JET LAG! (22 page)

              ‘Delta Hotel, I believe.’ shouted Stumpy in celebration of his apparently successful attack. The Recce jet would confirm or otherwise with their photography! (Delta Hotel or DH was the RAF code for a Direct Hit on a specific target).

              ‘I should say so,’ came back Todd, ‘there won’t be much left of anything in there. But where are Klaus and Jesse?’

              ‘Purple Two , check.’

              ‘Purple Two , thirty seconds, heading two-seven-zero, have target in sight and also have you in my ten o’clock.’

              Todd suddenly remembered the Recce jet. In all this excitement he’d forgotten that the third aircraft was speeding in from the opposite direction to Purple Two.

              But then, just as he was about to issue fresh instructions, Purple Nine piped up.

              ‘Purple lead from Nine, delaying run by two minutes to allow Five to complete his attack.’

              Todd breathed a sigh of relief which was broken by a huge series of flashes back at the airfield. He and Stumpy looked back over their right shoulders.

              ‘Bloody hell – it must be a nightmare on the ground,’ said Stumpy. Todd didn’t reply. He was too busy looking for his two compatriots. He picked out Klaus first, who had climbed to one thousand feet and was closing fast on Purple lead, who had slowed to four-twenty knots. But he still couldn’t see Purple Nine. And just as he was about to ask Stumpy if he had spotted the Recce jet, the call came over the radio.

              ‘Nine off target, turning right, let’s go home.’

              Stumpy acknowledged with two clicks on the radio and all three aircraft set off to the south-west, and climbed away to a safe height. 

Mission accomplished.

Or so they imagined!

33

Esbjerg Airfield, Denmark

Midnight, 11 July 1940

              Reports were coming in from the airfield at Fohr. It wasn’t good news. It looked as though a surprise attack had all but demolished the airfield infrastructure. Galland was on the line to Berlin.

              ‘Galland, Galland, what is happening out there?’

The Reichsmarschall was beside himself with fear and foreboding.

‘How many aircraft did we lose? Oh my God, this is a disaster. The Fuhrer will be furious. Please tell me Galland – the aircraft – did they all get away?’

Galland was enjoying this telephone call and decided that he would spin out Goering’s misery just a bit little longer.

‘Well, sir, the airfield at Fohr has been completely destroyed – and there have been many casualties.’

Goering interrupted Galland sharply.

‘I don’t give a damn about casualties – the aircraft man – the aircraft – are they safe?’

‘Well, sir, as I said, the airfield is completely destroyed and all aircraft on it suffered the same fate.’

In Berlin, Goering sat down in abject misery and shock. He was a dead man.

‘All gone, all gone – no it can’t be. Why didn’t you evacuate like I told you, Galland. You’ll hang for this you incompetent fool.’

Goering had already selected his scapegoat.

‘Hang, Herr Reichsmarschall, but why, the ‘Blaue-Tod’ are safe – at Esjberg, as commanded by yourself?’

Goering realised immediately the trick that Galland had played on him.

‘Enough, Galland,’ as Goering reasserted his authority, ‘Report. How many aircraft and crews are at Esbjerg.’

‘Well, sir, we have twenty-seven aircraft and thirty-nine pilots safely on the ground. Regrettably, we had to leave two aircraft behind due to unserviceability. Our support equipment is on the road from Fohr. We shall be operational by noon tomorrow. Can I be of further assistance, Herr Reichsmarschall?’

Goering was now a very angry man indeed.

‘Why, yes you can Galland. Report to me in Berlin as soon as possible. You are relieved of duty. Herr Major Koffer will take command immediately!’

Galland was thunderstruck. His reply was a string of apologies and babble driven by abject panic and terror.

‘But, Herr Reichsmarschall, I have saved the aircraft – as you ordered, surely you cannot relieve me. I was only reporting as you requested. Please sir, do not relieve me – I am the best pilot for this job’

‘Well, Galland, now you realise what it is like to be on the wrong end of a practical joke. Not very funny, eh Galland? Report the squadron operational by ten o’clock.’

And with that Goering slammed down the phone.

Galland slumped back into his chair. The beads of sweat forming as he realised how close his smugness had got him to a firing squad in Berlin. Nevertheless, the squadron was saved and he would live to fight another day.  Even if it meant spreading his force all over Denmark, he was determined to counter this new and formidable aerial threat from the RAF. He reasoned correctly that they must also be jet aircraft.

And what about that threat? The powers in Berlin must identify who was sending this potent weapon of destruction – and from where? 

If they could find out where the British force was based……then he could strike back with impunity.’

34

Somewhere over the North Sea

12 July 1940

The three Tornados had joined up and had climbed through fifteen thousand feet. They were elated and the adrenaline was pumping. Todd was delighted with the mission and he knew that Churchill would be extremely satisfied with their night’s work.

As they approached the descent point, Todd couldn’t resist a quick radio call.

‘Mike Foxtrot, Purple One, mission accomplished.’

Silence greeted his unauthorised transmission. ATC at Middle Fleckney obeyed the mute radio rule, and perhaps Todd might have been better served if he had kept his mouth shut…..

…… because in a small terraced house in Norwich, an attractive blonde woman aged about twenty-eight, wrote down the six words Todd had transmitted, and filed them ready for onward transmission to her contact.

***

              Todd was in for an unpleasant surprise. The three aircraft had returned safely to base and all were now safely tucked up for the night in the hangar. The groundcrew were attending to their servicing chores, whilst the aircrew got changed out of their flying gear, grabbed a cup of tea and ambled over to the Recce debrief. The film had been developed and was waiting on the light-table. The Photographic Interpreters were poring over the film, looking for clues to confirm the aircrews’ report. It was obvious that the aircraft had caused considerable damage. The first wave of Lincolns had missed the main structures, damaging only the runway and demolishing the ATC tower.  Todd’s aircraft had cast a trail of destruction through an area containing trucks, cars and a few light aircraft. The hangar was all but destroyed by the 4 x 1000 pounders dropped by Purple Two. Intense heat had caused the roof to burn ferociously and cave in, and now its contents were revealed.

              However, the hard truth was now staring them square in the face. However hard they looked, the P.I.’s could find no trace of the jet aircraft which were the main subject of their attack. They could only distinguish two possible Me 262s amongst the rubble of the hangar – there were certainly not any more – which served to tell them that the bird had flown – literally.

Of course they were not to know that the ‘Blaue-Tod’ had moved to another base only hours before. The attack had failed to destroy the German jet threat and the RAF were back to square one. What’s more, it was clear that the German intelligence system had performed perfectly. They had spirited their secret weapon away into the night – and now the British would have to find them all over again.

35

Middle Fleckney

15 July 1940

              A cloud of despondency had settled on Middle Fleckney. From having been so confident that they had made a difference to the war effort, they now realised that they were back to square one.

The only ‘unknown’ ray of sunshine on the horizon for Purple Force was that they had reduced the German jet aircraft numbers from thirty to twenty seven. Two probably unserviceable aircraft had been destroyed last night, and the other shot down earlier in the week. Nevertheless, twenty seven of these aircraft was a formidable force and would need to be dealt with.

              During luncheon, a new personality was introduced to team 1992.

Churchill had realised that he couldn’t devote all the time required to the force at Middle Fleckney, so he had asked his old and trusted friend, Sir Peter Andrews, to take over the day to day liaison. Andrews was also the MP for Bury St Edmunds, which meant that he could liaise with the personnel at Middle Fleckney without rousing too much local suspicion. Churchill had known Andrews for most of his life and was certain that he could carry out the task efficiently and, if necessary, ruthlessly. And it may come to that. If the situation at Middle Fleckney began to run out of control, Peter Andrews could be relied on to take rapid and effective action.

              Sir Peter chaired a meeting of the station executives that day and listened quietly and intently to the comments and suggestions coming from the other parties at the table. He realised that the air defence of Britain was becoming desperate and it would be his job to execute a plan which destroyed the German air threat. These ‘Blaue-Tod’, as they were now known would be a devastating and almost irresistible force if unleashed on the already depleted RAF. Intelligence reports were already coming in about the re-location of the German jets. However, the reports were muddled, and if all of them had been true, the RAF would have been facing over one hundred aircraft – not twenty seven.

The assumption, correctly, was made by the British that the German High Command had split their forces. Goering had probably realised that the British now knew about the Me 262 threat, and that the Luftwaffe had narrowly avoided disaster – literally by the skin of their teeth. It was likely that the ‘Blaue-Tod’ would be dispersed to three or four different sites, in order that such a single catastrophic bombing strike could not re-occur.

              ‘Well, gentlemen, what are we to do about this potent threat? Do we seek them out or wait for them to come at us?’ Sir Peter posed his first question.

              AVM Morrissey replied.

              ‘A little of both, sir. We can use the Canberras for high level reconnaissance to search for them in Denmark, and additionally use our ADV Tornados to give top cover to the conventional propeller fighters going out to meet the enemy over the Channel.’

              ‘And when we find – sorry,
if
we find – the ‘Blaue-Tod’, do we attack them again?’ added Sir Peter.

              ‘Oh yes sir, we go for their throats!’ came back Sir Henry without hesitation.

              There was general agreement from around the table as Sir Peter Andrews continued,

              ‘Right then, gentlemen, let’s prepare a plan of action and put it into operation as soon as possible – I suggest no later than in two days. Thank you, that will be all for today. Same time tomorrow.’

              As everyone rose to return to their respective duties, Todd whispered in his father’s ear,

              ‘Well, this one doesn’t muck about, does he?’

              ‘No, Todd, he doesn’t. And you would be better advised to learn from his example.’

              ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, father. I thought that I was doing a pretty good job so far.’

              ‘Slack radio procedures don’t qualify, Wing Commander. You put everyone at risk with your show-boating!’