Operation Afterlight, page 9
“Not likely,” Barton said.
Pleasantries complete, the group headed for the HQ building. For an instant, Grant’s eyes met Durban’s. He saw no emotion in the Wing Commander’s gaze.
“That man only shows up when something big is brewing,” Barton added. “Look at his car. No flags showing. Whatever he has come for, he isn’t advertising that he’s here.”
Grant watched as the group disappeared into the building. “When will we find out?”
“The last minute. As usual.” Barton fixed Grant with a stare. “You’ll let us know if old Big Head Durban lets anything slip, won’t you?”
Grant felt his hands becoming sweaty. They were all looking at him. The CO’s navigator. Their own personal spy into the mind of their boss. “Of course, sir.”
“Good lad. Come on. The food won’t be any better if we let it get cold.”
Chapter Eleven
Norfolk, 14 March
“I’m sorry, sir,” Durban said, clearing a space on his desk before clasping his hands behind his back. “It’s a bit too small in here for all of us, but it’s the best I can do. Unless you want to move to the main Ops room?”
“Here will be fine, Andy.” Air Vice Marshal Sir Basil Embry motioned to the big man in the commando uniform to lock the door, then closed the single window. The chatter of the aircrew outside dwindled. “The fewer people know about this, the better. Right now, it’s the five of us and almost no one else. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
“Of course, sir.” With all of them crammed together and the evening unseasonably warm, the little office would feel positively claustrophobic soon. The civilian leaned against the wall, eyes hooded, fingers loosely interlinked in front of his chest. The commando noted his position, then edged sideways, placing himself between the civilian and the woman while keeping his eyes on the door.
“Squadron Officer Lane here is from Special Operations Executive,” Embry said. “She’ll handle the briefing. You’ve worked with SOE before, Andy?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure, sir.”
“It’s rarely a pleasure,” Embry said. “SOE only call me when they have something particularly awkward they need doing. You know about the raid on the prison at Amiens?”
“Of course, sir.”
“That was theirs. The strike on the Gestapo headquarters at Aarhus, too. Fair play to them, SOE does lay on some fun stuff. I treated myself and flew on that one.”
“I heard, sir,” Durban said blandly. Embry was a legend, popular with his crews, brave to a fault, and more than happy to adopt a pseudonym to join his beloved airmen on a raid from time to time. Durban wasn’t sure he would want an AVM in his formation, even one who was keeping quiet and wearing the uniform and name tags of Wing Commander Smith. But if he had to, Embry would be the one.
Embry adjusted his neat side parting before turning to the woman. “Over to you, Sarah,” he said. “Smoke if you want to. Same for all of you.”
“Thank you, sir.” The woman drew out a Senior Service cigarette and held it between two thin fingers. Durban offered her a light, and their eyes met as she leaned towards the flame. She glanced down at the lighter, only for a moment, but he knew she had seen the slight tremble of his hands that he had tried to conceal. He guessed she was in her mid-thirties, maybe ten years older than him, several inches taller. Her neatly pulled back hair framed a face that, while severe, had a certain handsomeness to it.
Most of all, Durban noted the eyes. Cool. Professional. Steely.
With a nod, she drew back and took a deep drag on the cigarette, then opened her leather attaché case and placed the contents on the desk.
Durban saw the colour of the files. All at least Top Secret, some marked with additional caveats he had never seen. “I’m not sure I’m cleared for this level, sir,” he said.
“You are now,” Embry said.
“Wing Commander Durban,” the woman from SOE began, “I shall do my best to make this quick. As you know, the war is nearly over. Hitler and his inner circle might publicly expect a miraculous turnaround, but behind the scenes, the SS are preparing for the next stage. So far, we’ve identified two major components of this plan. The first is a special forces operation known as Werwolf, but that doesn’t concern us. We know the second only as Götterdämmerung.”
From a file, she drew several glossy photographs, which showed a picturesque stone church surrounded by trees and low bushes. She pushed the first in front of him. “These are from photo-reconnaissance runs over northern and eastern Germany. It’s hard to tell, but the photographic interpreters at Medmenham believe this one shows the concealed entrance to a laboratory, built partly underneath church grounds just outside the town of Hildesheim. This is one of several sites we have linked to Götterdämmerung.” She reached for the second photo.
Durban glanced at it. “Uelzen?”
“You know your Luftwaffe airfields,” she said.
“I know to avoid them,” Durban said. “Uelzen sits right on the flight path to Berlin. I’ve met their night fighters more times than I’d like.”
“It’s not just night fighters.” She moved one long finger across the image to a large hangar. Next to it stood a series of protective revetments, each big enough for a single aircraft. They appeared heavily fortified with sandbags, with the entire area enclosed within a barbed wire perimeter. Durban counted four 20mm flak positions near the revetments alone, not to mention the rest of the heavy defences that surrounded any German airfield.
Lane pointed to the familiar shapes in each revetment. “These may look like ordinary night fighters, but they aren’t.”
“What are they?”
“Unknown. All we can say for sure is that they lack radar, ergo they aren’t night fighters. The SS has requisitioned and occupied this area. They don’t allow regular Luftwaffe personnel anywhere near it.”
“Gotter…” His mouth stumbled over the unfamiliar word.
“Götterdämmerung,” she corrected. “Yes. Though for what purpose, we don’t know. There is one other target.” She reached for a third file.
“I think that’s all the Wing Commander needs for now,” Embry said. “Major Anders has other business to attend to in London and elsewhere, but Squadron Officer Lane and Mister Stahl will keep you in the loop. You can take them into your strictest confidence. Yes, Mister Stahl is a German, and Lane is not…” He paused for a moment, looking at her, as if mulling his words before deciding against them. “Try not to let that throw you off, Andy,” he continued. “They will be in touch in the next few days with more details.” He made a gesture, and Lane packed away her briefing materials. Embry looked around the room, frowning at the pall of smoke that hung above the table. “You can crack a window now.”
Durban didn’t move. “I’m sorry, sir. You still haven’t actually explained our role in this.”
“Well, I thought it would be obvious, man. You’re going to blow them up. First the lab at Hildesheim, then that special hangar at Uelzen, then whatever else Lane and Stahl tell you to drop an egg on. Until then, get your crews practicing their low-level skills and their bombing. You, too. You don’t have much experience of that kind of work.”
“You’re not the first to mention it, sir,” Durban said. “What about regular operations?”
“Rescinded. I have placed you at the complete disposal of the Joint Intelligence Committee as part of Operation AFTERLIGHT.”
“AFTERLIGHT, sir?”
“Damned silly name, if you ask me,” Embry grumbled. “It means twilight, or a meditation on the past, or some rubbish like that.”
“I’m familiar with the word, sir.”
“Good for you. I had to ask my wife to explain it. Is everyone ready? I’d like to get back at a decent hour. Margaret is hosting a bridge foursome this evening, and she sometimes lets me play a rubber or two. She never lets me win, of course.”
Durban hesitated. Outside the window, the gathered men had long since dissipated, but the sight of Grant still weighed on his mind. “Sir,” he said as Embry headed for the door. “Are you sure we’re the right unit for this?”
“Of course. 465 Squadron is one of the best in the Wing, possibly the entire RAF. You’re the experts.”
“We were the experts,” Durban said. “465 hasn’t flown a proper low-level operation since Aarhus. Many of the experienced crews have already gone, and I’ve got a lot of youngsters who have never been shot at. I have no doubts they will do their best, but perhaps 464 Squadron in France or the New Zealanders from 487 might be more suitable?”
Embry stared at him. They all did. At least the big Danish commando was polite enough to feign sympathy.
“Are you ok, Andy?” The AVM kept his voice noticeably, horribly soft, but his vivid blue eyes stared with piercing intent.
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Because I heard about that Gisela business last week. You probably should still be in the hospital, and no one would blame you if—”
“I’m fine, sir,” Durban interrupted. He knew what the AVM was suggesting. Even if Embry was too good a commander to mean anything by it, Durban still felt his fists clench with anger. At least it stopped the shaking for a moment. “We’ll get the job done.”
“Good man,” Embry said, clapping Durban on the shoulder. Durban was grateful the senior man turned away as he did so. It meant he didn’t see the wince on Durban’s face as pain tore through his body. “I have complete faith in you.” He sounded like he meant it, too, Durban noted, which meant he was also too good a commander to let his doubts show in public. “Remember,” the AVM said as he reached the door. “Lots of low-level practice and get that bombing accuracy right. I don’t want you missing, or the SS cockroaches will scurry into their holes. Who knows if we’ll get a second chance?”
“You will not,” the German said, following Embry and the Dane from the room.
Only Lane delayed, turning to give Durban a half-smile as she zipped up her bag. “Thanks for the light,” she said.
“Any time.”
“I guess we’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
She paused a moment more, as if about to speak again. Instead, she picked up her case.
Cracking the window open, Durban watched as the woman hurried to catch up with the others. She didn’t glance back before she closed the car door. He waited only until the car began moving before slumping back in his chair and quickly pouring himself a whisky. A few moments later and the last sound of the staff car’s engine had faded, leaving only the rattle of the glass in his hand against the wooden desktop.
Chapter Twelve
Norfolk, 17 March
Everyone knew something was up. Embry’s visit, the focus on low-level flying, the twice-daily visits to the bombing range at Holbeach Marsh. As Durban’s navigator, they all expected Grant to know more than everybody else. Grant wasn’t sure they believed him when he said he didn’t.
Maybe that was why they had left him to eat lunch alone. There were other plausible reasons, of course, why every table except his own had half a dozen men sat at it. He wouldn’t have minded so much if the food had been better, but he had long since grown tired of pushing spam and over-boiled potatoes around his plate.
The Operations Officer, Flight Lieutenant Wright, walked into the room. Grant realised he didn’t know the man’s first name. Tall, angular and with an odd, upright walk, everyone simply knew him as Bony. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he began.
No one paid him much attention.
“I have some news about Flight Lieutenant Broadley,” Bony persisted, and the hubbub of conversation ceased in an instant.
Finny half-rose from his seat next to the equally expectant Barton. “Is he back?”
The Ops Officer shook his head. “They found Broadley’s Mosquito this morning on a sandbank close to Aberdeen. The fuel tanks were empty. The crew’s bodies have been recovered.”
Barton swore. The Ops Officer paled and hurried from the room.
“Bloody new navigator,” Finny spat. “Ran Charlie out of fuel. Didn’t he, Grant?”
They were all staring at him, Grant realised. Not one of them had anything in their eyes except contempt.
Except one. “Grant wasn’t there, Finny,” Kittens said. “And there are a dozen other ways it might have happened.”
“Like what? Enemy fire? Bony would have told us that. No, this is a case of new boy, old mistake. I told everybody this would happen, didn’t I?” Finny looked around, his eyes wild. “I told you that all this new blood would land us in trouble, didn’t I?”
There were nods and mutters of agreement, though not from everyone. Several other aircrew seemed unhappy. Grant guessed that anyone who had been here less time than Finny counted as new in the little man’s view.
The door opened, and Durban walked in, his hair still unruly from wearing his helmet. The room fell silent. “I’ve just heard about Broadley and Jeffries,” he said. “I’m sorry. They were good men.”
Barton frowned. “What would you know about them?” If he made an effort to keep his voice low, it wasn’t enough.
Durban didn’t blink as he made his way across the room.
“Watch out, sir,” Finny said. “You need to be careful with these new navigators.”
Still refusing to dignify the comments with a response, Durban deliberately made his way to Grant’s table and pulled up the seat opposite. Out of his eyeline, Finny smirked.
Durban pointed. “How’s the food?”
“Beautiful,” Grant said, pushing the plate and its contents to the side.
“I can tell.” Durban made no move to get any of his own.
“What’s next, sir?” Barton, one table along, pushed back his chair. “We off to scare some more seals at Holbeach this afternoon? Or is there a treetop we haven’t shaved off yet?”
“Not today,” Durban said, ignoring the indistinct murmur of approval that followed Barton’s comments. “The engineers tell me they need a few hours to service everything, so I’ve cancelled flying for the rest of the day.”
“Great,” Finny said, clapping his hands. “Down to the King’s Refuge it is.”
“Not quite.” Durban looked directly at Barton. “You play cricket, don’t you?”
“Of course, mate,” Barton grinned. “We all do. The Australians, at least.”
“Good. I’ve spoken to the vicar in Staverton. It’s a bit early in the year for cricket, but he’s had a word with his groundskeeper and said we can borrow the pitch for the afternoon.”
Barton laughed. “What’s everyone else going to do?”
“They will be with me. Australia versus the rest of the world. You and me as captains.”
Finny spluttered over his drink, a stream of tea running down his chin. “You kidding? It will be over in ten minutes.”
“I like confidence in a navigator,” Durban said. “Don’t you, Barton? How about a wager? If your team wins, I’ll let you decide tomorrow’s training program.”
“I like the sound of that. Done.” Barton rose from his seat.
“And if I win…” Durban said.
“You won’t.”
“You keep your mouth shut for twenty-four hours. If you can.”
Absolute silence.
“Done,” Barton said, then laughed. “You’re crazy, sir.” Oddly, it didn’t sound like an insult.
Barely pausing long enough to change out of uniform, the entire squadron headed for Staverton. At Durban’s suggestion, Grant rode with him in the open-topped silver Alvis, which the Wing Commander handled with the same calm skill that had been obvious in the Mosquito’s cockpit. Barton was already waiting, decked out in cricket whites. Several Aussies had dressed the same, but no one else.
“I see he’s brought his own kit,” Durban mused as they parked, watching the Aussie lifting a bat from the boot of his Hillman and twirling it in one gloved hand.
“I don’t mean to overstep, sir,” Grant said, “but are you sure this is a good idea?”
“I’m absolutely sure it’s not,” Durban said. “But it will be fun. Come on. Let’s say hello to the vicar.”
While Durban exchanged pleasantries with the churchman and thanked him for the loan of the pitch, Grant called in the rest of the non-Australians and gathered them in a huddle. There were only nine, including Durban. Not a good start. “Who has played before?”
Four hands went up. Not getting better.
“Any bowlers?”
“I spin a little,” Kittens said. “But I’m not very good.”
“Anyone else?”
Nothing. Just some nervous shuffles.
“Right,” Grant said. “Kittens, you and I will open the bowling. The rest of you stand where the boss tells you to stand, catch the ball if you can, try not to let it hit you in the face. It hurts.”
Kittens nodded. “What about you, Johnny? You played before?”
“A little. Let’s hope the boss has, too.”
The two captains strode out into the middle of the field, waited for the vicar to toss a coin, then shook hands, holding the grip a little longer than necessary. When Durban came back over, his face gave almost nothing away. Behind him, Barton was shouting instructions while his teammates fanned out across the pitch. With far more players than the eleven he needed, he motioned the rest of the Aussies to the sides.
“We lost the toss,” Durban said, pulling on pads. “Barton’s asked us to bat first.”
“We don’t have a lot of talent here, sir,” Grant warned. “Half the boys don’t even know how to hold a bat.”
“That’s easily fixed. Mark Kittinger and I will open. You come in at number eleven. Or number nine, I suppose. Try to show the boys which way the bat goes as best you can, alright?”
Grant pointed to the additional Aussies, who had parked themselves on the wooden benches in the shadow beneath the square church tower. “If we ask nicely, maybe Squadron Leader Barton would let us have some of his spares?”
