Operation Afterlight, page 28
Bony brought up the last image, and Durban took in every black and white square inch of it, glad the audience focused on the picture and not the concern in his eyes. It was a blown-up shot of the dockyards. Rows of warehouses, both on the edge of the city and on the wide jetties that spread like fingers downward into the Vistula Lagoon. More flak positions. The thin grey smear that was the U-78. “This submarine is our secondary target if we have weapons left after the initial strike. The primary target…” He stopped, swallowing.
His eyes met Embry’s. They had discussed this. Bounced ideas between them half the night until exhaustion and crew rest regulations sent them stumbling away to grab a few hours’ rest. From the look of him, Embry had been no more successful at finding sleep than Durban had. And for all their ideas and discussions, they had found precisely zero answers.
“The primary target,” he repeated, “is one of these warehouses.”
A low moan of disapproval.
“We don’t know which one is the target?” Barton shook his head. “What are we supposed to do? Try to damage them all?”
“No,” Durban said, sharper than intended. “We can’t afford to damage anything. We target the right building and eradicate it, down to the last brick, or the mission fails.”
“How?”
“Six of us will carry two five-hundred-pound high explosive bombs, the rest napalm. HE cracks open the building, then we burn it up from the inside. The destruction must be complete.”
Silence descended, the silence of professional experts conducting their calculations, and not liking the answers they found.
“I meant,” Barton said, “how do we target the right building?”
Durban forced back the urge to shout at him. “We have a man on the ground,” he said. “When the time comes, I am hoping he can give us a signal.”
“Hoping?”
“I’ll circle over the city,” Durban said, ignoring the interruption. “If we receive the signal, I’ll direct your target runs. If I don’t, I’ll make an estimate and we’ll do what we can.” He refused to meet the eyes of either Embry or Sarah. It was difficult enough to sound confident; he didn’t need to see the stifling hopelessness that clutched at him mirrored in their eyes.
Barton sighed. “You know that’s a long shot at best, sir?”
“Of course,” Durban snapped. He saw Embry half-rise from his chair, concerned. He composed himself. It wasn’t easy. “This is 465 Squadron, Don,” he said, ramming levity into his voice, smearing a fake smile over his face. “The long shot is what we do, isn’t it? If it was easy, they’d give it to someone else.”
There were a few chuckles. A touch forced, but at least there were no tears.
Durban relinquished the floor to Bony and stood off to the side next to Sarah while the Ops Officer ran through all the minutiae of the raid; weapon loads, radio frequencies, callsigns, timings, diversionary airfields. Durban tried to listen, but his mind was a whirl. The raid, Stahl, and most of all Sarah Lane, all tumbled through his thoughts together, his brain too tired after years of war to find the space for all of them.
Bony described the codewords they would send back to HQ as the raid progressed. Embry’s orders, but not his idea. The idea had come from higher up. Joint Intelligence Committee. Probably higher.
WALLABY. Target area reached.
JAEGER. German fighters engaging.
COMRADE. Soviet fighters engaging.
DINGO. Primary target unlocated.
DISMAL. Mission aborted.
TRIGGER TWO. Secondary target located.
TRIGGER ONE. Primary target located.
BATHTUB. Secondary target destroyed.
AFTERLIGHT. Primary target destroyed.
Durban’s hands shook again, and he gripped them together behind his back. Thank God for Grant, taking page after page of notes with a steady pen, only the occasional twitch of his cheek revealing the pain he must be in.
He hadn’t lied. It was good to have Johnny back.
Bony wrapped up with the weather forecast for the North Sea – breezy, overcast, much like Charney Breach - and Embry rose from his chair next to Sarah. “Might I add a few words, Andy?”
“Of course, sir.”
“It’s been a long fight to get here, chaps,” Embry said, “and I’d like to thank Wing Commander Durban and Squadron Officer Lane for their efforts. The rest is up to you now. Take off is in two hours. We’re in the fifteenth round and the world is on the line. Legally, I can’t tell you why this mission is so important, but please assume I’m not lying when I say this is the most critical day in all our lives. To quote the Holy Bible,” - he paused - “don’t bugger it up.”
That got a proper laugh.
Embry waited for the collective release of tension to subside before continuing. “I’ll be remaining in your ops room for the raid,” he said, “along with my colleagues here. I’d much rather be flying with you, of course, but the Prime Minister himself will expect updates as quickly as possible. Any last questions for me or your squadron commander? No? Splendid. I’ll buy the beers when you return. Good luck.”
As suddenly as that, the briefing was over.
All stood to attention while the AVM turned to go. Embry hadn’t even cleared the stage before Durban followed. He heard Sarah say his name, felt her fingers brush at his sleeve, and ignored both, just as he ignored the sensation of her hurt eyes watching him go. He didn’t slow his pace until he reached his office and locked the door behind him.
Writing the note didn’t take long. He’d composed it in his mind days ago, mentally editing and tweaking it a hundred times since, yet not knowing for sure whether he would need it at all. Now he knew. Her presence in the briefing had just confirmed what he already suspected. He couldn’t say what he needed to say. Not face to face. He didn’t have the words.
And he certainly didn’t have the time.
He scribbled the note, slid it into an envelope, and wrote her name on it. Squadron Officer S. Lane. He didn’t know her middle name. It was, like so much of her, a mystery. One that he would most likely never get to solve.
By the time he had conferred with his two flight commanders and Bony one last time, Durban was almost the last to reach dispersal. Embry, as he’d expected, was waiting there in the noon sun, shaking hands with every pilot and navigator he could before they reached their aircraft. The AVM smiled as he saw him approach.
“Good luck, Andy,” he said. “Remember what I said.”
“Don’t bugger it up, sir?”
“Well, that is rather important. But I wanted to thank you again. That we’ve got even half a chance to pull this off is down to you and Sarah.”
“And Stahl, sir. If he doesn’t come through for us, none of it will matter.”
Embry grimaced. “Does it worry you that the fate of Europe comes down to yet another bloody German?”
“It’s less than ideal, sir.”
“Still, if he manages it, I’ll happily buy him a beer, too. What’s this?” He looked down at the envelope in Durban’s hand.
“For Squadron Officer Lane, sir.”
“I’m not a bloody postman, Andy,” Embry said. “Why didn’t you give it to her yourself?” He sighed. “Oh. I see. When do you want me to…?”
“You’ll know when, sir.”
Embry nodded. “Yes, I suppose I will. I think you’d best get going, don’t you?”
Durban came to attention, accepted the offered handshake, and headed to his aircraft.
He did a quick walk around inspection to make sure everything looked okay. Every combat scar on the fuselage, every scratch and sanded-down patch of battle damage repairs stood out in the morning light. He ran his fingertips along the wood. Around him, a handful of ground crew scurried to ensure the battery cart was in position and that all their checks were complete. Next to Grant, the crew chief waited with a clipboard.
Durban gave the young navigator a smile, then took the clipboard. “How’s it looking?”
The crew chief passed him a pen. “You’ve got two five-hundred bombs, sir, as well as a full load of fuel and ammunition and your two drop tanks. You’ll be right at the edge of your maximum take-off weight.”
Durban thanked him, signed the form, and turned towards the ladder that led up into the snug cockpit. Clambering up, he squeezed through the narrow doorway into his seat on the port side, scanning the controls in front of him while he slipped on his flame-retardant black leather flying gloves. He heard a clumsy scrambling on the ladder as Grant followed him in, his Mae West life preserver snagging on the doorway. The navigator seemed a little out of breath.
“Last chance to change your mind, Johnny.” Durban secured himself in his seat, pulling two straps over his shoulders and two up from the sides of his seat. He locked them together with the brass pin.
Fidgeting in his own seat, mounted a fraction lower and behind to Durban’s right, Grant did the same. With his jaw set, he leaned down to check the small map box by his right knee.
To their left, Kittinger’s engines burst into life. The New Zealander waved. Durban gave him a nod, then shot the crew chief a thumbs up. The cockpit door slammed shut. The latch clicked home, turned from the outside, leaving them alone in the cold silence of the cockpit. Durban plugged in his intercom and opened the small panel in the Perspex next to him. “Contact,” he yelled through the gap. The man at the battery cart returned the call.
Durban pressed hard on the start button for the port engine.
The prop turned twice, then the engine roared. A second later and he pressed the button for the starboard engine. It misfired once before catching. Hopefully not a bad omen.
Edging the throttles forward, he requested permission to taxi. Thoughts of Sarah Lane and even Götterdämmerung melted in the familiar mechanics of piloting his aircraft. The ground crew pulled the chocks away. The crew chief signalled to them, beckoning them to pull out onto the taxi strip. Within less than a minute, they were at the end of the runway and ready to go. Durban made sure the brakes were on and then inched the throttles further forward until the revolutions per minute reached three thousand. The wooden frame of the Mosquito shuddered with suppressed power.
“Colt Leader, you’re cleared for take-off.”
Durban released the brakes. The aircraft lurched into motion. He glimpsed Barton’s Mosquito taxiing alongside, and then he shot forward, the other aircraft left behind.
The tail came up as they roared past the control tower. As they passed one hundred and fifty miles an hour, he pulled back on the controls. The Mosquito lifted, notably more sluggish with the extra weight, and he kept her low to build up more speed before the throbbing power of the twin Merlins took them soaring over the twisted trees at the end of the runway. Yanking up on the undercarriage lever, he willed himself to remain professional, to keep all his focus on their steady climb over Matlock Farm to the assembly point where the rest of the squadron waited.
He couldn’t do it, though. Couldn’t stop from twisting in his seat to look back at the Control Tower, to the figure standing alone on the balcony where just a few days earlier they had stood together, her face upturned to the sky as she watched them go.
She hadn’t waved goodbye.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Baltic Sea, 16 April
At fifty feet, the icy waters of the Baltic seemed to pulse with malignant intent.
Every rippling wave became a new attempt to catch an unwary crew, to pull them down into its fatal, suffocating embrace. Even from the navigator’s seat, Grant could feel the extra weight and drag of the drop tanks coating the normally graceful Mosquito with a sluggish veneer. Durban’s face was a mask of intense concentration, his gloved hands tight on the controls, making a dozen minor corrections every second.
The worst thing was the quiet. Not the radio silence, which was only to be expected, both to avoid an international incident as they had violated Swedish neutrality and to avoid tipping off both Germans and Soviets that they were coming. Rather, it was Durban’s silence that made Grant’s skin crawl. Even on the intercom, he had spoken only a dozen clipped words since they had taken off. Since he’d seen Squadron Officer Lane at the Control Tower.
Grant didn’t know what was going on between those two, and he doubted they did either. It was none of his business, anyway. His business was navigation, and it kept him busy. Over the sea, at this altitude, there wasn’t a single landmark to check his plots against. That meant regular references to the hand-drawn lines on his maps, estimates of wind speed and drift, constant checks of the gyro and magnetic compasses and the Mk IX airspeed indicator, all to keep their position accurate. Even a mile or two off-course would force them to climb over a coastline teeming with German fighters or Soviet troops.
Though that might still be better than getting it right and reaching the city of Pillau with its dense flak and a target that they hadn’t even identified.
Behind them, the other Mosquitoes kept pace a few feet above or below, fifteen thoroughbred killing machines streaking towards an unsuspecting enemy. More than once, Grant saw the surface of a wave ripple as spinning props passed over it, dangerously low. Wresting his attention from the aircraft and the churning fear in his stomach that props and waves would meet, he scanned the sky above. No fighters. The sky was clear to six thousand feet and the thick band of waiting grey-white cloud.
Ahead, he saw a thin, dark smudge on the horizon. It could have been a shadow from the clouds above. He knew it wasn’t.
“Enemy coast ahead,” he said into the intercom.
Durban nodded. He didn’t pass the message on to the rest of the formation; they would already have seen it by now. With the Mosquitoes racing towards it at over three-hundred miles an hour, the smudge rapidly thickened. Part of it, lighter than the rest, broke away, took shape, became a layer of smoke. A city in flames.
“Pillau,” he said.
“Good navigation,” Durban said. Emotionless.
Grant checked the sky one more time, then directed all his focus forward. Looking ahead hurt much less than twisting in his seat. More smoke in the distance, this time from the stacks of ships. Individual funnels became visible. One was a larger passenger vessel, probably ferrying refugees. The other had a single smokestack, mounted far back on a deck dotted with thinner structures.
He went cold. That ship should have been three miles east of their path, not directly ahead. He turned, but the pilot was already ahead of him.
“Flak ship,” Durban called sharply. That was something worth breaking radio silence. Not that there was much they could do now.
Flashes rippled along the length of the low grey vessel. Tracers, bright enough to be visible even in full daylight, whipped across the sea’s surface towards them. Grant saw one lurch upwards and disappear over their heads. A ricochet off a wave top, a dry and professional part of his mind noted. The rest of his brain focused only on the ones that still came their way.
At this altitude, any sharp attempt to change course could be disastrous, while climbing to give themselves room to manoeuvre would just bleed airspeed and make them even more vulnerable. Speed and a low profile were their best defence. It should have been enough. Even with all its firepower, the Hela was too far off and their targets too difficult for the gunners on the flak ship to do more than cross their fingers and hope for a lucky shot.
With enough rolls of the dice, though, anyone could turn up double sixes.
Grant didn’t think it was a direct hit that got Colt Bravo Four. Probably a near miss from an 88mm, the sky briefly marred by an expanding inky flower of smoke above the top of the Mosquito. Perhaps it was the shrapnel, accelerated in misshapen lumps at bullet-like speeds in all directions. More likely, the simple expansion of gases was enough to nudge the speeding aircraft down a few feet. To where the waves waited.
Either way, the radio burst into life for a single panicked scream, cut short. A few pieces of wreckage sailed through the air, and then Bravo Four was gone, and the Hela was behind their port wingtips and dwindling into the distance, still sending ineffectual rounds streaming into the sky, hoping lightning could strike twice.
Durban kept his focus purely on his controls. “Did you see who it was?”
“Chapple and Elmore.”
The Wing Commander nodded. Said nothing. A slight tightening of the lips, perhaps, but no more. The coast loomed ahead, a single forbidding mass except where the Pillau harbour channel forged a single valley-like break. Grant saw the rooftops of buildings, their brickwork as grey and cold as the water beneath them. In the bay ahead, the flak ship Siegfried waited, its guns silent for now.
Waiting until we’re higher, Grant thought.
Durban thumbed his R/T switch. “I’m climbing now,” he said. “Flight leads, follow me. All other callsigns loiter here at one thousand feet and await my signal.”
“Roger, Colt Leader.” Kittens, his voice warm and respectful.
“Got it.” Barton, his voice neither.
Durban pulled back on his controls, and Grant felt gravity press him back in his seat as the Mosquito clawed its way into the sky. A wave of nausea rippled through him.
