THE FORESIGHT WAR (26 page)

‘Mine?’
 
Don was puzzled.

‘Code name.
 
Actually we’re giving the Germans some of their own back; it’s an acoustic homing torpedo.’

‘Are there enough escorts available?’

Swinton laughed ruefully.
 
‘There are never enough, and never will be.
 
We can provide at least half a dozen corvettes for the close escort of each convoy, and we’re collecting the destroyers now being made available into hunting groups, each supported by an escort carrier.
 
Their extra speed is useful in regaining station after chasing down contacts.’

‘What about the range problem?’ Johnson enquired.
 
‘With all that dashing about they can hardly be expected to cross the Atlantic.’

‘Not as bad as you might think.
 
The corvettes have a very long range and can fight their way across the Atlantic.
 
We have an emergency refuelling and repair base at Hvalfiord in Iceland but haven’t had to make much use of it, although I expect the destroyers will be there more often.
 
Another little secret is that we’re developing refuelling techniques so the destroyers can top up from tankers in the convoy.’

‘Are you doing this with aircraft as well?’ Don enquired.

Blackett nodded.
 
‘The Coastal Command Development Unit is practising in-flight refuelling techniques with Wellingtons.
 
If we can perfect it, all Warwicks and Sunderlands will be fitted.
 
It will make a considerable difference to their endurance.’

‘None of this helps with one of our major difficulties, though,’ Swinton said grimly.
 
Enquiring looks.
 
‘Mines.
 
The Germans keep laying them in the Crosby Channel and even in the Mersey itself.
 
Aircraft come over most nights and we caught some submarines slipping in to
lay
some as well.
 
The subs are even more dangerous because they lay them more accurately.’

Don nodded.
 
‘What types are they using?’

‘We don’t always know.
 
All too often we only find them when they explode.
 
We know they use magnetic triggers on some and we’ve developed effective sweepers.
 
The problem is that they’re now fitting them with counters.
 
We can sweep them three times over and they don’t react, but the fourth time they blow.
 
We’re losing far too many ships just when they think they’ve reached safety.
 
If you can suggest a way of dealing with them, we’ll all be very grateful.’

Don thought of the immense difficulty even 21st Century technology had in dealing with mines, and grimaced.
 
Ultra-high definition sonar and remotely controlled mini-submarines were too much to ask for at this stage.

‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to step up the anti-submarine patrols around the estuary – perhaps a line of moored hydrophones might help – and keep the night-fighters on their toes.
 
Otherwise, keep sweeping!’

Don and Johnson were walking back to their hotel through the blacked-out city when the air raid sirens began the unearthly wailing that sent shivers of dread up Don’s spine.
 
The few people left on the street headed for the nearest shelters, but to Don’s surprise Johnson led him in a different direction.
 
‘Something you’ll want to see!’ He called.

After a few hundred yards they were challenged by a sentry.
 
Johnson spoke quickly to him and the sentry nodded.
 
‘Right-oh, sir.
 
You’ll
be needing
these.’
 
He reached down and held up two Army helmets.
 
Don put his on, his perplexed glance at Johnson lost in the gloom.

‘What do we need these for?’

Johnson bent down; ‘These!’
 
He held up a light, oddly shaped piece of metal.
 
Don examined it but could make no sense of it.

‘You ought to recognise it; you were responsible after all!’

This time Johnson didn’t have to see Don’s face.
 
He chuckled and said, ‘don’t you remember some years ago describing the results of some German operational research to do with anti-aircraft fire against bombers?’

‘I think so.
 
You mean that time fuzes were a waste of time, so to speak?’

‘That’s right.
 
Flak fuzes were set to explode the shells at the estimated height of the aircraft, but they had to explode so close to a big bomber to bring it down they virtually had to hit it.
 
The trouble was, the fuzes weren’t that precise, so almost half the shells burst before they reached the aircraft.
 
The Germans found that they actually improved their strike rate by fitting simple contact fuzes.’

Don tapped the piece of metal.
 
‘That doesn’t explain this!’

Johnson continued, obviously enjoying the rare experience of telling Don something he didn’t already know.
 
‘We put that together with two other things you told us about;
 
first, that if a flak shell scores a direct hit it can afford to be much smaller – about five pounds or so; and second, that very high velocity can be achieved by using discarding sabots.’

‘But that was for anti-tank guns!’

‘Principle still applies.
 
We’ve designed a high-explosive discarding sabot shell to be fired from the big new four inch anti-aircraft gun; that’s the four point seven inch sleeved down.
 
Instead of the usual thirty-five pound time-fuzed shell, it fires a nine pound high-explosive discarding-sabot shell at a far higher muzzle velocity, which improves both the altitude performance and the accuracy, as the time of flight is much shorter.
 
The only problem is that the light alloy sabot which holds the shell in the barrel falls back down again onto the gunners’ heads.
 
So we made it to break up into small pieces when it leaves the barrel.
 
It’s still advisable to wear helmets, though!’

Don thought for a moment.
 
‘I’m impressed!
 
That application never occurred to me.
 
But don’t you lose the morale effect of flak bursts near the aircraft?’

There was a grim smile in Johnson’s voice.
 
‘We thought of that as well.
 
The reason the shell is a bit heavier than it needs to be is that it contains a big tracer, designed to ignite some way below the aircraft.
 
There’s nothing more off-putting to a pilot and a bomb-aimer than to see the shells curving up towards them – particularly in those German bombers where the crew all huddle together in the glazed nose!
 
Of course, once the radar proximity fuze is perfected that will change matters, but for now this is doing pretty well.’

Ahead, there was a gleam of light reflecting from purposeful-looking machinery.
 
They walked up to what was gradually revealed to be an anti-aircraft gun installation.
 
After a few words with the crew, Johnson picked up something long and heavy and pushed it against Don’s chest.
 
He grasped the big case of a 4-inch round.
 
At the business end, he made out the short, sharp point of the shell protruding from the cylindrical sabot.
 

‘Any time now!’
 
Johnson said.
 
‘Stay and watch the fun!’

This was not Don’s idea of fun but he could hardly make his own way back.
 
One of the crew, who was wearing headphones, stiffened suddenly then called out, ‘radar has them; they’re coming right over us.’

‘Load!’
 
The command was immediate.
 
Don heard the double metallic clang of the shell-case being flipped into the loading tray followed by the power rammer driving the case up into the breech.
 
A loud electrical humming came from the mounting, which slewed suddenly, the gun elevating.

‘Remote power control,’ said Johnson, ‘the nearby gun-laying radar provides height, speed, range, bearing and heading gen which are fed into a calculating machine which works out where the guns should be pointing.
 
This then controls the gun aiming by signals sent over a land line.
 
Each radar
controls a battery of four guns, plus a searchlight.’

On cue, the searchlight snapped on just as the air raid sirens finally wound down.
 
Don could faintly hear the distinctive, uneven drone of the German bombers at high altitude.
 
The searchlight probed through the misty air, but Don could see nothing.

‘The lights are more for morale purposes than anything else.
 
On a night like this, they’re not likely to spot a high-flyer, and the big Heinkels come in at well over thirty thousand feet.’

A brilliant flare suddenly illuminated the sky in the direction of the docks.
 
Almost immediately, other flares became visible much further north.

‘At least one of their marker planes got through,’ commented Johnson.
 
‘The others are probably our decoys.
 
The Germans keep changing their flares and it’s a constant battle to keep copying them.
 
To confuse matters further we’ve even built a ‘decoy city’ a few miles to the south; lots of fuel pipes to produce spectacular fires.’

Don was reflecting on the irony of the reversed roles, with the Germans and the British both applying experience originally culled from the Allied bombing of Germany in 1944/5, when the gun fired with an ear-splitting crash.
 
Even before he had recovered, the empty shell-case was automatically kicked out, the next round slammed into the breech and the gun fired again.
 
Less than three seconds later, the third shot followed.
 
Don looked up into the sky; far above, he saw a red flare curving gently away as it faded into the night.
 
Much later, a brief flash indicated where the shell had self-destructed as the tracer burned through.

The noise seemed to go on for hours, the crew frantically running to and from the ammunition store, throwing shells into the mechanism as the gun relentlessly blasted skywards.
 
Five times, Don saw a brighter glare high above them, followed by a tumbling fire as a stricken bomber fell to earth.

Sudden silence.
 
As his ears recovered, Don heard the dull thuds of explosions from the docks, saw the glow of fires in the sky.
 
Around him, the gun crew were draped in postures of exhaustion.

‘Twenty minutes,’ said Johnson judiciously.
‘Just keeping us on our toes.
 
They’ll be back at least one more time tonight.’

Don walked back to the hotel in silence.

‘Message coming through; the convoy’s under attack!’
 
The radio operator’s voice crackled through the headphones.
 
The pilot acknowledged, leaned forward to flip off the autopilot and began to ease the Sunderland around onto the course being fed to him by the navigator.

The huge plane looked little different from the pictures Don would have remembered from his youth, but at his urging production had been held back to make some important changes.
 
Four big Hercules radials provided far more power than the Pegasus of the original design.
 
To take advantage of the power, the wingspan and fuel capacity had been increased and the hull lengthened.
 
Armament had also been boosted considerably, as had equipment and pilot aids such as the autopilot.
 
The result was a formidable long-range patrol aircraft, now coming off
Short’s
production lines in significant numbers.

The plane had already been flying for many hours since leaving its base and was close to its rendezvous with the convoy homeward bound from Gibraltar.
 
The ships had to sail far out into the Atlantic to keep away from the dangerous Bay of Biscay, before turning north to head for home.

The first sign of the convoy was an ominous smudge of smoke on the horizon.
 
The pilot wiped the sweat from his brow – the hot sun turned the Sunderland’s big cockpit into a greenhouse – and alerted the crew.
 
Those resting, off-duty, in the narrow bunks now took their position by guns or portholes.
 
The tension rose steadily as the plane thundered toward the beleaguered ships.

The convoy was a fast one and heavily protected by fleet destroyers and an escort carrier.
 
As the Sunderland approached, the crew spotted one burning ship and a scatter of wreckage rapidly being left behind by the speeding convoy.
 
A rescue ship was nosing around the wreckage.
 
The destroyers were concentrated on the eastern flank but there was no sign of action – or of the escort carrier.

The Sunderland was equipped with short-range TBS radio and the pilot identified himself to the convoy escort captain.

‘We’ve lost the carrier and three merchant ships.
 
They sent Junkers eighty-eights over first to decoy our Beaufighters.
 
We got two of the Junkers, but in the meantime Dorniers came in at high altitude and released some form of guided missiles from long range before turning away.
 
The missiles homed straight onto the largest ships in the convoy.
 
We could do nothing to stop them. Radio jamming didn’t work’

The frustrated anger was clear in the captain’s voice.
 
The pilot could do little but acknowledge and assume a protective patrol around the convoy.