THE FORESIGHT WAR (17 page)

‘What was the outcome?’

‘Hard to tell.
 
At first Chamberlain wanted to bluff it out, claim it was a ridiculous tale.
 
The computer subdued him – Churchill was fascinated by it – but I think what upset him most was the clear determination of the Oversight Committee.
 
I still don’t know who they are, but he obviously does and he took them very seriously.
 
In the end, he said he would need time to think about it.
 
I have a feeling that it’s going to be all right, though.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘On the way out, Churchill turned and winked at me.’

Mary laughed.
 
‘With him in the saddle, I think our lives might be in for a change!’

June 1940

A fortnight later, Don and Charles were unexpectedly summoned to the Oversight Committee in order to review the strategic position in the pause following the fall of France and the victory in Norway.
 
Don was rather surprised by the
summons,
even though he was by now familiar with the Committee’s occasional need for reassurance, but his surprise redoubled when he entered the committee room to see a familiar figure wreathed in cigar smoke.

‘Don’t mind me,’ the new Prime Minister said jovially, ‘I’m just here to find out what’s behind the news.’

Don collected his thoughts and duly delivered his assessment. ‘On the face of it, the only strategic difference between the present situation and the one in my time is that Britain instead of Germany is installed in Norway.
 
That alone is of great importance.
 
However, the degree of preparedness for further action is considerably at variance.
 
The Wehrmacht is much better equipped than in my time, with more and better armoured vehicles, anti-tank weapons and other small arms.
 
The Luftwaffe is even more advanced, relatively speaking, with the first of the new four-engined bombers – the Heinkel One-seven-seven – in service and the Dornier Three-one-seven at an advanced stage of testing.
 
Most seriously, the first of the Kriegsmarine’s new electroboats are commencing operations. Fortunately, our preparations show even greater advances, probably because there was far more room for improvement.’
 
He paused as Churchill grunted agreement.
 
‘Aircraft production has concentrated on advanced types, with the Spitfire, Reaper, Mosquito, Hampden and Wellington in full production, plus the Beaufighter and Beaufort for the Fleet Air Arm.
 
The Warwick is due to replace the Wellington on the lines in the next few months, and the Brigand, the de-navalised Beaufighter, has already replaced the Hurricane in production and will shortly be entering service as the RAF’s tactical fighter-bomber.
 
High-altitude bombers and jet combat aircraft are at an advanced stage of development. The Navy was hit hard in the battle for Norway, but it is still much stronger than in my time.
 
There are far more aircraft carriers, for convoy escort as well as the main fleet, and all of the major warships are much better able to deal with air attack.
 
Escort vessels are also far better equipped to deal with submarines. Most important of all, the Army is in infinitely better shape, with far superior weapons, most particularly the armoured fighting vehicles’.

Churchill interrupted.
 
‘Will the Nazis invade, do you think?’

Don sensed the tension in the room and chose his words with care.
 
‘I have no doubt Hitler planned to, before he knew of my existence.
 
He will have been told that bolder action to close the net on the British Expeditionary Force to prevent its escape at Dunkirk, together with better preparation for an immediate invasion, would have stood a good chance of giving him a quick victory.’

‘The situation is very different now, though.
 
We have a far stronger army, with tactics successfully tested in Norway.
 
There are three armoured divisions guarding the coast and another two in reserve behind the second defence line, supported by ten fully-equipped motorised infantry divisions and comprehensive mobile coast-defence and anti-aircraft artillery.
 
We also have far larger numbers of Spitfires, and a new and very useful type of long-range fighter in the Gloster Reaper.
 
It would be a huge risk for the Germans to attack us now.’

Churchill seemed dubious; ‘Hitler enjoys taking risks.’

‘Yes, but not over water.’
 
Don laughed suddenly.
 
‘He hates water!’

The Duty Group Controller looked impassively down onto the plotting table as the tension mounted in the Group Operations Room.
 
Information about enemy aircraft movements was being fed through the Filter Room at Fighter Command HQ at Bentley Priory then transferred by WAAF plotters to the huge map of South-East England, the Channel and the Continental coast.
 
The current plot showed streams of aircraft heading for England, apparently for a variety of targets.
 
As usual, the current raid had been preceded by a cat-and-mouse contest between the Luftwaffe and the defence system, with Chain Home radar stations hit by low-level Ju 88 attacks and the back-up AEW Wellingtons the focus of sharp battles between attacking Fw 187s and defending Spitfires.
 
The Controller considered the plot for a few minutes longer, then picked up a telephone and gave crisp instructions.

The Sector Controller of 11 Group grimaced as he studied an identical plot, then directed three Reaper and three Spitfire squadrons to scramble.
 
The theory was that the Reapers would use their high attack speed and devastating cannon armament to concentrate on the bombers, leaving the slower but more agile Spitfires to take on the escorting fighters, but in practice the battles tended to develop into a free-for-all.
 
The air battle had now been going on every day for three weeks and the strain was beginning to tell.
 
His Deputy stood beside him and murmured thoughtfully.

‘It looks as if it’s the airfields again.’

The Controller nodded tersely.
 
The Luftwaffe had been relentless in attacking the RAF defences at every opportunity; sneak raids to shoot-up fighter airfields supplemented by heavy attacks like this one, partly intended to damage airfield infrastructure, partly to draw defending fighters into the battle.
 

Don stood quietly to the rear of the balcony overlooking the plotting table, watching in fascination as the small tokens representing defending squadrons were placed on the map.
 
Morgan murmured into his ear; ‘Dowding
is having
to rotate squadrons with other groups every week to give them a chance to rest and build back to full strength.
 
The fighters are taking a hammering but so far the supply of new aircraft and pilots is keeping pace.
 
The Empire Air Training Scheme is delivering the goods. Just as important, the Luftwaffe is taking even heavier losses.
 
They won’t be able to keep this up for long.’

Don moved away abruptly; ‘Let’s go and see.’

Morgan studied his tense face thoughtfully and wondered what was passing through his mind, then nodded.
 
‘I’ll set it up for this afternoon.’

The airfield looked a mess.
 
Black smoke rose from a few of the buildings and from a wrecked Spitfire which seemed to have crashed on landing.
 
Weary AA crews, each man with a mug of tea and a cigarette, sat on their sandbagged revetments, surrounded by spent cartridge cases.
 
The only sign of movement was a couple of camouflaged bulldozers, shovelling earth back into bomb craters.
 
A steamroller waited under cover of some trees.
 
Apart from the burning Spitfire, there were no other planes in sight.

‘Over here!’
 
Morgan was heading for the trees.
 
As Don followed him, he became aware that a large mound under the trees was in fact a sandbagged blast pen, covered with camouflage netting.
 
Inside nestled the sleek shape of a Spitfire.

‘We’ve had to do this at all of the front-line airfields to protect against sneak raids.
 
The vital services have all been moved underground, as well.
 
Fortunately, the airfields are big enough that they can’t easily be closed by bombing; the Spits can usually find a stretch of grass to land on.’

The pilot, a Flight-Sergeant, was standing by his aircraft, talking to the ground crew who were busying themselves with repair and maintenance.
 
As he turned to meet them Don was struck by how young he was and how very tired, with red-rimmed eyes in a drawn face.
 
Morgan chatted to him briefly, introducing Don in his usual civil-servant alias.
 
The pilot did not seem very interested in him and Don could understand why.
 
What an unnatural existence, he thought.
 
Days spent sitting at readiness, waiting for the dread telephone ring that summoned them to scramble.
 
A fast take-off and climb, eyes straining for a first sight of the enemy.
 
Then a ‘Tally-ho!’ over the R/T, dots filling the sky like a swarm of flies, the fast streaks of Reapers diving on the bombers, followed by the vengeful German fighters, the sudden turmoil of combat, frantically trying to stay on the tail of his leader, perhaps a brief instant in which a black-crossed plane was in the right place for a burst of fire, the silence as the air seemed suddenly clear of planes, the battle having moved on.
 
Then back to earth to sit and wait for the next call.

Don dragged his mind back to the present, aware that the pilot was looking at him oddly.
 
‘How is the Spitfire performing against the German planes?’ he asked quickly.

‘Pretty well.
 
A bit better than the one-oh-nine, a close match for the new one-ninety.
 
The new engine improvements have helped a lot.’

‘Higher octane petrol,’ commented Morgan.
 
‘It’s enabled a higher boost pressure to be used; these Merlins are producing around twelve-fifty horsepower.’

‘What about the guns?’
 
Morgan looked at the three irregularly-spaced holes in the leading edge of the nearest wing, being carefully taped over by a fitter.

‘Oh, these new fifties are great.
 
They have a lot more punch than the old three-oh-threes.
 
Nothing like the cannon in the Reapers, of course, but you can’t have everything.’
 
He invited them over to meet the other pilots, gathering wearily in one of the few remaining buildings which were still intact, although Don noticed that it had recently been repaired.
 
He sat back and listened to their casual chatter, exchanging notes on the last battle, commenting on kills made, friends shot down as if they were talking about the weather.
 

As he absorbed the scene and listened to the familiar slang, Don felt a powerful surge of an emotion he could only describe as nostalgia.
 
This is one of the defining moments of recent history, he thought.
 
These dauntless young men, throwing themselves into lethal combat again and again against an equally skilled and courageous enemy; on their success depends the future of the air battle, the war, the shape of the world.
 
He turned away, embarrassed by a sudden lump in his throat.

Don sat silently next to Morgan on the way back to London.
 

‘Penny for them?’

Don stirred, momentarily lost for words.
 
‘It’s a strange feeling,’ he said slowly.
 
‘In a way I’ve lived through this before, at second hand.
 
My past life seems like a dream now, but it meshes so closely with the present reality that… I still find it confusing.’

Morgan glanced at him sympathetically, then slowed the car as a building with a hanging sign came into view.
 
‘I know an answer to that,’ he said cheerfully, ‘it’s just about opening time!’

Herrman sat on the terrace by the FHQ Wolfsschlucht in Belgium, sipping morosely from a stein.
 
As usual, he wasn’t far from the Nazi bosses and as ever, the fact made him feel ill at ease.
 
Where was the fearless young man who refused to toe the line for his communist bosses, he thought.
 
Was the present situation so very different?
 
It wasn’t a new thought and the answer was the same, like a cold stone in his belly.
 
The East German communists had been repressive and obnoxious, but the thread of decadent, depraved evil running through the Nazi hierarchy put them in a different league altogether.
 
He thought of Faust and shuddered inwardly.
 
He had made a pact with the Devil, indeed.

Stadler strolled onto the terrace and dropped into the next chair.
 
‘That’s that, then.
 
Our lord and master
has
finally decided that England is too strong to invade.’

‘What next?’

‘We’ll starve them out.
 
Ports will be bombed, mines laid, and the new Elektroboote unleashed on their convoys.
 
By your own account, we are much better equipped to do this than we were in your time.’

‘True, but the British are also better equipped to prevent us.’

Stadler waved the objection aside.
 
‘Britain is no threat without America.
 
It has been decided that Russia is the more pressing problem.
 
The Führer has always envisaged them as the enemy rather than Britain, anyway.
 
And now their seizure of parts of Rumania puts them much too close to the Ploiesti oilfields.
 
It is clear that they will carry on expanding westwards if we don’t stop them.
 
So we will.’

‘Target dead ahead; range four hundred.’
 
The calm voice of the radar operator crackled in the headphones.
 
The pilot peered into the night for any sign of the intruder.
 
Below, Southampton burned.
 
The Ju 88 pathfinders had managed to overcome the jamming of their navigation beams and had placed their pyrotechnic target markers precisely on the docks.
 
Now one of the Junkers was cruising around the devastation, guiding in the fast, high-flying He 177s whose bombloads were setting the city ablaze.