currently attached to each, the drop tanks removed, intake covers removed.
‘Chocks away!’ Hacker shouted, the wheel chocks being removed.
Hal shook his head. ‘This is getting surreal.’
‘Looking forwards to a wizard prang today,’ Hacker added with an accent as they approached their aircraft.
‘What the fuck does that mean?’ Hal asked as they both clambered up the ladders.
‘It means … we had a good day of bombing the shit out of stuff.’
‘Ah.’ Hal eased inside. ‘Did you clean the windscreen?’ he asked a man following him up the ladder.
‘Did you want us to, sir, I could get a rag?’ the man genuinely offered.
‘No, it … er … looks OK. Thanks.’ He strapped in, connecting his helmet to the ejector seat. ‘You hear me?’
‘Yep. And it looks like it’s going to a fine day for blowing shit up.’
Hal faced the man who had removed the ladder. ‘Weapons armed?’
‘Pins removed, sir.’
Hal closed his cockpit and checked the latch. ‘External power is on.’
‘Clear all around?’ Hacker asked. They checked. ‘Starting one … starting two … pressure coming up … temperature rising … hydraulic pressure rising, switching to internal power. On internal, all OK.’
Hal gave the man stood waiting the thumbs up, the external power connector unplugged and removed. ‘Sierra Foxtrot One to tower, engines started. How’s the weather over the Baltic?’
‘Sierra Foxtrot One, weather is clear and fine right across northern Europe, over.’
‘A glorious July day,’ Hacker quipped.
Five minutes later, Hal transmitted, ‘Sound off.’ The flight all reported in. ‘OK, you have your target areas, but it’s all flexible, so radio if you spot a nice big battleship. If you have to ditch, ditch in the water, don’t risk these aircraft ending up on dry land. Roll in sequence when ready.’
‘Tally ho!’ Hacker called.
‘Cut that English crap, huh.’ Hal transmitted, ‘Sierra Foxtrot One to tower, permission to taxi.’
‘Sierra Foxtrot One, you’re clear to taxi, local pattern is clear, light wind from the south west this morning. Have a good flight. Out.’
Hal powered up and knocked off the brakes, the nose rising and dipping slightly as he turned to follow the taxiway, waking the rest of the people on the base. He taxied to the east, turned onto the runway and powered straight up, taking off towards distant hills, the nose soon up, gear up, and a gentle turn to the right out over the North Sea, soon on a heading of one-one-five and cutting back across dry land. Five minutes later they passed over the coast again as they climbed, the wings creating white vortices of vapour as the aircraft passed through layers of moisture, the sun threatening to rise dead ahead of them, the sky now adopting a blue tinge.
Hal kept to ten thousand feet and five hundred miles per hour, but without setting auto-trim; they might run into the Luftwaffe. Approaching the coast of Denmark they both peered down, Denmark not yet invaded and occupied, and ten minutes later they glimpsed the eastern coastline of Denmark.
‘Get your game face on, buddy,’ Hal told Hacker.
‘Bomb releases … armed, showing green. OK, radio direction finder is on … let’s see what we have. Plenty of traffic at two o’clock, which would be over Germany somewhere. Hold on … something at ten o’clock.’
Hal banked left for a few seconds and levelled out, dropping to seven thousand feet, staring down at the black ocean below, a few white crests visible in the dull morning light.
‘Up ahead,’ came from the back. ‘Range on this thing is guesswork. Stay on this track.’
Five minutes later, Hal said, ‘There, big white wake.’ He banked hard over but without turning to the left. ‘That look like a big old battleship to you?’
‘It does, and the British have nothing in this area.’
‘So let’s see if it’s bomb proof then.’ Hal levelled out and carried on in the direction his was facing. After a minute, well out of sight of the battleship, he banked right for a few seconds before turning left in a tight circle, the wings flexing and throwing up vapour. ‘First pass, drop at two thousand,’ he reminded Hacker.
‘Finger is on the switch.’
‘Here we go. Five hundred on the line, seven thousand feet … more or less. I see it, slight angle away from us. Nosing down.’
Hacker called, ‘Six thousand five … six thousand going five-fifty, five thousand five … five thousand going six hundred, four thousand … three five … three … two five … bomb gone.’
Hal pulled the nose up, the g-force pressing them into their seats, soon climbing almost vertically, Hacker turning his head to stare down at the ship past the spine of the F15 and through its twin tails.
‘Jesus,’ Hacker said.
‘What?’ Hal asked, banking over and peering down.
‘That blast was on the far side, not the side we dropped from.’
‘She’s on fire,’ Hal noted as he circled. ‘Shit, she’s listing already.’
‘Look at the size of that damn hole; it’s ten metres across and right up to the deck from the water line. Our bunker buster punched right through and blew a hole on the far side!’
‘At least they work. OK, turning south east, seven thousand, what you got?’
‘OK, radio says … fuck all over the water. Eyeballs Hal, let’s see if we can spot a tub.’
Ten minutes later they spotted a con trail north of them, heading west, but one of their own flight.
‘Something here,’ Hacker called from the rear. ‘Aircraft radio, German voices, one o’clock.’
Hal banked to the right for a second and levelled out.
‘Down there!’ Hacker shouted. ‘Focker with the three engines. A transport.’
Hal eased off the power, banked hard right and came around in a slow circle, Hacker trying to keep a fix on the black-coloured Focker below them. Back facing the transport, Hal nosed down towards it, selecting two guns out of four, on the transport quickly and firing from five hundred yards, a long burst. Pulling up and banking over they could see smoke, the transport turning hard to starboard.
‘Maybe someone important was on board,’ Hacker suggested. ‘OK, what does the magic box say? We have … multiple signals … behind us.’ Hacker swung his head around, partial vapour trails visible above. ‘Could be a squadron of fighters. Step on it buddy, we’re low and slow.’
Hal lifted the nose and powered up. ‘Why don’t we hit Rostock? Bound to be something in port.’
‘It’s not far. Head to the coast, then head west; I think we’re beyond it - to the east of it.’
Seeing the coast, Hal turned right when over it, both men peering down for sign of the port.
‘There, that channel,’ Hacker called. ‘Left of it … a mile.’
Hal banked over.
‘Is that … flack?’ Hacker asked.
‘Yep, that’s flack. They can see our con trail.’
‘There, a tub in port. Two.’
‘Here we go.’ Hal eased back on the power, and nosed down.
‘Seventeen thousand doing four hundred, sixteen … fifteen, five fifty, fourteen … thirteen, six fifty – be supersonic soon, eleven … ten …nine … bomb gone.’
Hal eased the nose up slowly, reaching all the way down to four thousand before levelling off, turning out to sea in a wide circle and climbing.
‘I can see smoke, so we hit something,’ Hacker noted.
‘Could have demolished the cookhouse! Bandits ahead, I can see a flight of them.’
‘One bomb left.’
‘If we can scatter the fighters we’ll hit the port again. Hang on.’ Hal pushed the throttle and pulled the nose up, banking and climbing, now heading straight towards the formation of fighters. A thousand feet below them he lifted the trigger guard and fired a long burst, no way to aim accurately. Smoke burst from two FW190s, the rest scattering, the jet bursting through the middle of the formation at speed.
Powering down, Hal banked and turned back towards the port. ‘Big old fire going down there,’ he commented. ‘OK, one pass, straight at it. I’m going for the tub in the middle dock.’
‘Ten thousand … nine thousand … five hundred … eight thousand seven … six fifty … seven thousand … bomb gone.’
Hal eased the nose up, a repeat of the previous flight path, flack detonating all around. ‘They’re not pleased to see us.’
‘Home for a bite to eat, my breakfast was just fucking egg and toast,’ Hacker complained from the rear. He swivelled his head to the left as far as he could. ‘Secondary explosions, so we hit something.’
Approaching East Anglia, Hacker picked up radio chat, in English. ‘There’s an RAF flight at … eleven o’clock.’
Hal banked and climbed, soon seeing a flight of Spitfires heading north. He powered down, adjusting the nose up. Closing in from below and to the right, he popped up beyond the “tail-end Charlie” and matched speed.
The last aircraft wobbled when he clocked sight of the jet, Hacker waving. Soon all the aircraft of the flight were peering at the F15 lookalike, wondering just what the hell it was. Still, it was in RAF colours. Hal lifted the nose and put on the power. Clear of the flight he flicked on the reheat.
‘Show off,’ Hacker called from the rear as they went super-sonic.
Back at Lossiemouth, a cup of tea and biscuit in the pilot’s room was most welcome. One other jet was back already, having hit three cargo ships and sunk them.
‘We sunk a great big battleship,’ Hal informed them. ‘Then hit two tubs in Rostock port, both set alight.’
‘Not only that, we shot up a Focker three-engined transport and a couple of Focke-Wolfe 190s,’ Hacker mock boasted. ‘And all before lunch.’
Later, in the hotel, I said to Jimmy, ‘Hal must be having fun. Eight capital ships sunk on day one.’
‘One may even be the Bismark; we’ll have to wait and see what Sykes says.’
‘A week of this and they won’t have any ships left,’ I noted.
‘That’s the idea,’ Jimmy said, accepting a coffee from Cookie. He showed me a note.
‘Casualties in the pocket are rising.’
‘I’ve ordered the British back from Brussels, and to the rivers and canals. Yesterday, sixty prop fighters tangled with three hundred German fighters over Belgium, two collisions; we believe that upwards of seventy of theirs were shot down. While that was going on, a mass raid of Boeings pounded Belgium and northern France, four hundred sorties flown in a day, some as far south as the outskirts of Paris.’
‘What did I hear about the French resistance?’
‘They now get into boats down the coast from Brest, and journey up at night, joining up with our people. Churchill gives them weapons and ammo, and they infiltrate the Germans. We flew them a good supply of Battery Grenades, and then air-dropped weapons to a resistance cell around Nantes. Bridges blown, German barracks blown, rail lines; it’s a mess for the Germans.’
‘But they’re still fighting, even after Hamburg.’
‘They’ve now reached all the way down Italy, but the RAF in Malta are pounding the convoys. And tonight is an all out push on the last German division left fighting in Libya, from both sides. We’re in Tripoli, so if they want to land reinforcements it will be an opposed landing.’
‘Italian prisoners?’ I asked.
‘British are housing them in Egypt for now, large camps miles form anywhere, so the Italians won’t be trying to escape. Oh, French Vichy Government tried to meet yesterday, but the resistance blew the building to pieces. Unfortunately, they were in it at the time. Must have set the grenades to one minute - not one hour.’
‘And the French fleet in Algiers?’
‘I’ve asked Churchill to hold off attacking them till the Americans land.’
‘Should be this week,’ I thought out loud.
‘Sixty ships have set sail from the East Coast of America,’ Jimmy mentioned.
I nodded, thinking. ‘Got the stats for our subs?’
Jimmy found a page and read it. ‘Twenty-six ships damaged or sunk in … six days or so.’
‘Unsustainable losses for them.’
‘That word … is being overused, unfortunately, because they’re not letting up. The British have landed seven thousand men in Hong Kong at night, and they’re now on the line.’
‘And the corridor?’
‘Has a burial detail of a hundred men just in the southern sector, kept busy; Mao must be losing a couple hundred a day. I dispatched more prop fighters on cargo ships, a southerly route down and around. The Japs are losing a hell of a lot of men, but they have more to lose than we do.’
I picked up a sheet. ‘Twenty five MLRS put on a ship here?’
‘For the Philippines.’
‘Wouldn’t they do more good in the corridor?’
‘No, because that’s become a hill war. But it’s good to see that the Royal Navy is committed now, pounding ports and coastal positions. Their aircraft now attack Jap ships north of the Philippines.’
‘And our carrier?’
‘Named the USS Trophy,’ Jimmy said with a smile. ‘And being used to simply ferry planes to Hawaii or the Philippines. They’re training the crew and getting used to her as they go, but she will leave her mark in the book of history.’
That mark was almost a stain, when two days later she was caught by four Jap Zeros off a carrier. The USS Trophy had offloaded her cargo of aircraft and was sailing southeast away from the Philippines with a destroyer escort when the Zeros pounced, a chance meeting. Each plane put a bomb into our carrier’s deck, blast and smoke the result. They must have reported her sunk.
But when the smoke of the bombs cleared, and the drone of the aircraft faded, four large holes were left in the flight deck, no damage below. Plates were cut out, new ones welded down, the ship’s crew thankful of Trophy armour.
The next batch of subs were finally ready, completed as our carrier was being tested by the Japanese, and I flew down to launch them officially, each sub hosting five of our engineers as a stopgap measure. The subs were already floating in the dry docks, now wet docks, so I smashed a bottle of champagne against a metal ridge, no other part of the damn sub suitable to smash things against; the bottle would have bounced and given myself or the Admiral next to me a black eye.
The subs set off with a support ship full of the torpedoes we made in Vancouver, and headed out to much fanfare, the Press Corp all seeming to be in uniform these days. I had lunch with Admirals and Captains, talk of Europe and Hong Kong, before venturing out to the airfield. It had sprouted a dozen new buildings, signs pointing every which way.
In the pilots lounge, I met a bunch of fresh-faced youngsters, all looking smart in their brown uniforms. ‘What stage you at?’ I asked one.
‘I’ve completed basic flight training on a Mark One, and moved straight over to a Boeing Mark 4, sir. They’ve shortened the course.’
‘Must be the war,’ I quipped. ‘How many hours are you required to do on the Boeing?’
‘Forty hours basic, then ground attack – that’s three flights, and three days dog fighting skills, sir.’
‘And then … you ship out?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good to meet you, hope it all goes well.’ I found the senior officer in charge. ‘You’re short-cutting the flight training, which means that some of those kids will die real quick.’
‘We have to get them through quickly and get them out to the front.’
‘Quality … means more. Now, whose decision is it – the length of training?’
‘Well … General Herbert.’
‘And where does he live?’
‘Washington.’
I sent the General a shitty note, a copy to the President: ‘Put a freshly trained young pilot in an expensive Boeing Mark 6 and you’ll lose the pilot, as well as the cost of his training and the expensive plane. You are being foolish, and creating a false saving. Extend the training time by two weeks for each pilot, or the release of our advanced aircraft to you may become conditional on suitable pilots with suitable skill levels.’
When I returned to Canada, Jimmy said, ‘You’ve been practising your diplomatic skills again. I had a General on the phone, not a happy bunny at all.’
‘Fuck him, he’s got young lads flying Boeings after a few hours.’
‘I agree with you, so I mentioned the release of forty prop fighters to the President, and he’s agreed to extend the training.’
‘We’ll hand them the prop fighters?’
‘We don’t have much of a choice in it. They know we have them, so it would seem odd to hold them back in a time of war. They’ll be flown down to San Diego in the next few days. Now, just to be clever, I’ve arranged for a carrier to be stationed thirteen hundred miles off San Diego, our carrier to be a further thirteen hundred miles towards Hawaii, and for our prop fighters to have drop tanks. They’ll hop over to Hawaii, refuelling as they go, and – thanks to radar – they shouldn’t miss the tubs.’
‘And once in Hawaii?’ I asked.
‘Will have pilots from the Philippines rotated out to train on them, and will island-hop back to the Philippines. If they make it, they’re serviceable.’
‘We have thirty-something main tanks sat around, and light tanks.’
‘Now on a train heading for Nova Scotia as we speak, to be landed in Brest. Sixty-five half-tracks going with them, three hundred jeeps. And, since time is running short, the US Airborne and Rangers had AK47s parachuted in, and enough RPGs to allow one per man almost. We’ve air-dropped fifty cal and .223 sniper rifles as well.’
‘All the toys out of the box,’ I noted.
‘Not all, but we’re beyond the point where technological changes could alter things. And while you were away, our F15s sank twenty-eight surface vessels in the Baltic. The Kriegsmarine no longer exists. But we lost one to engine failure, a successful ejection over the North Sea, right into a mined area. Took a day to fetch the pilots out.’
‘Wasn’t Hal was it?’ I asked with a grin.
‘No, but he did manage to pick up damage from an amorous Spitfire, the RAF pilot unaware of the new aircraft on their books. The Spitfire pilot reported the strange aircraft with two tails, that he shot at it, and that it caught fire in the tail and flew off at great speed. Hal hit the re-heat and lost him. Oh, in a change to the plan, the Americans are going to land in Sicily.’
‘Sicily? To fight up through Italy?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘It will draw the Germans down, and will wear them down. After the last tank battle in Libya, our armour will land in Italy. The Kenyan Rifles … are going to invade Italy.’