JET LAG! (2 page)

‘Well, I warn you Herr Professor, the Fuhrer cannot wait forever - if you cannot do the job then we can always make alternative arrangements.’ It was a thinly veiled threat, made many times before. However, in reality, he had no-one else to turn to.  Junkers had already been bankrupted and hounded to his death by Milch in 1935.

‘We are going as quickly as is safe to do,’ beseeched the Herr Professor, ‘and you’ve only given me thirty-five engineers – why did you cut the budget if this Projekt 1065 is so vital – so
urgent
?’

‘Ja, ja, Herr Professor, perhaps we were a little hasty in withdrawing your engineers. Maybe we can spare more technicians; and do you need more damned labourers - tell me what you need and I will try to get it?’

‘Herr Feldmarschall, the only thing we really need is time.’

‘Herr Professor, time is the only thing you do not have. Germany needs your project to succeed - and soon. What do I tell the Fuhrer?’

              The chief scientific officer at the Kretinga Development Facility held his breath. Time and again he had received pressure calls like this one, and each time he had to fob off these fools in Berlin. He was working at the forefront of technology and these buffoons wanted a cardboard cut-out. He needed time. Maybe two or three more years. He had already spent four years getting this far and he could not - no, would not - be rushed by Berlin. The jet engine was proving extremely difficult to perfect - alloys for the engine being the main problem. He brought the phone up to his lips and spoke.

‘Maybe another three years, Herr Feldmarschall.’

              A full ten seconds passed before Hermann Goering replied.

‘You have twelve months Herr Professor. One year. This project will be ready by the first of July 1939 and I expect to see it fly on that very same day! Not a day later, or you will live to regret it. Do I make myself clear? Milch and Udet will be there in a couple of days to inspect the facility and to provide me with an accurate progress report.’

              One year! It was impossible!

Why the hell could he not understand? You could not rush these things. Everything could be lost. But.... he had little choice. The threat was in the open now.

‘Jawohl. Herr Feldmarschall, verstehe.’

              Before the Herr Professor could continue, the line went dead. Goering had passed on Hitler’s threat and he would now be forced into cutting even more corners. His future work - indeed
his future
- depended on it.

              The German engineering genius sat down in the tatty swivel chair, which accompanied his tatty desk in his tatty office. He was sick and tired of this ‘verdamdt’ Projekt 1065 and this awful place. He needed to be at his factory headquarters in Germany - which would allow him to make much faster progress, in a suitable development site, where he had the appropriate facilities. How could he possibly finish this project in twelve months in this God forsaken outpost? He just didn’t have the technology or adequate resources. The security and secrecy aspects alone were causing untold and unnecessary delays.

Conversely,  the planned improvements to the Me-109; that was a different matter. That
was
a feasible project and more vitally important than that ignoramus in Berlin could ever comprehend. If he could complete the upgrades to the 109 and make it competitive with the British Hurricane – then the Luftwaffe would rule the skies. This jet project was indeed a concept of his own brilliance, but he needed more time to perfect it.

Nevertheless, in the final analysis, he had no real choice in the matter. Hitler wanted this jet to show off to the world and display superior Nazi technology. It was a damned publicity stunt. However, whatever the reasons, he was now compelled to concentrate his mind and resources on the Me 262. If the truth were known, he could probably just about meet Goering’s target, but he reasoned that delivering ahead of schedule was better for his reputation – and long-term health.

Failure was not an option where The Fuhrer was concerned!

Yet now he would be plagued by that interfering Jewish bastard - Milch, and by that immature flyboy Udet, but at least he might keep Milch off his back. He could really do without that - especially now.

              He slumped back in his chair, hands rubbing tired eyes. Herr Professor Willy Messerschmitt was coming to the end of his tether.

Central Norfolk

Mid July 1940

              Willie Hutch was in his best bib and tucker. He had waited nearly two weeks for this meeting with Sir Peter. He was nervous and he wished he could have done something to occupy his hands, which grew clammier by the minute. As it was he forced himself to lock them behind his back. He knew Sir Peter Andrews was a stickler, and he had to make a good impression.

              He had to be convincing.

              Sir Peter was a busy man, what with his job in the Ministry of Agriculture and all of the pressures which that brought in wartime. This was Hutch’s only chance and he must get his version of events across as best he could.

              He wasn’t at all sure that Sir Peter would believe him, let alone take any action. Nevertheless, he must try and do something to stop the losses to his livestock. It had been going on for nearly three weeks now. Oh yes, it was much better than at first, but the animals kept dying and he could not afford to lose any more. The ministry would not answer his letters and the local council were not interested in his problems.

‘This is war, Mr Hutch, and you must do the best you can,’ was all they could say.

              So now, he had asked to speak to Sir Peter. It was his last hope.

              Sir Peter’s butler appeared.

‘Come through, Mr Hutch.’

              Willie followed the butler through to Sir Peter’s study, where he sat behind an enormous desk. It was piled high with files, documents and letters. Sir Peter was clearly busy and Hutch could see that he had better be brief and to the point.

              As the butler pulled the door to, Sir Peter barked at Willie,

‘Well, Hutch, what is it - you can see  that I am snowed under?’

              Willie’s mind went blank. The room closed in on him and his mouth dried up. He stuttered into his prepared speech,

‘Well, Sir Peter, thank you very much for seeing me, it’s …..’

‘Get on with it man, I haven’t got all night,’ barked Andrews raising his voice.

Well, Sir Peter, you see, it’s my sheep. They’re dying!’

‘So!’  growled Sir Peter again

‘Well, sir, it’s been going on now for nearly three weeks and I just can’t afford to go on. My family, they’re frightened and so am I - it just ain’t right sir.’

‘What’s been going on for weeks - speak up man!’ – his patience was clearly running out.

‘The noises, sir and the lights in the sky. About three or four times a week. Right above my farm - two bright lights in the sky - bluish white and yellow they are - trailing like a firework rocket. And the noise Sir Peter, it’s terrible - like thunder.  It only lasts for a few seconds, but the whole house shakes and the children wake up and the wife cries and the sheep die, Sir Peter sir.’

              Willie was in full flow now and even Andrews looked up from his papers.

‘Where is your farm, Hutch?’

              ‘At last’, thought Willie, ‘some bloody interest.’

‘About twenty miles from here sir, near Fleckney.’

Sir Peter put down his pen. Fleckney -
again
.

‘I thought that area was War Ministry land, Hutch,’ now adopting a less belligerent tone.

‘Yes, Sir Peter, it is, but my family has been farming there for over two hundred years, and we got permission to carry on when war broke out. We’re the only farm for miles around - which makes it even more frightening.’

              Hutch now had Sir Peter’s full attention.

‘Sit down, Hutch and tell me everything, - from the beginning.’

***

              Hutch left about an hour later, fully convinced that Sir Peter Andrews would solve his problem. Sir Peter had promised to take the matter up in London on his very next visit, and that Hutch would be fully compensated for his losses. Hutch was a much happier man.

Sir Peter made a quick phone call as Hutch cycled away from the house.

              It seemed that all of his worries would soon be over.

***

              Hutch arrived home about three hours later. It was a long bicycle ride and he had stopped off for a couple of pints at the Red Cow, which lay conveniently on his route. He was looking forward to telling his wife Mavis about the good news. By God, she needed some after the past months. She had worked hard to help build up the farm after they had married. She deserved something better.

              There were no lights on as he approached the farm.

              Odd; perhaps she’s gone to bed, thought Willie. No matter, She’ll soon wake up when I tell her the good news.

              He parked the bike in the shed, locked it and walked round to the back door. It was wide open.

‘Mavis,’ he called, the first flicker of worry beginning to appear.

‘MAVIS!’

Nothing.

              He thought about turning around and fetching Constable Merryweather, but that would have taken too long - Mavis might need him
now
.

‘MAVIS, where are you, what’s going on?’

              He walked through the back door and stopped dead in his tracks.

              He couldn’t believe his eyes.

              By a single ray of moonlight shining sadly through the kitchen window, he could see the outline of his blood-stained family laying in front of the cooking range - piled up like some refuse - clearly all dead. They were dressed in their night clothes.

              He took two faltering, unbelieving steps towards the remains of his wife and children and knelt down - tears welling up in his eyes.

‘Who in God’s name could have done this?’ he muttered.

              A muffled voice from behind him replied softly, almost sympathetically,

‘You’ll never know, Willie.’

              Willie Hutch turned his head and just caught a glimpse of a man in military style clothing wearing a black balaclava. The last thing he saw was the flash  from the barrel, and the last thing he heard was the shot from the gun that the man was gently cradling in his arms.

              Willie’s problems were indeed over. 

                                                                                                  ***

              Sir Peter Andrews sat in his drawing room, sipping a brandy. His wife Rose sat with him.

‘It had to be done, Rose.’

‘I know Peter, it’s not your fault, there was nothing else you could do, you’ve got your own interests to protect, let alone the rest of the country.’

‘And Constance.’ Sir Peter reminded her after a few moments.

‘I know, but we can only hope that she recovers completely when this is all over. Couldn’t you spend more time with her?’

‘I can’t, Rose, you know that. Churchill has come to rely on me to deal with this whole damned business. How could we know it would all turn out like this?