Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse

‘Cheer up, Kugel,’ said Himmel. ‘We’ll soon find out.’ To call the grumpy old Oberfeldwebel ‘Kugel’ was a privilege earned by only the most seasoned of Kroonsdijk’s NCOs. Although it meant ‘bullet’, the pot-bellied old chief mechanic was short enough in stature to realize that it also meant ‘globe’. Kugel came close under the cockpit.

‘You were in his Staffel during the Kanalkampf, weren’t you, young Himmel?’

‘He was in mine. I took him on his first operational sortie as my wingman. He was a lively fellow in those days.’

‘Then the war has sobered him,’ said the old man.

‘It’s sobered a lot of us,’ agreed Himmel.

‘Huh,’ exclaimed the mechanic bitterly.

Himmel smiled at the old Oberfeldwebel. His misanthropy was what kept these aeroplanes in such good order. The old man too had been a lively youngster once, but there are more casualties of war than the doctor ever sees. Kugel clicked his heels as Löwenherz walked past him without a word and proceeded to inspect and waggle each control surface to be sure they were unlocked and free of obstruction.

Himmel looked down to the hatch as Löwenherz climbed up the metal ladder. The soft inner hatch opened and his head appeared level with the floor of the cockpit behind Himmel’s feet. ‘I’m flying with you instead of Pohl,’ he said. One of the ground staff passed Löwenherz’s briefcase up through the hatch.

Himmel nodded and turned to exchange a pained glance with the chief mechanic below while Löwenherz strapped himself into the radar operator’s seat behind him. The backs of their heads almost touched, but between their seats there was a slab of steel armour. The Staffelkapitän carefully made sure that his intercom cable went down his back and was clipped to his overall. It was an inconvenience, but Löwenherz had read of several cases of aircrew being strangled by their own radio leads and it was a pet subject for his memos. Himmel hoped that he wouldn’t notice that his leads were not correctly positioned.

‘All set, Christian?’ fussed Kugel. ‘It’s warm today, radiator gills full out while you’re taxiing, then fully closed for take-off. Watch the cooling indicator.’ Himmel nodded. ‘Frei!’ yelled Kugel.

‘Frei!’ replied Himmel and pushed the button. The starter motor whined, jerking the blades. A bright blue flame escaped from the exhaust, in spite of the dampers. Then there was an ear-splitting roar. The panel vibrated and the instruments blurred. Himmel throttled back. He started the other motor and waited while the fuel- and oil-pressure needles came alive. The whole plane was rocking on its tyres now. He slid the side window closed in spite of the heat, for it was one of Löwenherz’s well-known instructions. The instrument panel and the windscreen chattered with the pulse of the motors. He pushed the throttles wide open and saw the rev counters flick around to 2,800. Even through his flying helmet the sound was piercing. The ground crew had hands clamped against their ears and their black overalls rippled in the wind. Two of them tugged the chocks away from the wheels.

Himmel took an extra look round the cockpit: flaps up, mags off, undercarriage locked, fuel full, straps fastened, oxygen ready, brakes on. The instruments were colour-coded: yellow for fuel, brown for oil and blue for air. Each of them read correctly and yet still Himmel worried. All pilots did, this was the moment of worry, once they were airborne the tenseness would ease a little.

Himmel hooked his oxygen mask into the forehead of his helmet and pushed closed the studs of his throat mike. Löwenherz, taller than little Pohl, struggled to notch the seat back. Himmel was about to help but decided that Löwenherz was not the sort of man who liked being helped.

‘Pilot to radar operator,’ said Himmel self-consciously. ‘All correct?’

‘All correct,’ said Löwenherz.

In his rear-view mirror Himmel saw Löwenherz fingering the radar controls.

‘Katze Four to Control, request permission to take off.’ The Controller told them to move off. Himmel released the brakes and the aeroplane rolled forward. Old Kugel waved him away like a swarm of flies.

Control told him to taxi to the far side of the airfield, wait until Katze Two was airborne and then move on to the end of the runway. He moved slowly along the perimeter track and past a wrecked Junkers 34. It had been there ever since Himmel could remember and had become a landmark for the aerodrome. Three months before, a salvage gang had removed the motor, only to find that it was an ancient Bristol Jupiter instead of the German power unit they had expected. A typical Luftwaffe balls-up, thought Himmel. So now the disembowelled plane had its rusting motor displayed alongside like a museum exhibit.

Parallel with the fence was the water-filled ditch, bright green now that summer sun had covered the surface with tiny cress plants. The dijk itself was two and a half metres higher than the aerodrome and upon it was the road to Utrecht. Its edges were neatly marked in white paint and its surface cobbled with the large stones that the Dutch call ‘children’s heads’. Military convoys buzzed upon it like angry bees and the wooden wheels of local cyclists crawled along with a bone-shaking clatter. Along the dijk road came a company of metalshod infantry. Himmel noticed the tired sweaty soldiers look his way with envy as they trudged past under the weight of full packs, blankets and rifles. They were singing, ‘In der Heimat, in der Heimat, da gibt’s ein Wiedersehen’. In the homeland we’ll meet again.

Himmel and Löwenherz watched Kokke’s plane as he ran its engines to maximum revs and then roared along the runway climbing steadily towards the east. Then Himmel followed.

It wasn’t one of his best take-offs, but to have Löwenherz sitting calmly behind you waiting to do the routine radar-interception test that was really the duty of meek little Unteroffizier Pohl was downright disconcerting.

The land flashed past beneath them. The sun shone down upon Kroonsdijk so that half of each street went black with shadow. Children pointed at them, a dog fled, a horse needed comforting. Gulls went into the air like a handful of white confetti, caught the breeze and in unison swooped back towards earth. The undercarriage thumped into the nacelle. A line of laundry wriggled, cyclists stopped. A silk patch of blue lake was tacked to green countryside by the taut fishing-lines of a hundred anglers, hoping to supplement their meagre rations. The flat heathland was like purplish-brown sandpaper scratched with irregular pale footpaths. The fields and lakes grew smaller as they fell away. An empty road grew busy, reached a fishing village and ended. Boats crammed tight to crowded quays, then there was just the empty blue water of the IJsselmeer. Over it there was a haze of summer heat like smoking fat on a frying-pan.

Control called him. ‘Katze Four steer 090 for practice air interceptions. Rendezvous at two thousand metres, grid reference: Heinz Marie nine.’

Himmel pulled a map from his flying boot. ‘Deelen,’ supplied Löwenherz before he could unfold it. Himmel spread the map and glanced down at the ninth square of the H and M reference. Of course Löwenherz was right. Himmel smiled; the big plane was flying perfectly. In the mirror he saw Löwenherz look over his shoulder.

‘Is this gun loaded?’ asked Löwenherz.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll test it while we are over water,’ announced Löwenherz.

Behind him he heard a burst of firing as he tested the gun. What a good thing the ground crew had loaded it. They often didn’t bother, for in the night fighter’s war these little machine guns, swivelled round by the radar man, weren’t much use. Himmel could smell the sour cordite fumes and tightened the oxygen mask against his face. They were circling Deelen when their airfield control called them to say that Kokke’s Junkers had returned to Kroonsdijk with a technical fault. Leeuwarden airfield would supply an aircraft for them to test the airborne radar. They must go to Ameland, an island off the northern coast of the Netherlands.

It was Löwenherz who first saw the plane below them. It was only when you saw another aircraft in the sky that you realized how fast you were moving. It was a white biplane, an Arado 66 with a red warning streamer flying from its wingtip. It seemed a long time since Löwenherz had flown his first solo.

‘See that, Himmel?’ said Löwenherz. ‘Below to port?’ The little trainer crawled across fields of ripening rye and dark fir woods.

‘He’s going well, sir, steadier than I was.’

‘And steadier than I was too,’ agreed Löwenherz. ‘Come round behind him; perhaps I can pick him up on the radar.’

‘He’s very low. I think we’ll get ground echoes,’ said Himmel, but he put the plane’s nose down and came round to creep up behind the pretty machine that was popping along merrily like a toy.

‘I’ll put the Kurier dead ahead,’ said Himmel, using the code word for enemy aircraft. The little white biplane had become an enemy bomber, for in what magical rites and rituals do we not manufacture an enemy from clay or wax. Or even from wood and fabric. The doll that looks like your enemy is called by his name. Stick pins into it and set it alight and believe that those same misfortunes will befall the ones you hate. Pretending it was dark, the two men acted out their game, stalking after the white quarry with all the skill that their years of war had taught them.

Himmel’s head twisted and turned like an anxious sparrow’s. Veteran fighter pilots survived by scrutinizing every sector of the sky regularly and Himmel never rested his eyes on one thing for more than a moment. Victor Löwenherz, on the other hand, with some effort of willpower concentrated solely upon working the radar. As far as he was concerned the plane was under Himmel’s control. His father had always boasted that he could ride better, shoot better and even groom the horses and polish the equipment better than any man under his command. Similarly Oberleutnant Löwenherz was proud of his skill on the radar sets. Of course it was all very simple when your pilot was steering at the machine ahead for a test. In the black of night when the pilot relied solely upon his radar man’s guidance it was very different. He adjusted the controls again but the elevation tube was a mess and the range tube was almost as bad. It was closing far too fast. Himmel throttled back and even used some flap, but the old biplane was so slow that Himmel had to break away to port and come round behind him again.

In his mirror Himmel saw Löwenherz crouching close to the three radar screens. He said, ‘You’re right, Himmel, the ground echo at this height just wipes out the elevation blip. We’re probably scaring the fellow half to death.’

And scaring me too, thought Himmel. Here we are, perhaps the two most responsible and experienced pilots on the Staffel, compiling a blueprint for an air disaster: low altitude, speed close to stalling and formating on a strange aircraft. An accident investigation board would pillory both of us should anything happen.

Himmel rolled the little control wheel to close the flaps. He pushed the yellow throttle-knobs and the engine note modulated from baritone to tenor. It was a relief to open up the motors. The Richards were powerful machines but the heavy radar equipment and clumsy aerial array on the nose made them only too easy to stall. He made a wide arc round the little white biplane so that it wouldn’t be thrown around by the propwash. Himmel smiled as they passed, for the pilot had been so closely concerned with holding his horizon steady that he noticed the Junkers now for the first time. He stared in amazement at the huge black machine and its secret radar aerials. Then the white biplane dipped as the pupil began looking for his airfield.

The Junkers climbed steeply and continued north, skirting Leeuwarden to the west and continuing out to sea. To starboard lay Terschelling, one of the largest islands in the Frisian chain. The weather was excellent except on the far northeastern horizon where ice crystals of cunimbus clouds reached miles into the air and wore the dark skirt of falling rain. They continued over the Frisian Islands and out into the North Sea. Flecks of cloud made shadows on the water below them and sometimes there were shreds of white stratocumulus large enough to swallow the plane for a moment.

A few miles out they saw a coastal convoy. Keeping well clear of the wrecks that litter this coast, but inside the minefields that protected it, the convoy was making good progress through the calm sea. The Junkers was low enough to see the seamen moving on the decks and some of the old coal burners were making columns of smoke tall enough to reach them. They were a battered collection: half-painted funnels, rusty winches, dribbling scuppers and misplaced hatch-covers. Some of the deck cargoes were only half covered and a deck party was working feverishly on the tarpaulins. Himmel wondered why they bothered. The grimy condition of the coasters was belied by the fresh rain that had glossed their decks and given their hulls the polish of old jackboots. Two freighters had deck cargoes of honey-coloured fresh timber looking good enough to eat. There were Danes and Dutchmen; ancient coastal tankers low in the water, and at the front two French cargo liners making down the coast with machinery and chemicals. They were sailing the routes they had always sailed, some since before the first war. Strange that now they should have German naval destroyers, frigates and UJ boats fussing around their formations and German aircraft protecting them from the determined attacks of RAF planes. Stranger still when some of those RAF planes were manned by Frenchmen, Dutchmen and Danes. Two UJ boats – converted trawlers of about four hundred tons – detached themselves from the convoy and hurried to the rear. Now the convoy began changing course, but kept convoy discipline and good formation. Each wake was scratched crisp and white upon the azure ocean. It was a beautiful sight, enhanced by the red-and-yellow lights that climbed higher than the masts. The light cruiser was covered in winking lights as though every seaman aboard was sending a message to the plane, as indeed he was. Suddenly there was an explosion.

‘They’re firing at us,’ yelled Löwenherz, but his voice was drowned by the fierce bangs of the shells bursting around them. Now Himmel knew what was under the tarpaulins: guns. A near-miss rocked the aeroplane and wrenched the port wing upwards. He didn’t correct. He let the aeroplane skid down in a violent sideslip. Each exploding shell hung a new black smudge in the sky but the old smoke did not disappear, it slowly turned brown and the air around them was blotched with smelly smoke like a three-dimensional disease. The plane dropped through the bursting shells until the extra lift of the down-pointing wing, and the Junkers’ lateral stability, flattened it into straight and level flight just a hundred feet over the wave-tops.

Now they were within range of the flak ship’s 3.7 cm guns and even the multiple 2-cms. The pom-poms added a new descant to the bass rhythms of the heavies. Himmel let down even lower until they were only ten feet above the water. The sea was a different colour close to: a cold steely grey flecked with dirty spumé. Broken timber and refuse pockmarked its heaving surface, and so did the splashes of flak shells.

Himmel moved the throttles forward and, with touches of rudder, danced across the wave-tops low enough for spray to mottle the windscreen. The ship’s gunners were aiming off skilfully. Their yellow lights spanned the water to make a fairy bridge between aeroplane and convoy. Soon they were far enough away for the bridge to fall into the water behind them. Himmel reset the trim wheel and pulled the nose up into a gentle climb.

Ahead was Holland. Marking its coastline high in the air there was another ‘land’ of cumulus conjured up by the sea breeze from a cloudless sky. Himmel kept the Junkers’ nose up. By the time they reached the coast they would be above those clouds. How beautiful they were: dark grey undersides, golden rims and fluffy white tops with occasional gaps revealing intense blue sky above.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Himmel.

‘I’m fine. Is the aircraft functioning?’

‘It took a couple of knocks but the controls are working.’

‘That was damned remarkable flak, Himmel.’

‘They get a lot of practice.’

‘They get trigger-happy too,’ said Löwenherz.