Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse. Len Deighton
with below-average night vision went whole tours without seeing anything.
Ahead of him the front turret moved gently from left to right.
‘Bomb aimer. Don’t keep fidgeting about with that turret.’
‘I’m searching, sir. That’s orders.’
‘Then swivel your neck.’ Sweet’s voice rose a tone.
‘I’m keeping the hydraulic fluid warm, sir.’
‘Must you always argue, Spekey?’ Sweet made it into a joke; placatingly he added, ‘Keep still, there’s a good chap.’
‘Pip’ Speke, an eighteen-year-old with a big black moustache and a reputation as a lucky gambler, ducked out of the turret and got down on the floor behind his bomb-sight. Most crews had Sergeant pilots and some crews stuck together. Some went off boozing as a crew. Some had decent officers even. The easiest way for any of those lucky ones to make Sergeant Speke lose his temper was to tell him how fortunate he was to fly with such a fun-loving good sort as that modest Flight Lieutenant Sweet, DFC.
‘Navigator,’ said Sweet, ‘how many miles to the coast?’
‘About ten,’ said the navigator.
‘Let’s not have too many “abouts” tonight, eh, Billy-boy,’ said Sweet. ‘Bomb aimer, let me know when you see the coastline.’
‘OK.’
Sweet looked down. The countryside was dark but in spite of the blackout the faint shape of towns could be discerned. ‘Navigator,’ said Sweet, ‘I can see Lowestoft below us. We’re off course.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’
‘Am I sure, sir? Yes, I am sure, sir. Beyond it I can see a bit of a glim from Yarmouth. We’re at least ten miles north of our track.’
There was a short silence while the navigator calculated their position on the Gee. ‘Steer 120 degrees,’ said the navigator. ‘The winds are wonky.’
‘That’s just a correction. I want to join the stream at the assembly area over Southwold.’
‘In that case, sir, turn almost due south, let’s say 160 degrees.’
‘That’s more like it, old son.’ Sweet realized he had upset the navigator and upsetting people was a luxury he seldom indulged in. ‘This is the Flight commander’s aeroplane, chaps. We must do things by the book. It’s stupid, I know, but if we start cutting corners the other crews will do it.’
Sweet flew south humming to himself. Suddenly he said, ‘Did I tell you the story about the WAAF officer and the sergeant? …’
‘English coastline coming up, sir,’ said Pip Speke. Now it was possible to see how good Britain’s blackout was, for beyond the coast the world below them was truly dark.
The huge Freya radar aerial swung gently, smelling the cold wind that blew from England. It stopped, began to swing back and stopped again. Willi Reinecke called to August Bach down the length of the dimly lit T hut. ‘First contact, sir.’
And so the battle began: three groups of men using every device that science could invent began to grope around the blackness like gunmen in a sewer.
August hurried up the wooden steps to the plotting-table platform.
‘Logged at 00.35 hours,’ said the clerk.
‘Near Lowestoft. An extreme-range contact,’ said August. ‘Congratulations, they are not even over the British coastline. The Freya is working well tonight.’
‘They seem to have stopped the jamming lately,’ said Willi.
‘Since we made the wavelength band wider. They can’t jam the whole width of it.’
‘And it’s the tuning.’
‘“And it’s the tuning,”’ said August smiling. ‘I said “Congratulations”.’
‘I’ve told the FLUKO,’ said the telephonist. ‘They hadn’t had a previous contact.’
‘Good,’ muttered August. He put his protractor on the map. He knew all its bearings like the palm of his own hand but still he put his protractor on it as he gave his instructions. Willi admired that sort of thoroughness, especially in an officer.
‘The red Würzburg to sweep from Ipswich to Yarmouth, 270 degrees to 290. Don’t tell them the range or they won’t try so hard.’
‘Lowestoft,’ said Willi, looking at the map. ‘That’s well north of the usual route. Perhaps they are going to Berlin.’
‘Too early to say yet. Perhaps they are routed south and that one is a few miles off course. That would account for it. We’ll have to wait and see, Willi.’
Soon Willi said, ‘You’re right, sir, you’re right. He’s turned almost due south.’
‘They’ll assemble over Southwold,’ nodded August. ‘They are creatures of habit, the British.’
Out in the cold among the windswept dunes the crew of the red Würzburg became newly alert. They knew that the Freya had twice the range of their equipment, but the Würzburg had a narrower beam and was therefore more precise. It could ‘see’ one aeroplane and tell its altitude and so bring the night fighters into contact with it. The Freya gave an early warning but the Würzburgs made the kill.
‘The Nachtjagdführer is giving us two Ju88s from Kroonsdijk,’ said Reinecke. He was still on the phone. August nodded.
‘Let’s hope it’s a pilot we’ve worked with before,’ said Willi.
‘When that fool let the Tommi escape last Wednesday I could have killed him,’ said August. ‘He must have been right on top of him.’
‘The blips superimposed,’ said Reinecke disgustedly.
The T hut was the centre of the Himmelbett station which August commanded. Nearby there were other huts: billets, Mess hall, motor-transport garage and the radar machines themselves. As well as the Freya there were two identical Würzburgs: great bowls, seven metres across. One (blue) to record a night fighter and the other (red) to follow the passage of one of the RAF bombers. Inside the T hut two plotting-clerks sat hunched underneath the big wooden platform that dominated the interior. Each of them wore headphones and was in contact with a Würzburg. To show the progress of both planes, each plotter shone a spotlight upon the glass map that was his ceiling. From their position on the platform August and Willi Reinecke could see the two lightbeam spots through the Seeburg table in front of them. One was red, the other blue. Their job was to bring the two dots of light together. After that the German night fighter should be able to pick up the bomber ahead of him on his own radar detector. Or, on a brightly moonlit night, perhaps even see him.
The T hut was dark. There were no blips on the Seeburg table, for the enemy aircraft were not yet within range of the Würzburgs. August looked at the large-scale map on the wall and every few minutes Willi reported the progress of the RAF bomber stream as it flew across the North Sea straight towards them.
The phone buzzed quietly. ‘Our two planes are airborne,’ said Willi.
‘Tell the blue Würzburg to sweep from 50 to 70 for them.’
Willi Reinecke was biting his fingernails. August smiled. This was the worst time of all. Many nights they picked up the Tommis as they assembled over their own coast, but often the bombers were headed elsewhere. Himmelbett Station Ermine was only one small sector of a long coastline and unless the bombers headed straight into the Ruhr they would pass by out of range. In that case they would spend all night gnawing their knuckles and cursing their luck. One thing Willi knew: the best crews were