Flames over France (15 page)

Although Daillière was aircraft captain, the
Jules
Verne
was flown on this occasion by Master Pilot Queugnet, who now took her down to rooftop level and began a series of violent evasive manoeuvres. Daillière, half-blinded by the searchlights, ordered the pilot to make two runs over the station before releasing his bombs. Although the flak was intense, the big aircraft miraculously collected only two splinter holes before making its escape. There was, however, one casualty as a result of this attack: Master Pilot Queugnet, who was so exhausted by the strain of throwing the huge, ponderous machine around the sky at low level that he had to be replaced by Master Pilot Yonnet, who piloted the
Jules
Verne
on all her subsequent missions.

During the closing days of May the
Jules
Verne
undertook several tactical operations, notably against German armoured columns in the Clair Marais Forest and an important railway junction near St Omer. Daillière, meanwhile, had been continuing to seek approval for a raid on Berlin, but at the end of May — even with the French armies collapsing on all sides — the government was still reluctant to approve such a step for fear of reprisals. It was only on 4 June, following the large-scale attack on targets in the Paris area, that the French authorities relented and Daillière was ordered to put his plans into action.

The French Admiralty, which had been the sole authority governing the
Jules
Verne’s
operations so far, already possessed a considerable dossier of target photographs and maps of the Berlin area, which Daillière and his crew had memorised thoroughly. By this time the
Jules
Verne
and her two sister Farmans had been formed into an official French Navy unit,
Escadrille
B5, which was based at Bordeaux-Merignac on the coast, and to achieve maximum surprise Daillière decided to route the flight to Berlin over water for as long as possible, the aircraft flying over the English Channel and the North Sea before turning eastwards across the ‘neck’ of Denmark, north of Kiel, and approaching the German capital from the north. The attack was to be made at a height of not less than 4,500 feet because of the danger from barrage balloons, and under no circumstances were bombs to be dropped on densely-populated areas.

The
Jules
Verne
took off from Merignac on the long outward journey at three o’clock in the afternoon of 7 June, the flight timed so that the aircraft would arrive over Denmark just as darkness was falling. As it lumbered along the Channel coast at 160 miles per hour, labouring under the weight of fuel and bombs it carried, it was fired on several times by French and British warships, who at this stage in the Battle of France understandably considered every aircraft they sighted to be hostile. Fortunately, on this occasion at least, their shooting was poor.

Lieutenant Paul Comet, the
Jules
Verne’s
navigator, had no difficulty in following his course. The weather was absolutely clear, and excellent visibility enabled him to pick out the island of Sylt from a considerable distance — an important point, for there were heavy anti-aircraft defences on the island and Comet had been worried in case they strayed over them. But Sylt slid by harmlessly on the right, and the aircraft flew peacefully on.

The wind forecast had been very precise, allowing Comet to work out an exact ground speed, and after crossing Denmark without incident the
Jules
Verne
made landfall on the Baltic coast north of Berlin right on schedule. It was only now that the navigator began to experience some difficulty, because heavy cloud had crept over northern Germany, extending down to about 1,000 feet, and it proved impossible to locate some of the planned landmarks. From time to time, Comet saw a lake through a rift in the cloud, but he was unable to make any positive identification. Then, by sheer good luck, he saw a glow in the sky far ahead: it was caused by Berlin’s searchlights. The aircraft’s approach must have been detected, and the capital’s air-raid defences were now on the alert.

Master Pilot Yonnet steered directly towards the probing searchlight beams. As soon as he reached the suburbs, he flew a series of pre-planned courses over the city, designed to make the Germans think that more than one aircraft was involved. The
Jules
Verne’s
undersides had now been painted matt black and the Germans seemed completely unable to locate the aircraft, despite the dozens of searchlight beams that swept to and fro across the night sky. As yet, not a single anti-aircraft gun had opened up.

Up in the nose of the aircraft, Daillière and Yonnet were finding it increasingly difficult to see. Apart from the glare of the searchlights, more cloud was beginning to drift over Berlin and in just a few more minutes they would be forced to bomb blindly, with the danger of hitting heavily-populated areas. Daillière therefore ordered the pilot to make for the capital’s western suburbs without further delay; intelligence photographs had indicated a cluster of factories in this sector of the city, and these seemed to present the most worthwhile target.

Five minutes later, when he judged that they were directly above the objective the Farman was fitted with only a rudimentary bomb sight — Daillière released the two-ton bomb load and ordered Yonnet to set course directly for France. The pilot put down the Farman’s nose to gain speed and opened the throttles, anxious to get clear of the city’s fringes before the flak started to come up. A few moments later, the clouds reflected the orange flashes of the bomb bursts, and then the sky lit up with strings of shellbursts, twinkling above the city. None of the enemy fire came near the Farman.

The homeward flight was made without incident, Yonnet taking the
Jules
Verne
in a straight line across western Germany and the Rhine. The aircraft landed at Orly, near Paris, just as dawn was breaking, its fuel reserves practically exhausted.

The
Jules
Verne’s
route to Berlin had taken it over Rostock, the home of the Heinkel aircraft factories, and the crew reported that these had been brilliantly lit. The result was that, on the night of 10 June, the Farman once again set out for Germany, with Rostock as the target. The objective was reached after a trouble-free flight, although the crew spent several uncomfortable minutes flying around in heavy flak before Daillière made a satisfactory bombing run. Several fires were reported in the factory area.

Shortly afterwards, the
Jules
Verne
was sent to Istres in southern France to take part in operations against the Italians, who had declared war on 10 June. The first mission from this new base, carried out on 14 June, was against oil storage tanks at Porto Marghera, the port of Venice; eight bombs were dropped and one tank was definitely set on fire. A second mission, against Livorno two nights later, was less successful.

The
Jules
Verne’s
last sortie was flown on 18 June, when Daillière and his crew paid a visit to Rome — to drop not bombs but leaflets.

Sadly, the big Farman met an inglorious end. Trapped at Marignane through lack of fuel, it was burned to prevent it from falling into enemy hands.
Commandant
Daillière, who became a member of the Vichy French forces, was eventually transferred to Dakar in West Africa.

One day in 1942, a Martin Maryland bomber bearing Vichy French markings strayed into British airspace at Freetown, Sierra Leone: It was intercepted by RAF Hawker Hurricane fighters, and its pilot ignored their signals to land. The RAF fighters opened fire and shot it down. The body of the pilot was found in the wreckage, a bullet through his head.

Such was the tragic death of
Commandant
Daillière, the man who, with a small band of gallant comrades, carried the war for the first time to Germany’s capital in a small, almost personal gesture of defiance that shone like a beacon through the shame of France’s collapse.

Chapter Ten

The pilots assembled in the open air in the freshness of a June dawn, straight from their beds, stretching and yawning, rubbing their hands across stubbled faces. Armstrong saw that Villeneuve had called them all together, Frenchmen and Poles, and knew that something big was in the wind. He was not mistaken, and Villeneuve wasted no time on preliminaries as he stood before them, feet slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back. Armstrong had noticed that the colonel had taken to adopting this particular stance recently, with his hands hidden from view, and knew why; Villeneuve’s hands trembled constantly now, for the twin strains of command and combat had taken their toll. Willpower alone was keeping the man going.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a high and clear voice that reached them all, “the
Boches
are on the move again. A few hours ago, they began a massive artillery barrage on the Somme front, stretching from the Channel coast to Laon. First reports indicate that General Besson’s Third Army Group is under extreme pressure. The enemy has established a bridgehead on the Somme at St Valery, on the left of the Allied line, and the British 51st Division in that sector is under heavy attack. On the right, other units of the 51st Division, together with our own 31st Alpine Division, are withdrawing to the line of the Bresle river between Eu and Blaugy.”

The pilots had brought their maps with them and were hurriedly making pencil marks on them, tracing the rapidly shifting battle front as Villeneuve outlined the situation.

“Although compelled to withdraw in the face of superior forces,” Villeneuve continued, “the Allies are contesting every metre of ground and are inflicting substantial casualties on the enemy. However, the Germans have captured two intact railway bridges on the Somme, between Conde and Hangest, and their troops are crossing over in great strength. The situation is very confused and I have no information other than that which I have just given you.”

Had he known the true picture, Villeneuve would have been horrified. Pouring across the bridges that had been taken by General Hoth’s XV
Panzer
Corps, the German infantry had pushed straight on to attack and overwhelm two Senegalese regiments of the 5th Colonial Division, creating a dangerous gap through which the tanks drove on towards Le Quesnoy. Pausing only to shoot up a few isolated pockets of resistance, the German armour thundered on through Le Quesnoy into the Laudon valley, where they were engaged by a battery of 75-mm guns of the French 72nd Artillery Regiment. Several German tanks were knocked out, but the remainder encircled the artillery battery and destroyed it.

By dawn, the German tanks had advanced so far that they had crossed the
Luftwaffe’s
bomb line, with the consequent danger that they might be attacked in error by their own dive-bombers. Their commander therefore halted them and consolidated his position, waiting for the rest of the offensive to catch up.

The German armour belonged to the 7th
Panzer
Division, and its commander was General Erwin Rommel. Rommel again, that thorn in the Allies’ flesh!

By his daring thrust across country, Rommel had made nonsense of the whole defensive policy of the line that had been set up on the Somme, the so-called Weygand Line. This relied not on a continuous front but on a network of ‘hedgehogs’ dotted over the countryside, each hedgehog being a fortified natural obstacle such as a village, wood or farmhouse, with the defending troops well dug in and supported by mortars, heavy machine-guns and 75-mm artillery pieces, the latter with the task of engaging the enemy tanks over open sights. Wherever possible, each hedgehog was situated in a position that enabled it to provide covering fire for its neighbours, and each was provided with sufficient stores and ammunition to carry on fighting for a time even after it had been surrounded.

Although the Weygand Line had been designed to give some semblance of a defence in depth, it was by no means proof against a strong armoured thrust of the type in which Rommel excelled. It might have been a different story if the line had been backed up by strong forces of French armour and heavy air support, but it had neither. But Weygand had ordered his troops to stand and fight to the death, and in many cases they did precisely that. This time there was no disorganised rabble, streaming away from the front; this time the French were fighting with a valour born of desperation, conscious that they were the last shield between the armoured lance and their country’s heart. Time and again, the French gunners refused to abandon their positions, hurling shell after shell at the
Panzers
until the steel tracks ground over them or the
Stukas’
bombs pounded them into the dust. At Amiens and Peronne, they halted the advance of General von Kleist’s tanks after only a few miles; only in Rommel’s sector was any significant advance made.

But that was enough. Allied reinforcements were on the way in the shape of the Scottish 52nd Lowland Division, which was already beginning to arrive in Normandy, and the 1st Canadian Division was preparing to embark for France from England. It was already clear, thanks to Rommel’s daring, that they would be too late.

Larks sang in the early rays of the sun over Le Bourget as Villeneuve addressed his pilots, just as they had sung over the Somme battlefield on a June day a quarter of a century earlier. Their melody formed a background to Villeneuve’s voice as he continued his briefing.

“Our orders are to put our maximum effort into bomber escort,” he told them. “Later, we shall be providing air cover for our Seventh and Tenth Armies and, if necessary, we shall be available for ground attack work.”

The latter remark brought audible groans from some of the pilots, who knew the kind of havoc that could be wrought by the German light flak. For fighter pilots, ground strafing was the worst possible job. Villeneuve smiled thinly and held up a hand for silence.

“I said if necessary, gentlemen,” he reminded them. “That task will be assigned mainly to the Morane squadrons, whose aircraft, unlike ours, are cannon-armed. I do not think our peashooters would make much impression on the
Boche
tanks.”

Villeneuve paused and looked around the assembly, his expression grave. “Make no mistake, gentlemen, we are embarking on what may be the final battle in the struggle for our homeland. Each of us must give of his best, so that no matter what the outcome, men will say that we fought bravely to the end. Frenchmen, Poles, British — ” he glanced at Armstrong and at Kalinski, who was standing next to the Englishman “ — we are all together in this endeavour. And even if we fail, even if France should fall, we must continue the fight from other shores. There must be no place in our thoughts for the word surrender. That is all; we must now await further orders. Good luck to you all.”

They came to attention and saluted him; he returned the gesture, then turned on his heel and walked briskly towards his office. Armstrong was left with the uncomfortable feeling that the Frenchman had just delivered a valedictory address.

“Do you think it’s all over, Ken?” Kalinski asked him, as they sat on the grass a while later, chewing rolls and drinking milky coffee out of glass bowls. “Do you really think we’ve lost? Armstrong shrugged.

“It doesn’t look too promising,” he admitted. “The trouble is, as I see it, that we’ve precious little left to fight with. Have you noticed any replacement aircraft and pilots coming our way lately? I haven’t.”

Kalinski thought for a while, then said quietly: “If France does go down, which seems likely, do you think England will sue for peace?” Armstrong snorted.

“Not on your life! We’ll go on fighting, you can bet your bottom dollar! We won’t let that little bugger Hitler dictate any more terms to us. Mind you, I’m not sure about this new prime minister of ours, Churchill. He made some awful blunders in the last war, or so I’m told. My father can’t stand him. But people reckon he’s got staying power, and won’t let himself — or his country — be pushed around. Maybe if we’d had somebody like him in charge a few years ago, we wouldn’t be in this mess now.”

“What will you do?” Kalinski wanted to know. “I mean, if France surrenders. Will you try to get back to England?”

“Too bloody true I will! I have no intention of sitting around waiting to be taken prisoner. There’s got to be some way. If France packs it in, I intend to make for the coast, and failing that I’ll head south. Try to make Gibraltar, maybe. Of course, the quickest way out would be by air. Steal an aeroplane, perhaps. After all, the French won’t have much use for ’em if they aren’t fighting the Germans any longer. What about you?”

Kalinski looked at him, and there was a gleam in the Pole’s eye. “The idea of England is very appealing, my friend. Most of my Polish comrades think so too. So, before you go off and do something dangerous by yourself, consult with me first. Is that a deal, as the Americans say?”

Armstrong grinned at him. “That’s a deal, Stan. Don’t get yourself killed in the meantime, though.” They shook hands solemnly.

Colonel Villeneuve emerged from his command post and walked towards his aircraft. He was now wearing his flying overall, and he nodded to Armstrong and Kalinski as he went past. “We take off in ten minutes. Tell the others. Our orders are to patrol the battlefront. Nothing more than that.”

They climbed away into the blue and gold June morning, heading north towards Amiens. The Hawks were leading, the Polish Caudrons some distance behind, the aircraft rising and falling gently on the currents of warm air. At 15,000 feet they levelled off, on the alert now for signs of danger. Far below their wings the land was speckled with woods, intersected by winding roads and railways joining the towns and villages: Beauvais, Breteuil, Montdidier, and finally Amiens itself, lost in the haze that covered the northern horizon.

Here, though, the air was fresh and clean, with near-perfect visibility for miles. Away to the left was Dieppe, with the Channel gleaming in the rising sun. The Channel! How easy it would be to reach it, Armstrong thought, to fly on for another hundred miles or so, to the Sussex coast, and home.

He tore his gaze from that direction, looking at the flights of aircraft around him, their blue, white and red roundels — the reverse of the RAF’s — standing out against their drab camouflage. They were flown by men who had become firm friends, men to whom he had a duty. He would see it through, no matter what. And if his destiny was to end his life among them, so be it.

“Here they come. Messerschmitts, above and to the right. Turn to meet them, and spread out.”

Villeneuve’s voice set every nerve tingling. A sensation like an electric shock passed through Armstrong’s body, then all at once, as usual, he was icily calm, focusing his eyes on the silvery shapes that came tumbling out of the north-eastern sky like hawks stooping for the kill. The two formations closed with phenomenal speed and then they were upon one another, racing through a maze of smoky tracers as they opened fire simultaneously. Armstrong picked an Me 109 and stuck doggedly to his course, firing in short bursts as the enemy fighter filled his windscreen. Suddenly the German pilot’s nerve broke and he flicked away to the left, exposing his pale blue belly to Armstrong’s fire. Something fell off the 109 and narrowly missed Armstrong’s cockpit canopy as it whirled away.

There was no time to see what had happened to the Messerschmitt. The sky was filled with whirling, twisting aircraft. Armstrong climbed hard, trying desperately to get above the melee?, to arrive at a vantage point from which he could obtain a better tactical picture of the air battle. Over the past weeks he had taught himself a formula: first gain altitude, then pick your target, then hit him in the dive at speed, and get out fast. It seemed to be a recipe for survival.

He saw that he was still accompanied by his two wingmen, which brought considerable relief. At 18,000 feet he turned out of the climb and dipped his wings in succession, looking down to make sure that nothing was climbing after him and his two colleagues. But the sky at this altitude was empty, and he took a few moments to make a careful survey of what was happening below.

Here and there smoke trails twisted down towards the green-and-brown landscape. Looking hard, he saw a couple of parachutes, circular white dots that looked for all the world like nails that someone had studded into the ground. But the nails were drifting, and underneath each one swung a pilot, thanking his God for deliverance, but perhaps wounded, maybe even dying.

Checking his map, he saw that his climb had taken him north of the Somme, well into enemy-held territory. In just a few minutes more he would be over the town of Albert. There was no sign below of any aircraft, either enemy or friendly, and he decided that it was time to head for safer skies. Circling towards the south, with his wingmen sticking to him like glue, he spotted some columns of smoke rising in the distance and drew the attention of the other two pilots to them.

The three Hawks went into a shallow dive, crossing the Somme again. As they flew on, more smoke burst into the sky from the ground, and Armstrong knew that he was witnessing a bombing attack. A couple of minutes later he picked out the aircraft responsible, diving and then climbing steeply above the smoke, and he knew them for what they were. He pressed the radio switch and yelled into the microphone, all R/T procedure forgotten in his sudden excitement.

“All French fighters, concentrate on the Montdidier sector,” he cried. “Allied forces under attack by
Stukas
. I repeat,
Stukas
— and with no fighter escort!”