Operation Afterlight, page 3
“What?”
“Tell my family that I love them,” Canaris said.
For a long heartbeat, the Admiral’s eyes held Stahl’s gaze, the way they had so many times in the years they had worked together. When they had been friends. Before Stahl had exposed the old man’s betrayal, setting Canaris on the path that left him here. Frail. Fading. Waiting to die.
“You can tell them yourself, traitor.” Stahl spat on the floor. “I will send them to join you in Hell.”
He brushed past the guards, ignoring their salutes and the horrified looks on their bloodless faces. These men were among the most callous the Reich could muster, yet even they cowered in his presence. Somehow, it didn’t bring him as much pleasure now.
The cell door slammed in his wake.
He didn’t look back.
Koegel was nowhere to be seen, probably hiding, but the idiot had at least arranged for Stahl’s black Mercedes to be waiting with its engine idling. Stahl was hungry and exhausted after the long drive from Berlin, but nothing could have persuaded him to wait another minute longer in this dismal place. Not after seeing the Admiral’s eyes. Passing between the rows of barracks, each crammed beyond capacity with political prisoners, he waited impatiently for the soldiers at the main guardroom to open the gate, and then sped up onto the road beyond.
The road here wound tortuously through the pretty vistas of the Fichtel Mountains, and Stahl took every corner as quickly as he dared. The squeal of the car’s tires filled the air between the low peaks. Thirty minutes of driving and he reached the fast, straight road that had brought him here a few short hours earlier from the HQ Sicherheitsdienst des Reichsführers-SS, the Security Service of the SS in the Prinz Albrecht Strasse in the capital. For a few seconds he sat, engine idling, staring at the sign. It pointed right to Leipzig, and thence to Berlin. Himmler would expect his report.
He put the car in gear. And turned left.
Chapter Three
Norfolk, 11 March
Andrew Durban lit another cigarette and stared out of the window.
RAF Charney Breach could have been any of the dozens of new RAF stations hurriedly built as the war progressed. Assorted hangars, low accommodation huts, a control tower that seemed relatively tall by comparison. Durban had seen so many airfields, and after a while, they all looked the same. At least the HQ building was modern and brick-built, though it had other drawbacks. It was only a single storey, and in the absence of proper Officers’ or Sergeants’ Messes it housed the dining room and bar. He didn’t approve of that. Durban liked to drink with his men, but he also knew that a commander needed to keep a distance sometimes. Chatter and laughter just outside his door was an irritation he could do without.
From his simple office, he could see across the road outside to the parade square. A group of aircrew, in their shirt sleeves despite the lingering chill in the morning air, had hastily requisitioned it as a football pitch. Beyond, he saw the taxiways and the hardstanding where groups of engineers were busily working on their aircraft. He counted a dozen Mosquitoes, all FB Mark VIs with capacity for two 500lb bombs, and each a thing of beauty.
Each intact, not a twisted smoking wreck.
He found his hands shaking again and took a deep drag on the cigarette.
There was a knock, and the door opened almost immediately. Durban didn’t recognise the Squadron Leader who entered. Stocky like a rugby player, square-faced with dark hair, natural good looks distorted by an abomination of a moustache. The man stared for a second, as if disappointed not to find the office empty. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“You must be Barton,” Durban said.
“That’s right.”
“I expected you half an hour ago.”
“Messenger must have got lost,” Barton said, his accent thickly Aussie. Beneath the gnarled moustache, one lip curled in what was half a sneer, half a challenge. “Sir,” he added, making it sound more an insult than an honorific.
Durban sighed and closed the file on his desk. Reading it had made him half-expect this moment. By any account, Don Barton was an exceptional pilot, but he was also a man who broke rules and caused problems. Beloved by his men, loathed by his superiors. Durban knew the sort. Barton was an excellent flight commander. He had done a more than adequate job as acting CO, too, but he hadn’t made friends at higher HQ in the process. Now that he was a mere flight commander again, whatever chip was on his shoulder was only likely to grow.
“You’re Australian, Barton?”
“What gave it away?”
Durban ignored that. “Whereabouts are you from?”
Barton stared. “Have you ever been to Australia, sir?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Then what does it matter where I’m from?”
Durban returned the man’s stare. Held it for a few seconds. Watched with satisfaction as the Australian blinked and broke first. “Tell me about the squadron,” he ordered.
Barton shrugged. “They’re good lads.”
“You’re an Article XV squadron, yes? Mostly Australian?”
“We’re supposed to be.” Barton sniffed. “We’re lucky if even half of us come from Oz, though. The rest are all sorts. Brits, Canadians, Kiwis, Rhodesians, an Irishman, even a Black fella from the Caribbean.”
“Do you try to pair together pilots and navigators from the same nations?”
“Where we can, but it’s more important to make sure the crew has some experience. We don’t always have options. A lot of the experienced ones are dead, or have gone off to training jobs, which isn’t much better if you ask me. Too many kids here by half. As for the leadership…”
“Yes? What of it?”
Barton thrust his chin out. Not a rugby player, Durban thought. A bare-knuckle boxer. “Nothing,” Barton said. “You’d just think that an Australian squadron would have an Aussie boss.”
“You’re not an Australian squadron, Barton,” Durban said. “You’re an RAF squadron.” He smiled to soften the statement. “And an excellent one, from what I hear. You did a damned good job keeping it together these last few months.”
“Fat lot of good it did me.”
The roar of twin Merlin engines filled the air, and Durban couldn’t help but look. An engine test, he saw. The football game continued unabated, though the Merlins drowned out the shouting of players for now.
Barton coughed. “What’s your background, then? Flying, I mean. I don’t care what poncy public school you went to.”
Durban finished his cigarette before drawing another and pushing the pack towards Barton. The Australian, he noted, wasn’t so proud as to turn down the offer. “Six months of Beaufighters at the tail end of the Blitz. Then onto Mosquitoes. Pathfinders.”
“Full tour?”
“Two,” Durban said, enjoying the impressed look that the Australian tried and failed to hide. “Then a tour back on intruders.”
“Four tours.” A stream of cigarette smoke slid from Barton’s mouth and rose to the office’s low ceiling. For a moment, he almost smiled, but then the scowl returned with shocking speed. “All medium and high-altitude stuff, then.”
“That’s right. Does that matter?”
Barton shrugged. “Not to me. But Jerry and the ground might disagree. 465 Squadron is a specialist low-level unit.”
“I’m well aware of it.”
“You want to tell me, sir, why they put a fella with no low-level experience in charge instead of me?” Barton folded his arms. Above them, eyes darker than the moustache stared out in disgust.
“They must have had their reasons,” Durban said. He left that hanging there. Saw the Australian’s anger fade to confusion, then return to anger as he realised the implied suggestion of unworthiness. Durban doubted anyone had taken the effort to judge the Australian or found him wanting. More likely, the sprawling bureaucracy of the wartime RAF had simply looked at the man’s rank and seniority and replaced him on procedural grounds, not merit. But the Australian clearly didn’t like him, and Durban was finding it harder by the moment not to return the favour.
He stood up. The room felt suddenly small and airless. “Walk with me,” he ordered, and without waiting for a response, grabbed his hat and threw open the office door.
With Barton trailing, he left the HQ building by the front door, giving a cheery greeting to a group of young airmen and returning their enthusiastic salutes. Ahead, the engine test had now become an air test. As he watched, a puff of smoke rose from the Mosquito’s port engine. The engineers pulled the chocks from in front of the wheels, and the aircraft lurched forward onto the taxiway and turned towards the end of the runway.
“Who is that?” Durban pointed.
Barton glanced at the taxying aircraft. “Looks like Charlie Broadley. His Mossie was playing up yesterday.”
“Is he any good?”
“Of course,” Barton said. “He’s from Victoria.”
“Like you?”
Barton scowled, realising that he had given something away.
“Tell him to sort out his throttle control,” Durban said. “I’ve seen carts pulled by donkeys that lurched less than he did.”
“He’s got a dozen low-level operations under his belt,” Barton sneered. “That’s a dozen more than some. He’s one of our best.”
“And he could be better,” Durban said calmly. “If he can’t use his throttles smoothly on the ground, what happens when he tries to land on one engine with a shattered left aileron?”
Barton sniffed but said nothing.
“Look out!”
Durban’s head snapped to the side at the warning shout. He glimpsed something dark brown flying towards his face and shifted his weight on instinct. The thing passed within millimetres of his head, sailing past before bouncing twice on the road and rolling into the side of the HQ.
Barton chuckled. “Welcome to 465 Squadron, sir.”
Durban watched a young Black man run towards them. The West Indian that Barton had mentioned, no doubt. The man’s eyes opened even wider as he got closer. “Shit,” he said. “Shit, shit, shit. You’re the new CO.”
“I am.”
“And I almost hit you with a football.”
“You did.”
“Good job you’re a navigator and not a pilot, Grant,” Barton said. “Or I’d be telling you to improve your shooting next time.”
“Shit,” the young navigator blurted once more. “It won’t happen again. And sorry for all the swearing, sir.”
“Oi, Grant,” someone called from the field. “Are you going to get the sodding ball or what?”
“Um. Permission to be excused, sir?”
Durban nodded. With a final apologetic smile, the man spun and ran across the road, barely avoiding being mown down by a fuel truck. “Got it,” he said, lifting the heavy leather ball above his head like he’d won a prize. Several of the footballers clapped. From the look of unbridled joy on the navigator’s face, he didn’t hear the sarcasm in the applause.
“This is what we’ve had to deal with,” Barton said with a grimace. “There was a time we had our pick of the best aircrew. All volunteers, all experienced. Now the training system spits out kids like Grant and sends them straight our way. No wonder morale is in the khazi.” The Australian sniffed loudly. “In any case, it’s your problem now, sir. You’re welcome.”
“I’ll be needing a navigator, Barton,” Durban said, raising his voice as the taxying Mosquito sped up along the new concrete of the runway before rising effortlessly into the sky. He watched it clear the trees at the end of the runway and dwindle from sight before he realised he was holding his breath. He put his hands behind his back, one holding the other tight, feeling the shaking of his fingers. “How many do you have who haven’t paired up with a pilot yet?”
“Just the two new lads.” Barton pointed at the group of footballers. One of them, young and red-haired, controlled a dropping football beautifully and turned, sprinting past two older aircrew and leaving them stumbling in his wake. “That’s Dougie Jeffries,” he said. “Good lad. Played soccer for Queensland. Cricket, too. Second XI.”
“What were his scores like, coming out of training?”
“How would I know? I haven’t read his report.”
“I have,” Durban said. “And the other?”
“You just met him,” Barton said, laughing as the young man he had called Grant, sprinting to get open, took a body check from a big Rhodesian and tumbled winded to the ground. “That one is going to be a waste of space, I reckon.”
Durban frowned. He watched as Grant leapt to his feet and dusted himself off. He could tell the impact had hurt, but Grant concealed any pain beneath a broad grin and ran gingerly onward. “Do you have a problem with West Indians, Barton?”
“Not particularly.”
“You just have a problem with anyone who isn’t Australian?”
Barton gave him a sideways look. He said nothing, but the edges of his mouth quirked with the ghost of a smirk.
With a triumphant yell, Grant met Jeffries’ cross and poked the ball past the goalkeeper’s despairing dive and between the folded blue service jumpers that passed for goalposts. He wheeled away in glee.
“Barton?”
“Hmm?”
“Ask Grant to join us, would you?”
Barton paused, looking confused, then turned to the football pitch. “Grant!” The single word echoed between the buildings.
“If I’d wanted someone to shout,” Durban observed mildly, “I could have done it myself.”
Sweating a little from his exertions and with grass stains on his shirt, Grant ran over to join them. His obvious nervousness wasn’t quite enough to obliterate all traces of his grin, but it was close. “Sorry, sir,” he stammered.
Durban raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“I thought…” The young man pointed at the pitch. “You know, the goal…”
“Was worth celebrating. It was a good goal. Are you a good navigator?”
“Sir?” Grant’s eyes flickered between the two senior officers.
“Answer the new boss, Grant,” Barton growled.
“Well, sir, it’s just I don’t know how to. It’s not my call to make, is it?”
The rest of the players had now stopped and were watching intently. Durban lowered his voice. It wasn’t their business. “I’ve read your training reports, Grant, so I know what your instructors think. I’m asking what you think. So, again, are you a good navigator?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Better than Jeffries?”
A pause. Grant glanced at the group of men with guilty eyes, but his voice stayed firm. “Yes, sir.”
Barton coughed and covered his hand with his mouth, not quite concealing his mocking smile.
“That’s good enough for me,” Durban said. “Congratulations, Grant. You’re now my navigator.”
“Sir?”
Durban opened his mouth to speak again, but Barton interrupted. “You got much low-level experience, Grant?”
“Um, no, sir.”
“Pity,” Barton said. “But don’t worry,” he added, glancing at Durban. “Apparently, it’s not required anymore.”
Grant shifted nervously. “What do I need to do, sir?”
“Right now, you need to get back to your game. They are all waiting for you. Oh, and Grant? Watch out for that big chap. I believe he plans to put you on your backside again.”
“He’ll have to catch me first, sir.” Grant ran to rejoin his colleagues.
“You’re making a mistake not going with Jeffries,” Barton said after a few seconds.
“Maybe,” Durban said. “But if you’d read their reports, you’d know that Jeffries is prone to navigation errors under pressure. Grant isn’t. He also topped his class in low-level bombing accuracy.”
“That’s training. Real world is different. I’ve seen plenty of boys arrive with great training reports, only to fall apart the first time they get shot at.” Barton snorted. “It’s your choice. Charlie Broadley’s navigator is on leave. He’ll be more than happy with Jeffries as a replacement. It hardly matters anyway, does it?”
“Meaning?”
“The war is nearly over. It’s not like we’re going to get any major low-level ops now.” Barton paused. He mostly kept his gaze fixed on Grant, but just for a moment, he looked at Durban with eyes that pulsed with contempt. “It won’t matter that Group choose to send us unqualified people.”
“You don’t know me very well,” Durban said. This time, he did not bother to lower his voice. “So let me give you some insights. I didn’t request this posting. You got a raw deal not being allowed to keep command, and I don’t expect you to like it.”
“Good to know.”
“But I do expect you to keep your whining to yourself.” Durban saw Barton flinch, heard the cold in his own voice. Ruthless. Unrecognisable from a few short years ago. “This is my squadron now. You’re a key part of it. You’re a leader, and I need you. But if you cross me or try to turn the men against me, you’ll be gone from here so fast your Prime Minister will need to send a search party. Do you understand me, Squadron Leader Barton?”
From beneath thick eyebrows, Barton stared at him with baleful eyes. Durban didn’t care. It didn’t matter if Barton liked him or not.
It only mattered that he did his job.
“Yes, sir,” Barton said.
“Splendid. I will address the squadron in the main briefing room at thirteen hundred hours. All aircrew to attend. I’ll trust you to make the arrangements.” He let his mouth curl into a thin smile. “Don’t let the messenger get lost this time.” Ignoring the looks from the football players, Durban turned and headed for his office.
He was halfway there before he realised his hands were no longer shaking.
Chapter Four
Bavaria, 11 March
The night was mild, and Stahl kept the roof down. Even with the wind ruffling his jet-black hair, his deep exhaustion made every mile a constant battle to stay awake. He skirted Munich to the north and west, telling himself he couldn’t smell the fires from the terrible crematoriums at Dachau on the breeze. Twice, he stopped to refuel, his uniform being enough to secure him a precious ration of petrol without needing to show his paperwork or, crucially, having to sign his name. Berlin expected him back. They didn’t need to know where he’d been, and his reputation ensured few would question him.
