how are my little goslings?’
Max heard the speakers of his earphones crackle as Schroder answered. ‘Good morning, Max, we’re still here.’
‘How’s your fuel reading?’
‘We’re all about the same, just about empty on the drop tanks. What’s our position?’
‘North-west of Lyon, another four hundred miles or so.’
There was no immediate response from Schroder, the man was obviously doing some quick mental arithmetic or perhaps consulting with his men on another frequency.
The earphones crackled again. ‘It looks like it’s going to be a bit on the tight side.’
That was no big surprise, they’d all known even with the drop tanks giving them added range that crossing half of Germany, and some of Switzerland and all of France was going to take them to the very limit.
‘I can drop altitude a little; not much though,’ said Max. It would help marginally.
‘No, best to stay up high, we’ll do fine, Max. Don’t worry about us. It’ll be close, but we’ll have enough to get us there.’
‘Okay. Listen, we have a waypoint coming up in quarter of an hour, the one that takes us north-west for a little while, heading two-nine-five. I’ll call in when we’re due for that.’
‘Good.’
Max studied the horizon again. The amber stain towards the east had grown to colour half the sky, and the first rays of the sun were appearing above the cloud carpet. The cover of night was fast fading.
Now it gets a little trickier.
Pieter ducked through the bomb bay’s bulkhead. He stopped to look down at the bomb. It was suspended within a metal cradle just above the bomb hatch. It wobbled slightly as the plane negotiated a brief moment of turbulence. He shook his head in wonder at it.
‘So, little man, you’re a giant dressed as a midget, eh?’ he muttered to himself.
He pulled the glove off one of his hands and reached out towards the rack to touch it. The cold metal was like that of any other bomb, but he sensed inside it immense power, sleeping for now, biding its time.
Something like this should have a name, a big, powerful name, and full of meaning.
Pieter struggled for a moment to think of one… his mind focused around the biblical story of David and Goliath, a small being killing a much larger one. The metaphor felt appropriate, but then he reminded himself that David was a Jewish hero. He sighed at his own stupidity, and not for the first time felt a sneaking envy for the kind of education that Max had. He would know what to call it; Max would conjure up an appropriate name, probably something in Latin, something far more fitting without any effort at all.
He pulled his glove back on and ducked through the bulkhead on the other side of the bomb bay to enter the navigator’s compartment. Stef was sitting at the radio operator’s desk attempting to control several large maps on its tiny surface. He had the sextant out and was preparing to take another reading before the light of dawn totally obliterated the faint light of the stars.
‘Morning, Baby Bear,’ he shouted through his mask.
Stef frowned angrily at him. ‘Ahh, come on, when are you going to stop calling me that, Pieter? I’m nineteen.’
‘When you can grow a proper beard, son, then I’ll take you to the best whorehouse I know. My treat.’
The young lad lifted his mask to show off the meagre ginger tuft on his chin and attempted to muster a deeper voice. ‘You don’t think I’d touch anything after your little man’s been near it, do you?’
‘You think it’s a “little” man do you? I’ve put fully grown horses to shame.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Anyway,’ said Pieter, bending his little finger, ‘it’s got to be bigger than your fanny tickler.’
Stefan’s mask was still plugged into the interphone, and over his earphones he heard Hans laughing coarsely. Max’s voice added to the exchange.
‘Tell Pieter to knock it off for me, will you?’
Stef obliged. ‘Max says stop arsing around.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Pieter. He patted Stef on the shoulder to show the kid he was just messing with him and carried on towards the aft bulkhead, leaving Stef and the navigator’s compartment behind him. He ducked as he passed through the bulkhead and entered the waist section.
Just ahead on the floor was the bulge of the ball turret, beyond that on either side the openings for both of the waist-guns. It was noticeably colder and noisier in this section of the fuselage, as the wind angrily whistled past the open gun ports. The floor between the two machine guns, which were offset by a few feet to allow two waist- gunners to operate simultaneously without bumping into each other, was overlaid with wooden planks. It was the only floor space of the plane to have planking to ensure neither gun operator would trip over one of the ribs that ringed the fuselage. Hans was sitting on the wooden floor hugging his knees.
Pieter shouted, ‘Hans, what the fuck are you doing down there?’
‘Fucking freezing up by the gun. I’m just having a break.’
Pieter wasn’t entirely without sympathy for Hans. He was feeling the bitter cold too. They were all used to the sealed comfort of their Heinkel 111.
Pieter pointed at one of the MG-81s that had been installed in place of the Brownings. ‘Is it okay to — ?’
Hans nodded. ‘Sure, you’ll freeze your bloody balls off after a few seconds though.’
Pieter climbed onto the planked floor and stood behind the gun. He held it in his hands and stared out through the waist-gun porthole. The wind battered his face as he looked out upon the grey-blue world outside and he struggled to keep his eyes open as streams of tears quickly emerged and were blown horizontally across his cheeks. He remembered to pull down his goggles and was able to look out again more comfortably.
He hunkered down behind the gun and, with one eye closed, aimed along the sight and down the barrels. He squeezed the trigger momentarily and let a dozen rounds off. Most of the shells dropped outside and were instantly whisked away by the wind. Three or four rattled down inside onto the wooden floor.
Hans reached out for them and eagerly scooped them up, placing them in the pocket of his flying jacket to savour the fading warmth of the casings through the thick leather.
He placed a hand to his ear and then nodded, Max was on the interphone saying something. ‘He’s test firing the portside gun, Max,’ Hans replied. He nodded and then pulled his mask from his face and shouted out to Pieter. ‘He says stop messing around with the guns.’
Pieter nodded back at him and reluctantly let go of the waist-gun.
The curse of the co-pilot… fuck all to do.
It angered and frustrated him that he’d been trained as well as any pilot, but rarely had a chance to put those skills into practice. To be fair, Max was better than a lot of pilots who tended to hog the flying time and rarely allowed their co-pilots to refresh their skills. However, on this mission the flying time was too long for one pilot; once they were clear of France, Max would hand over to Pieter to cross the Atlantic, and once they approached America, Max would take over again.
Nonetheless, he resented the hours ahead of them during which he’d have nothing to do but worry, and wait.
Chapter 36
Mission Time: 3 Hours, 55 Minutes Elapsed
6.00 a.m. 300 miles from Nantes
Lieutenant Daniel Ferrelli yawned and as he did so his ears popped. The bright sunlight of early morning reflected brilliantly off the cloud layer below them and he was forced to squint irritably. The overpowering brightness and trapped warmth within the Mustang’s cockpit made him feel ‘woozy’, tired. It was that relaxed, Sunday afternoon feeling, after the pot roast, and in front of a crackling fire, where sleep could come and go easily.
He removed one glove and rubbed his eyes.
You fall asleep, asshole, and they’ll be sending what they find of you home in a matchbox.
