Operation Afterlight, page 13
“You fled to England?”
“Via Paris,” Lane said. “When we eventually arrived in London, I registered under my mother’s maiden name, Lane. Without the war, they would probably have given me a British passport there and then. With it… well, I’m rather afraid they saw me as a German. If SOE hadn’t knocked on my door, who knows where I’d be now?” She grunted. “I’m not sure it could have been worse.”
Her glass was empty, she saw. She didn’t realise she had finished it again. Their fingers brushed as Durban took it from her and refilled it. “Who is Stahl, Sarah?”
She fumbled for the cigarette packet and the lighter. She drew the soothing smoke deep into her lungs, hunching forward, letting her eyes fall shut. “When I was in Paris, I learned French. It was a mistake. It meant that when F Section unexpectedly needed a woman to be landed outside Paris to approach a high-ranking German officer about possibly defecting, they chose me.”
She still remembered the crunch of the leaves underfoot in the little clearing, the smell of half-burned aviation fuel as the Lysander that had flown her from England took off and disappeared back into the night sky. The torchlights winking in the darkness as her contacts came out of the shadows to meet her. The sudden glare of headlights and the angry shouts as the Germans sprang their ambush.
“Stahl was waiting.” It took all her strength to force the words out. “The Gestapo and the rest of the SS would try to arrest you,” she continued, aware that her voice cracked with every syllable. “Take you alive. That wasn’t Stahl’s way. He’s a hunter. He could track almost anyone. Any clue, the tiniest mistake, and he would have you. But every good hunt has to end with a kill. Like he killed my contacts that night. Like he would have killed me, except I got lucky. He stopped to search the bodies, and that gave me time to run and to hide.”
“And now he’s here.”
She heard Durban’s voice, but didn’t see him. She kept her eyes screwed tightly closed. “They tell me he’s been working for us for the last three years. Working to bring down the regime. Canaris converted him, they say, turned him from a die-hard Nazi. Maybe it’s true. All I know is that I have sent one hundred and thirteen agents on their way, a handful to France, most to Germany or Austria. Stahl killed at least thirty himself, most of them during those three years he was supposedly on our side. A few are still out there, each sending back their reports, hoping that it won’t be their last and that they will give us something worth their sacrifice. The rest? I don’t know.”
She opened her eyes at last, realising they were still dry, despite everything.
“I need you to understand this, Andy.” There were words waiting in her throat, words that she knew she should keep to herself. As she stared at his face, though, something about Andrew Durban demanded her honesty. “I’d kill him.”
His eyes widened slightly, one eyebrow quivering. No other reaction.
“Stahl,” she said. “I’d kill him if I could get away with it.” She took a deep shuddering breath, letting the half-finished cigarette drop into the ashtray. “Possibly even if I couldn’t. I would go quietly with the police afterwards. Life imprisonment would be so much better than what he gave my agents.”
His eyes never leaving her own, he reached across the table. His hand closed on hers. “I understand,” he said simply.
For what seemed a long time, they sat there, silent. Then she coughed, slid her hand free of his grip, and slumped back in her chair. She’d thought herself exhausted before. She’d been badly mistaken.
“I’d prefer you didn’t go to prison,” he said. “If it’s all the same to you.”
“I’ll try,” she promised.
“Especially not before we’ve finished the job.” Durban flinched at his own words. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “A poor attempt at lightening the mood.”
“There you are,” she said, “apologising again.” She covered her mouth and yawned. She could see the confusion on his face, wondering how she could revert to such emotionless coolness so quickly. It wasn’t a mystery to her; after all, she’d had plenty of practice. “I think it’s long beyond time I got some sleep,” she said. “Tomorrow will be another long day. Do you mind if I take these?” Without waiting for an answer, she scooped up the cigarettes, then quickly refilled her glass and picked that up too.
“Sarah?”
She stopped at the door. “Yes?”
“Your agents didn’t die in vain.”
“We’ll see,” she said. “Goodnight, Wing Commander Durban.”
“Goodnight, Squadron Officer Lane.”
Chapter Eighteen
Norfolk, 22 March
The briefing room buzzed with anticipation, despite the very early start and more than a few bleary faces. That AVM Sir Basil Embry had joined Wing Commander Durban on stage only added to the effect.
“Told you,” Grant overheard Finny say to a colleague. “This is big.”
“You might have told us that before we started drinking, Finny,” came the grumpy reply.
Kittens leaned in close to Grant’s shoulder. “Who do you think the ladies are, Johnny?”
“No idea,” Grant said. It wasn’t entirely true, as he’d seen the older of the two women before, most recently being given the tour of the station by the boss the previous afternoon, but he didn’t know why either of them were there. The younger woman, freckled and with red hair pulled neatly back in a bun, wore the uniform of a Section Officer, the WAAF equivalent of his own Flying Officer rank. He hoped she felt more confident and experienced than he did, surrounded by three dozen men for whom this type of briefing was old hat.
Although, he saw as he scanned the rows of seats on either side of him, their experience didn’t obliterate the anxiety from their excited expressions.
There was another man on stage, too, a wiry civilian who had arrived that morning with Embry. Grant had seen him before too, the evening this business began. No one had introduced him, but he held himself with a military bearing and the rumour was he was a German. Grant didn’t doubt it. The man certainly had the right amount of arrogance in the haughty expression with which he regarded the assembled aircrew.
At a nod from Embry, the Station Warrant Officer called for the room to take their seats, then made his way to the exit. Grant glimpsed two armed RAF policemen outside the door as it swung closed. Bony took his place next to a large overhead projector.
Embry stood. Walking past a table covered in a thick cloth, he took his place at the centre of the stage like a man used to being there. “I know what you’re going to ask, gentlemen, so save your breath. No, I’m not flying with you today.” He smiled at the obvious disappointment and the handful of theatrical boos. “And if you’ve seen this morning’s newspaper headlines, you can guess why.”
Mosquitos wreck Gestapo lair, at least one had read. Twenty-four hours earlier, the rest of the Wing had obliterated the German secret police headquarters in the Danish capital, Copenhagen, in a stunning display of precision bombing. The papers didn’t mention the presence of a Wing Commander Smith on the raid, but one look at the twinkle in Embry’s eyes was all that was needed to confirm it.
“But I did want to see you on your way,” Embry continued. “You’re all smart boys, and no doubt you’ve worked out by now that something unusual is going on. Listen carefully. This briefing stays within these walls. That includes today, tomorrow, and on your death beds. If I read a word of this in your memoirs, I will personally force-feed you the damned manuscript. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the audience mumbled in unison.
“Good. Wing Commander Durban, the floor is yours.”
Durban nodded and took his place. Though much younger than Embry, he had that same air of confidence, like the stage belonged to him. He just didn’t seem to enjoy it as much, like briefing and command itself was a required chore before taking to the air and getting the job done.
“We’ll be going to Hildesheim today,” he began, motioning to Bony. A map appeared on the screen at the back of the stage, showing the location and the planned routing. “As those of you who can read a watch will have worked out, this will be a daylight raid.” He paused at the murmurs of surprise and consternation. “We all remember when German fighter defences were so ferocious that even a Mosquito was taking an enormous risk tangling with them. Luckily, those days are past. Most of the fighter units have withdrawn further east or simply don’t have the fuel. We won’t be alone, either. There will be several RAF and USAAF fighter squadrons operating over the area, and there will be a distraction too. Two hundred and eighty Lancasters will hit the rail yards and the town itself shortly after our strike run.”
A second image appeared on the screen, a far more detailed map. At the top of the image, Grant saw the urban sprawl of Hildesheim and the railway. A black square with a cross stood out to the southeast of the town, ringed in an ink circle.
“The Lancasters will plaster HE and incendiaries all over the shop, but our target requires rather more precision.” He pulled back the sheet covering the table to reveal a model, with a church standing about twelve inches tall among detailed grass and trees. The men leaned forward as one. “Don’t worry if you can’t see it; you’ll have time to walk around it after the briefing. Section Officer Beverley Gerrard has come down from the Central Interpretation Unit at RAF Medmenham to give us more details. Bev?”
“Thank you, sir,” Gerrard said. She almost seemed to bound to the middle of the stage. No lack of confidence there, Grant thought. Someone wolf-whistled from the back of the room, and a couple of men laughed.
If the young Section Officer had heard, she gave no sign. She nodded to Bony. He brought up the next image, an aerial close-up of a church and its lush grounds. “The target facility is underground,” she said, pointing to the image, “extending from a concealed entrance here about one hundred feet back along the western edge of the church, and about one hundred and fifty feet out here. The main research area is in the centre, with offices and decontamination facilities along the north and west sides.”
Finny stuck up a hand. “I see nothing. The target is under that field there?”
“Yes,” she said. “Underground.”
“Or it could just be a field, love.”
Durban started to rise from his chair, but Gerrard simply stared at the Australian. “Yes,” she said. “We started with the same assumption. The whole point of a concealed entrance is to make it hard for us to find it, but we had the intelligence briefings from SOE and Mister Stahl to work from. First, we tasked a photo-reconnaissance Spitfire to get stereo pair images of the site. I imagine you’re all familiar with stereoscopy and three-dimensional imagery analysis…” - it was abundantly clear to Grant from the confused faces they were not – “…so I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say, the ground there may look flat, but it actually rises slightly. We didn’t have access to many historical images of the target area, but we found pictures of the church in a tourist guidebook from the ‘Thirties. No sign of any rise in the ground. Flight Lieutenant Wright?”
Bony brought up the next image, a close-up of the field itself.
“We also had a bit of luck,” Gerrard said, “because it had been raining a lot in the days ahead of the Spitfire PR pass. That allowed us to determine that multiple vehicles had clearly driven to this point by these bushes, likely for loading and unloading at a concealed entrance.”
Grant stared at the image, but he saw nothing clear about it. It didn’t matter. Gerrard’s confidence in her professional skill was infectious. He hoped that one day he might appear half as credible as she did.
“The last piece of the puzzle is the one that will probably most interest you, gentlemen. Could you bring up the final image, please? As you can tell, we zoomed this one out a little. I assess each of these three circled areas to be a flak emplacement, likely twenty-millimetre Flakvierling Thirty-Eight’s semi-concealed under camouflage netting. They provide a triangle of defensive fire against any incoming attacker. And that concludes my briefing, pending questions.”
For a full fifteen seconds, the assembled aircrew sat in absolute silence, their eyes fixed on the circled smudges. Grant didn’t need to have faced such guns to know their reputation. His instructors had warned all of them often enough. Training had burned the technical specifications into his mind.
Shells tipped with a high explosive or incendiary warhead to rip apart a fuselage or set it ablaze.
One hundred and eighty rounds per minute.
Each travelling at nearly three thousand feet per second.
Deadly out to two thousand four hundred yards.
The Mosquito could outrun most fighters and could fly above the effective range of heavy guns, but at low-level, the four-barrelled 20mm guns were king.
Finny’s hand shot up. “Section Officer Gerrard?”
“Yes, sir?”
“How would you like to become Section Officer Finnegan?”
Gerrard sighed. “Any better questions?”
“Thank you, Beverley,” Embry said, rising. “Squadron Leader Barton?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Find out who whistled and give him a bloody good kick up the arse. I want the disrespectful toerag wincing in his cockpit seat.”
“I’ve been warming up my foot for the last five minutes, sir.”
“Good.” Embry turned back to the throng. “Now, remember, just because you aren’t likely to see many fighters doesn’t mean this is going to be a piece of cake. That church clearly has sentimental value for the Jerries, given how many guns they’ve positioned around it.” A few chuckles rippled through the crowd. “Keep low, drop your bombs on target, and get the hell out of it. Wing Commander Durban, any last remarks?”
“I think you covered it all, sir,” Durban drawled.
“I think so too. You’re all dismissed. Except you, Finnegan. You and I need to have a little chat about manners.”
Chapter Nineteen
Norfolk, 22 March
Durban stared down at the model. The detail was exquisite, every bush and tree lovingly hand-painted. He couldn’t help but admire the time and craftsmanship that had gone into making it, but that wasn’t why it held his attention. The combination of the model and the image still on the screen was allowing him to compose a plan of attack. Risky, but if it worked, the rest of the squadron would have an easy ride.
Deep down, though, he knew that wasn’t the only reason he loitered while the aircrew filed out.
Embry knew it, too. Having sent Finny scurrying from the room white-faced, he made his way over and stood by Durban’s side. “Something on your mind, Andy?” He kept his voice very low. Behind him, Lane and Gerrard sat talking. Stahl stood apart, arms crossed, face expressionless.
“I looked at the Bomber Command orders for today’s raid, sir,” Durban said. “They call for an unusually high concentration of incendiaries for a raid that is supposedly targeting the railway yards.”
“Is that so?”
“Our target might be right on the edge of town, but once those fires start, there’s a good chance that they will reach the church, too.”
Embry nodded. “What of it?”
“The Lancasters are going to do a wonderful job of concealing the fact that we deliberately targeted this laboratory. The SS might even think it was an accident. Collateral damage.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Is Hildesheim being struck to conceal our tracks?” The words burst from his lips before he could stop them, torn from his lungs. “The war is nearly over. Are we destroying that town and killing all those people on the off-chance that it gives us a fraction more secrecy?”
He realised he had spoken louder than intended. His eyes met Lane’s. Section Officer Gerrard had left, leaving only Lane and Stahl in the room. Both watched him. Lane’s gaze pulsed with questions, but also warmth. Stahl’s? Durban couldn’t tell. The German might as well have been a mannequin, his eyes dark and lifeless.
“I don’t know,” Embry said. “That’s the truth. Listen, Andy. We have only given you the most basic details of AFTERLIGHT. Hell, even I only know a little more. This business, this Götterdämmerung or whatever they want to call it, is bigger than you know. DI(R) have been calling me every hour, the Joint Intelligence Committee is spooked, and even the Prime Minister is being given daily updates. Whatever the Jerries are planning, we need to put a stop to it at all costs.”
“I understand that, sir.”
Embry steered him further away from the others. “I’ve said this before, and you shot me down. Hear me now. You weren’t my choice for this job. If it was up to me, you’d be off on an instructor tour right now. Better still, on long-term leave. God knows you’ve earned it, especially after Gisela. You said yourself you have very little low-level experience, and these are dangerous targets. You’ve flown more sorties in harm’s way than just about anyone I know, and there’s only so many times you can go back to that well.”
It took Durban a few moments to realise what Embry meant. He felt his cheeks redden as waves of heat pulsed through his body. His body tensed, every muscle quivering. Embry still talked, but Durban barely heard the words. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lane take a hesitant step towards them.
And still Stahl watched.
“How dare you,” Durban grated, interrupting but not caring. “How bloody dare you, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“Four tours, sir.” He spat the words out. “Have you ever seen me hesitate? Have you ever known me to be anything other than the first to attack and the last man over the target? If you want to sack me, go ahead, but don’t lie to yourself that you’re doing me a favour. I’ll take a court martial before I take that from you or anyone else.”
