Angel, Archangel (8 page)

He slid back the bolt of his rifle and pulled out the unspent bullet with the soft snub head.
He’d better go easy on those.
He had only about ten left.

The officer tried to control his anger as he joined the rest of the platoon.
Dietz’s decision to ambush the GAZ could not have come at a worse moment.
As if they did not have enough problems getting back to their own lines, every Russian in the sector would now be on the look-out for them; and there would be search parties.

The dispatch case they had taken off the Russian major offered them a chance, but he needed time to study it and to think.
He had been examining its contents when he heard the first shots from Dietz’s Mauser.

What he saw had made him catch his breath.
The maps inside the case seemed to show the exact positions and strength of all the Soviet units ranged along the Eastern front.
More than that, they highlighted areas of Allied strength and the location of his own forces.
If they were genuine.
It was most unusual for a mere major to be carrying such highly classified material.
He needed time to think.

* * * * * * * *

“Fire off the port beam, Herr Hauptmann!”

“I see it.
Let’s take a look.”

Klepper banked the Focke-Wulf gently round to the north until the thin wisp of smoke emanating from the carpet of forest below was straight in front of them.

Menzel, in the nose of the Uhu, peered down through four thousand metres of icy clear air at the source of the smoke trail.
No sign of any activity down there, but according to his maps they were only twenty kilometres or so from Chrudim itself, so it was worth checking out.
Could be some crazy Ivan patrol cooking a meal on an open fire in the middle of the great forest, reckoning themselves to be safe from any Germans.
Klepper should take the plane down to tree top height and let him and Lutz spray the area with machine-gun fire.
That would do something for their appetites.
Menzel knew that Klepper would never give way to such a futile gesture.
Their orders were simple.
Take photographs of Chrudim and get out.
No Ivan patrol was going to jeopardize the mission for Klepper, of that Menzel could be sure.

He checked his maps again.
There should be a road down there.
It was hard to see, but he could just make out a trail through the forest.
Only then did he realize that the fire below was burning right beside the road that snaked its way off to Chrudim in the middle distance.

“Herr Hauptmann, that smoke is coming from a fire beside the main road into Chrudim.
I think there must be a burning vehicle.
Could be part of the reason we came here.
Mind if we take a look?”

Klepper nodded.
“We’ll check it out.
I’ll continue on up the trail until we reach Chrudim.
Make sure your weapons are armed, both of you.
And Menzel, get ready with the cameras.
You’ll only have a few seconds over target.”

The FW 189 went into a shallow dive.
Menzel suddenly didn’t notice the cold anymore.
His heated flight suit still wasn’t working, but he could feel the sticky perspiration soaking his back as he lay prone in the clear perspex dome at the front of the aircraft.

He grasped the St Christopher medallion that was swinging from his neck and squeezed it, his lips mouthing a silent prayer.
His sweetheart had given him the charm when he had last been home on leave.
Was it this year or last?
He couldn’t remember.

They were now skimming over the tops of the trees at 210 kph.
He felt an urge to cover his face with his arms as a bough danced crazily in front of his eyes before flashing past him in a green and brown blur.

The trail of smoke was straight ahead.
Closer .
.
.
closer.

They were already several hundred metres beyond the fire by the time Menzel radioed through to Klepper that there was nothing there, only a clump of trees burning beside the road.

Ten seconds later, the voice of Lutz, in the rear of the aircraft, cut in.

“Herr Hauptmann, we just passed an enemy jeep going like shit towards Chrudim.
Disappeared before I could get a shot at him.”

You arsehole, Menzel thought.

When he looked up, he could just make out the tower of the church of Chrudim on the skyline ahead of them and slightly to port.
At that moment, Klepper turned to the left so that he was lined up directly with the landmark.
It was then that Menzel noticed a needle-thin line of tracer bending round towards them from the top of the tower.
He tried to get in a deflection shot with his MG 81, but was way off.
The firing stopped, so the Russian must have gone for cover.

Klepper raised the nose of the Uhu and climbed to a hundred metres as they swept over the town.
Menzel pressed down on the button at the end of the cable.
Beneath the fuselage the twin Hasselblads clicked in concert, each snapping away at the scene below them at five frames a second.
Menzel was dimly aware of a large square in the middle of the town that was filled with armour.
He looked back as they passed over the target area.
Jesus, the streets of the town were a mass of olive green vehicles .
.
.
lorries, armoured cars, tanks.

The aircraft rocked in the turbulence as the FW was straddled by bursts of anti-aircraft fire.

Klepper cut in over the din of the muffled explosions outside.

“I hope you got everything on camera, because that’s it.
No sense in risking our necks if we’re going to get another reception like that.”

The icy slipstream bit even harder into Menzel’s face.
The High Command would have to bring together all its reserve strength to have any hope of fending off an armoured assault of that magnitude.

As Klepper set a course back for Altenburg, Menzel spared a thought for the troops that were preparing to defend the Fatherland from the Russians’ spearhead assault from the south.

CHAPTER SIX

It didn’t take them long to find the hospital, its red brick gothic towers and crenellations looming high in the mist above the small terraced houses of West London.

“Poor little mite,” Kruze whispered.

He paused by the railings, momentarily appalled that anyone could put an orphan of a few hours in a place like that, but she tugged him gently by the arm, urging him on.

They entered the hospital through the big vaulted arch that was the main entrance.
The duty nurse’s face lit up the moment Penny asked for Billy Simmons.

“Oh, I am so glad,” she said, “he’s been asking for you.”
She strode off down the corridor in the direction of the ward.

The boy seemed to be asleep as they moved awkwardly to his bed.
The nurse touched the Rhodesian on the shoulder and whispered.

“He’s been very badly shaken.
Not surprising when you think what he’s been through.
Lost both his parents, poor little rat.”

“I know,” Penny said quietly.
Kruze seemed not to be listening.
He was studying the face that protruded from the sheets.
Billy’s eyes were screwed tightly shut and furrows like gashes were etched across his brow.
The nurse continued in a hushed voice.

“His legs will heal.
It’s the deeper wounds that worry us.”

Kruze pulled up the chair by the bed.

“I’ll leave you three alone for a little while,” the sister said.
“Call me if you need anything.”
She walked out of the room.
Kruze took in the high ceiling and the pistachio coloured walls.
The two other patients in the ward seemed to be taking little notice of him or Penny.
There was a coldness in the room which made him shudder.
He had never spent a day in a hospital and hoped he never would.

For a second, he wondered what he was doing there.
What would he say to the child if he awoke?
There had been few children within the small farming community around Ellingworth where he had grown up, and they had had a maturity beyond their years.
You got old fast in the bush, especially in the hostile country of the Mateke in Southern Rhodesia.

He turned to Penny, but she nodded towards Billy.

When he looked back at the boy, the young eyes were open and staring boldly back at him.
His lips moved.

“I knew you’d come.”
The words were barely audible, but he tried to smile.
“Who are you?”

“I’m Kruze.”
He tried to smile back.
He took Penny’s hand and urged her gently towards the edge of the bed.
“And this here is Penny.”
She bent down and moved a strand of hair out of his eyes.

The boy’s blue eyes never left Kruze’s face.
“How are you feeling, feller?”
Kruze asked, disturbed by the intensity of Billy’s gaze.

“My legs don’t hurt, I just feel thirsty; always thirsty.
They tell me I can’t drink, though.
Why is that?
Why don’t they tell me things, Kruze?
I know my mother and father are dead, but they don’t tell me.”
The lower lip began to pucker, but he managed not to cry.

“I suppose they just want you to try and get better .
.
.”

“I knew you would come, though.”

“How was that, Billy?”
Penny asked.

The boy’s face tightened in concentration.

“Nurse told me I was very lucky.
She said that if I hadn’t had a pair of guardian angels watching over me I might be ...”

“Anyone would have done it,” Penny said, squeezing his hand.

The boy’s concentration seemed to lapse for a moment as his eyes roved slowly round the room.
There was nothing there to remind him of home.
He looked back to Kruze.

“Are you a pilot?”

“Yes, I fly fighters mostly.”
The boy’s eyes seemed to sparkle for an instant and he pulled himself a little way up the bed.

“I bet you’ve shot down a lot of Germans.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, you’ve got a lot of ribbons on your chest, so you must have shot down a lot to have got them.”

“Actually, I got most of these for testing new fighters and you don’t have to be too brave to do that.
If anybody deserves a medal, it’s you.”

Billy fell silent.

“I’d never get a medal.
You don’t get medals for hating people, do you?”

“What do you mean?”
Penny asked.

“I know that when I leave here I’ll have to live with my gran.
I’d rather die than live with her.
She just makes rules all the time.
I won’t stay.
I’ll run away the moment I get the chance.”
He was on the verge of tears.

“I’m sure she’s not that bad.”

The boy winced.
“She beat me once.
Mum never beat me.

“What had you done?”

“Nothing.
Nothing at all.”

Billy turned his head away from Kruze and looked through the window and out over the roof tops.
Almost a minute passed before he spoke again.

“I was with some friends outside her house.
We were playing in the street.
One of them kicked a ball and it went through her window.
Everyone ran away ‘cept me.
She beat me for it with a stick.”

“Hey, you listen to me,” Kruze began.
“I knew a kid like you once, who lived on a farm back in Rhodesia, where I come from.
He even looked a bit like you.
His parents had a small aeroplane which they used for flying around the farm.
It was a pretty big farm.”
He gestured expansively with his hands.

“One day they flew into a cloud and never came out - they just disappeared.
The plane must have crashed somewhere in the hills, but no one ever found the wreckage.
The boy, who wasn’t much older than you, was brought up by his grandfather and, from the start, the two of them just never saw eye to eye.
Much later, when he grew up he met this girl and told his grandfather that he was going to marry her.
The old man went through the roof and told him that he was young and foolish and that he should know better.
The boy decided to run away with the girl, but it didn’t work out.”

“Did he go back to his grandfather?”
The boy was captivated, his eyes wide.

“No, he couldn’t.
You see, he couldn’t bear to face that old man who was right all along.”

“What happened to him, then?”

“Well, he drifted around the country for a while, working on farms here and there.
Then the war broke out in Europe.
A lot of people from Rhodesia joined up to fight the Germans and he saw it as a chance to get away from the past.
He enlisted with the RAF and came to England.”

“Was he very upset about the girl?”
Penny asked.

Kruze turned round and looked at her.
There was the trace of a smile upon her face.

“It all happened a long time ago.”

Billy frowned, lost in thought.

“Did you ever hear from your grandfather again?”
he asked.

Kruze laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
Billy’s enthusiasm showed that Kruze was more than his saviour now.
He was an ally, someone who understood.

“I tried to write to him from England a few times to explain, but the words always seemed to come out wrong and no letter ever got sent.
He never will get any explanation now, because he went and died a few years back; a lonely old man in the African bush.
I was all he had and in the end, he had nothing.”

The old nurse walked back in and put a thermometer in Billy’s mouth.

“I’m afraid it’s time for rest now,” she said.

As Kruze rose to leave Billy held his hand out and Kruze shook it.

“Will you come and see me again, Kruze?”
The thermometer became dislodged from under his tongue.
The nurse clucked irritably and put it back in place.

“I’ll be back, feller.
Don’t worry.”

When the nurse pulled the thermometer from Billy’s mouth, she was surprised to see that he was smiling.

* * * * * * * *

Staverton picked up the folder.
The words “Arado Ar234 Blitz” were printed across the top left-hand corner.
He opened the file and read the first paragraph.
It was a resume of the detailed report that would follow in the ensuing pages.

* * * * * * * *

This twin-engined German jet bomber, conceived by the Arado Flugzeugwerke Company of Brandenburg during the closing months of 1940, is not only 100 mph faster than anything the RAF can muster at present (February 1945), it can also manoeuvre in rings around our own fighter aircraft.
When fitted with the detachable MG 151 20mm belly-mounted cannon pack, it becomes a lethal adversary and we estimate here at Farnborough that, provided it is given a reasonably skilful pilot, it will score a kill eight times out of ten when provoked.

* * * * * * * *

Staverton closed the folder on his desk and tried to rub some of the weariness from his eyes.
The Arado was a production bomber for God’s sake and yet it was better than their own Spitfires and Tempests.
And the Arado dossier was only one such report that Staverton could remember having seen in recent weeks.
There were plenty of others.
The Me 262 and He 162 jet fighters were now both operational and offered the Luftwaffe a phenomenal new capability.
All the RAF had to throw into the fray in the way of jets was the Gloster Meteor, but it was slower and less manoeuvrable than its German counterparts.

Then there was the Komet rocket-fighter, the most radical combat aircraft of them all.
The prospect of a new, long-range variant had allowed him little sleep.

Staverton poured himself another cup of coffee.
Churchill’s reaction to Fleming’s report had been succinct and to the point.
The Prime Minister’s grasp of technical and operational matters never ceased to amaze him.
His support for Staverton’s plan of action had been unequivocal.

He looked at his watch.
Nearly nine o’clock.
When Fleming arrived, things would really start popping.

* * * * * * * *

Fleming had never seen his boss look so bad this early in the morning.
His tunic was rumpled, he was unshaven and his tie and collar were loosened.

“Come in, Robert, and get some coffee.
Some for me too, while you’re about it.”
Fleming called in the WAAF orderly from the adjoining office and asked for two - both black.

“Had a bit of a late night, as you no doubt guessed.”
Staverton gestured at the state of his clothes.
“I didn’t finish with the Prime Minister until the early hours.
He’s very concerned about your 163 report and has communicated the need for direct action.
It turned out that he was seeing Tooey Spaatz last night.
Spaatz is heading back to America tomorrow and was getting the treatment over at No.
10.
It’s his boys who are going to catch it in the neck if you’re right about this rocket fighter.”

Fleming did not often rub shoulders with the top brass, but he knew of almost all of them.
General Carl “Tooey” Spaatz, Commander of the US 8th Air Force, was one of the most influential men in Allied High Command.
He had openly come into conflict with the British Air Staff over the strategy for the bombing of Germany.
Spaatz favoured precision bombing by day.
The British argued that it was saturation bombing by night that would bring Germany’s

population and its industry to submission.
Spaatz had got his way for his own forces, but at immense cost to the B-17 Flying Fortress wings in East Anglia.
Until the long range escort fighter had come into service in the previous year, many US day missions had ended in decimation for the Fortresses.
The new 163 was set to start that process all over again.

“Anyway, about an hour ago, this arrived.”
The AVM held up a piece of paper bearing the seal of Churchill’s office.
“This makes it official.
The General and the PM feel the long range 163 could severely damage the morale of the American Fortress crews.”

“I think that’s putting it mildly, sir.
If that aircraft out there is what we think it is, it could destroy the 8th Air Force.
It gives the Luftwaffe the ability to hit the Americans almost all the way to the target and back.”