locked on him.
‘You all right?’ Hans shouted amidst the roar of whistling air. Stef only blinked.
They heard the volley from the third fighter plane pass over the top of the plane harmlessly, followed by the roar of its passing.
His engine was making an unpleasant whining noise, and he could hear the clatter of something loose rattling against the underside of his plane. Ferrelli knew he’d taken some damage, but so far the plane wasn’t telling him anything too bad. He just prayed whatever was loose and dangling beneath his Mustang wasn’t a part of the landing gear.
He looked back over his shoulder to see the bomber swiftly receding. Jake was behind him, and behind Jake, now passing over the back of the bomber and rising to join them, was Joe Lakeland. His two boys seemed to be in good shape, although Jake’s left wing was leaking aviation fuel.
Jesus… all that’s left of my squadron.
Beyond the B-17 he saw the two Me-109s that had been guarding it getting ready to pursue them, and in the distance, emerging from the clouds below, the other German fighters were returning.
Ferrelli clamped his jaw angrily. The whole bloody dogfight had lasted little more than four or five minutes, and nine of his young men were dead or missing. He hoped one or two of them had managed to bail out of their planes, but it seemed unlikely. The attack had been ferocious, the German fighters it seemed had been determined to not just disable them, but ensure none of them got away. They had pursued those two guys relentlessly, at the risk of exposing the bomber. Ferrelli guessed they were keen to ensure that nobody walked away from this exchange alive to spread the word.
Keeping a low profile, it seemed, was pretty high up the agenda for these sons of bitches.
Screw this.
‘Guys, we’re getting the hell out of here,’ he muttered into the radio. ‘I don’t think they want anyone crying wolf.’
‘Yes sir,’ replied Jake and Joe simultaneously.
‘When we hit the clouds, we’ll head north… let’s go.’
Ferrelli pulled his stick hard and rolled over into a steep dive towards the clouds below and the last two men of his squadron swiftly followed suit.
Pieter watched the Mustangs disappear below them. ‘You know, I think our bloody cover’s blown now,’ he said to Max.
Max nodded.
It had been a relatively easy victory for them. Veterans versus raw recruits. Schroder’s boys had made a short and ruthless job of them and they’d done well to prevent all but three escaping. But that would be enough to raise the alarm. He wondered how quickly the information would filter back. If the Americans and British were already on some kind of high alert, the news would travel fast. It would all be down to how many planes they had deployed in this part of France as to whether they would have another run-in. Surely, there were very few planes in the area that could respond at short notice to look for them?
Right now, Max decided, they needed to concentrate on making for the airfield outside Nantes. The 109s would be on the last of their fuel by then and, having seen how effective they had been, he didn’t want to contemplate flying for long without them close by.
Max switched to radio. ‘Schroder, what’s your status?’
‘We lost one, Jonas. Everyone else is fighting fit.’
They’ll have burned a lot of fuel during that dogfight.
‘What are you all showing for fuel?’
It was a few seconds before Schroder responded, clearly conferring with his men first. ‘We’ll make it. It might be a close-run thing, though.’
Max consulted briefly with Stefan on their position; they were about ninety minutes away from the west coast of France. They would arrive sometime around eight in the morning. He hoped those snow soldiers on the ground were in position and ready to go.
Chapter 39
Mission Time: 5 Hours, 25 Minutes Elapsed
7.30 a.m., an airfield outside Nantes
Koch tore another mouthful from the loaf of bread. It was good; the dough was dense and chewy, almost rubbery, while the crust crumbled in a brittle, flaky way, like pastry. It was so different from the bread he was used to, it amazed him how much a basic food substance, such as bread, could vary so much from place to place.
‘Good bread,’ he managed to say with a full mouth. ‘Almost like cake, sponge, you know?’
Buller nodded.
‘You want some?’ Koch held the mauled loaf out to him.
‘No, sir, I’m not too hungry.’
Koch patted Buller’s shoulder; he understood.
He checked his watch; the radio signal had been due for a while now. They had received one in the early hours confirming the planes had departed and they would be signalling again when they were half an hour away from the airfield. It had been stressed that Koch and his men should secure the airfield as close as possible to the time of arrival of the planes. Too early and news of the surprise attack might filter to some nearby forces in time for them to respond and take it back before the approaching planes could make their stop for fuel. Timing was going to be everything with this raid.
Koch had sent some of his men out to reconnoitre the airfield at first light. They had come back with good news. It was a small supply strip, mostly occupied by ground crew, there to maintain the occasional Dakotas passing through. A handful of American soldiers guarded the road in, manning a hut and a barricade. These men were just counting the days until they were sent home and certainly not spoiling for a fight. Koch didn’t anticipate losing any of his twenty-seven men taking the airfield. In fact, he could see this being done without even a solitary shot being fired. If they were lucky, and everything went to plan, the planes would land, refuel and be gone in a matter of half an hour. However, if it came to it, he knew his men were ready for a scrap. The orders for this mission, which had come directly from Hitler himself, had demanded he and his men fight to the last protecting those planes while they were on the ground; but it looked like it wasn’t going to come to that.
Koch decided once the planes were in the air again he would order his men to surrender promptly. There would be no need for heroic sacrifices today if things went smoothly.
He wondered what was so important about these planes… a dozen Me-109s and a larger plane he presumed would be a Condor. He’d seen this before, generals appropriating crucial resources to whisk them from some hot spot away to safety. He could imagine, hiding away inside the larger plane, Goring or one of the other stooges that surrounded Hitler. He couldn’t envisage Hitler himself scurrying out from Berlin.
Karl, the radio operator, waved his arm, and the men crowded inside the kitchen stirred and looked anxiously to Koch.
‘Is it the signal?’ Koch asked.
‘Yes, sir. They’re twenty-five minutes away.’
He nodded and placed the crust of the loaf down on the kitchen table. ‘Time to go to work,’ he muttered.
He cast a glance at the French couple tied up and gagged, sitting at the kitchen table. They couldn’t be left here on their own. If either of them were to wriggle free, they’d most likely raise the alarm. They couldn’t be left like this. With some reluctance he had begun to reach for his field knife, when Obergefreiter Scholn gently tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Sir, the two wounded men, Paul and Felix… what are your orders?’
The two men that had been badly cut during the beach landing last night had been attended to, but neither of them were fit enough to fight. They would be more of a hindrance than a help.
He looked across the kitchen at them. One of them, Paul, had lost a lot of blood, and was weak and tired.
