Читать книгу Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse - Len Deighton - Страница 28

‘That’s eight million three hundred thousand and eighty marks you owe me,’ said Löwenherz, setting up the chessboard again.

‘It’s in my other trousers,’ said Kokke. On the radio a close harmony group was singing.

‘Everything ends, everything passes,

Upon every December follows a May.

Everything ends, everything passes,

But two who love always remain faithful.’

The girls cooed to an end and were replaced by a men’s chorus singing Bomben auf England with appropriate wire brushes and drums. There was a loud raspberry of displeasure and the man nearest to the radio turned the volume down before any missiles were thrown in his direction.

Löwenherz looked round the Alert Hut. The crews were sprawled around the place in the most remarkable poses: hair uncombed, ties loosened and feet resting on chairs. It was as if they were all dead, thought Löwenherz, as if fumes or gas had done for them all, and yet if the loudspeaker sounded the quiet double click that warned of an announcement they could all be on their feet, tugging their helmets on to their heads and draping their bodies with oxygen connectors and microphone and earphone leads that made them a part of their machines.

Klimke – Kokke’s radar man – used to spend these hours in the Alert Hut writing interminable letters to his wife, but since she had been killed last Christmas he had taken up knitting. In spite of howls of derision and practical jokes he sat calmly producing endless scarves for everyone he knew. He couldn’t master the knack of decreasing, so he could only knit rectangles. Alongside him Leutnant Beer jerked convulsively in his sleep. A mosquito was buzzing round his ear.

‘What a Wagnerian body of men,’ said Kokke, looking around at the dozing flyers. Klimke grinned but did not stop knitting. Kokke moved his piece and they began a new game.

‘Not fool’s mate, Kokke. You underestimate me.’

‘Never, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Kokke, and Löwenherz lost a knight.

‘Damn.’

‘Experience is better bought than taught,’ said Kokke, moving forward.

‘You lose because you are too reckless,’ said Löwenherz.

‘But I have more fun,’ said Kokke.

‘Probably,’ agreed Löwenherz.

‘Double or nothing on what time the first plane is put up?’

‘Very well,’ said Löwenherz. ‘Midnight.’

‘Midnight?’

‘Short summer night with full moon means a short trip, that means the Ruhr. To get back before first light and allow time for stragglers they will probably time the attack for two o’clock. A Lancaster does 225 miles per hour, so it will pass over the British coast at zero minus 50. A good Freya radar will pick it up then, but by the time they fiddle around talking to the FLUKO and the Nachtjagdführer it will be fifteen minutes past one.’

‘That leaves us fifty minutes.’ Kokke had to raise his voice a little, for the radio music was now much louder.

‘It might leave us all night. Who knows if we shall be put up?’

‘Such modesty, Oberleutnant.’

Löwenherz smiled. ‘About fifty minutes, yes.’

‘And how was “die Wurst” bearing up this afternoon?’

Among his close friends in the Officers’ Mess the gemütlich Hans Furth was happy to answer to ‘Hanswurst’ (clown). However, he took exception to Kokke calling him simply ‘die Wurst’, perhaps because of its feminine gender. Kokke seldom referred to him otherwise.

‘Bearing up remarkably well,’ admitted Löwenherz. ‘Everyone who gets into trouble is an exhibitionist and he’s going pig-shooting to forget it. The Mess will make Wurst of his successes.’

‘Wurst wider wurst,’ said Kokke.

Löwenherz smiled; ‘sausage against sausage’ also meant ‘tit for tat’. ‘He knows you hate him.’

‘And I’m sure he’s very mature and forgiving about me.’

Löwenherz nodded. ‘He is.’

‘What a bedside manner! After the war he’ll have an expensive Berlin clinic for old ladies who have too rich a diet.’

‘I only hope that after the war it’s Berlin where the old ladies are wealthy and diets are rich.’

Kokke shrugged. ‘Then perhaps Moscow. Or even New York.’

‘I was hoping he could help. About Himmel, I mean.’

‘That Stoppelhopper is interested only in helping himself.’ It was a favourite German nickname for Austrians who were said to be mercurial, untrustworthy people who leaped around mentally as a man running barefoot through stubble fields. ‘He could have done something about the documents without calling in the SIPO, but he was pleased with an opportunity to show what a loyal, laughing little Nazi he can be.’

‘We’ll get no help from him,’ said Löwenherz.

Kokke looked at him, heartened by the plural. ‘Suppose both of us opened our mouths for Himmel.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Suppose both of us supported Himmel and his protest. You’re a baron and an ace, I could perhaps swing the old man.’

‘Redenbacher?’

‘I might be able to.’

‘A slim chance.’

‘Too slim for you?’

‘Look …’ said Löwenherz; he laughed in protest and embarrassment. ‘You can’t just put this to me, here and now.’

‘How much longer is there? By this time tomorrow the man who took you into battle when you were a duckling will be in a concentration camp.’

‘A civilian prison. They will hold him for trial and investigation.’

‘A nice distinction. And afterwards release him with a reprimand?’

‘Can’t we talk about it tomorrow?’

‘Herr Oberleutnant, we can’t put off everything until tomorrow.’

‘That’s what Himmel said.’

‘Exactly.’ The swarthy Kokke stroked his short beard reflectively.

There was a click as the Operations Room clerk switched on the microphone and a hum as the circuit came alive. Under his feet Bubi awoke, snorted, yawned and nibbled at Löwenherz’s boot.

‘You should have made your bet, Kokke. I was wrong, the Tommis are early.’

Kokke didn’t answer. Löwenherz looked around the hut; no one had moved but now their bodies were tense. There were only dim red lights glowing in the Alert Hut, not enough light to read, scarcely enough to play chess. At the far end of the hut there was a huge glass aquarium; inside it tropical fish moved in slow motion. Löwenherz remembered the day it had arrived: five men and a heavy lorry. They spent three days fixing it up; it had been supplied by order of the High Command. At the time the whole Geschwader had been desperately short of cannon shells and no amount of pleading would release the aquarium lorry to fetch some.

He remembered the winter battles before Moscow, the men clad in their thin summer uniforms. One of the last air lifts into Stalingrad had brought rubber contraceptives. He remembered too the fuss they had made about salvaging the motor of the ancient wrecked Junkers before finding that it was a British engine. The whole damned Luftwaffe was being mismanaged by political favouritism and political fanaticism. The Freezing Report that Himmel had shown him was just one step away from the aquarium.

I’ll stand by Himmel, thought Löwenherz and suddenly realized he’d said it aloud. My God, he thought, that bloody aquarium!

‘Thank you, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Kokke. ‘I knew you would.’

‘I’m a fool,’ said Löwenherz, and he wondered if he could get out of it some way.

The microphone click came again and the dispatcher’s voice said, ‘Achtung! Achtung! Oberleutnant Löwenherz, Major Redenbacher and Leutnant Kokke to instant readiness. Oberfeldwebel Himmel, Leutnant Beer and Feldwebel Schramm are now at alert.’ The toneless voice ended with an electronic click.

‘Thanks,’ said Kokke as he zipped his flying overall. ‘We’ll beat them, Oberleutnant.’

‘Why do you think that?’ asked Löwenherz bitterly. They were both grabbing at their equipment and climbing over out-stretched legs as they moved to the door. Löwenherz saw his radar operator pulling on his boots and made sure that Mrosek, his observer, was also ready.

‘Put away your knitting, Klimke,’ Kokke shouted. He turned back to Löwenherz. ‘Because we are such an unlikely combination,’ said Kokke. He grinned.

Löwenherz nodded but was unconvinced. ‘Hals- und Bein-bruch!’ he said. To express the wish that a friend will break his neck and leg was said to fool the devil and bring him back safe. Kokke waved a grateful response.

‘Uniform hats,’ called Löwenherz to his crewmen Sachs and Mrosek. They both waved their folding cloth caps at him and Löwenherz responded by clasping his white-topped cap under his arm. If their aeroplane should be diverted to another airfield, the military police would make the devil of a fuss if they were hatless.

Löwenherz always insisted that his crew carried all the items that regulations demanded. Laden under a signal pistol, a garterful of flares, dinghy, lifejacket, parachute, iron rations, Pervitin tablets and a flashlight, they all hobbled to their plane.

It was cold outside and the yeasty smell of the sea was on the wind. The aeroplanes were warm and ready to go, and their crews were glad of the comparative comfort of their cockpits. Löwenherz placed his peaked cap behind his seat and made sure that his radio leads were fixed to his flying suit, exactly as regulations prescribed. Then he plugged it in and connected his oxygen tube. After that he made sure that his crew had done the same. His hands went through the sixty consecutive hand movements that they had done blindfold at training school. The green and red panel lamps came alight. The ground crews were fussing around the rudders and wheels.

He looked at his observer seated beside him: Mrosek, a nineteen-year-old Leutnant with long black hair. His pinched face and prominent incisors gave him a rodent-like appearance; a comparison endorsed by his narrow chest, small stature and wiry agility. After the cannons had been fired it was Mrosek’s job to crawl head-first into the nose to wrestle full drums on to the guns. That was difficult enough on the ground, but many times Mrosek had done it while Löwenherz had the plane in a dizzying vertical bank coming around for a second attack.

Mrosek’s father was a vineyard manager from Heidelberg. Perhaps the proximity of so much wine had helped to make his disposition cheerful. He gave Löwenherz his quick ratty grin and held up his binoculars before he could be asked if they were aboard.

‘Is everything in order?’ Löwenherz asked his radar operator formally. He twisted in his seat to look at him.

From the rear seat Sachs smiled a deferential smile and raised his thin white manicured hand. He was a nineteen-year-old Feldwebel from Hanover and, partly because of his nouveau-riche and ambitious father, he remained in awe of the noble Baron Victor von Löwenherz Grawiec and modelled himself upon his pilot’s speech, manners, walk and bravery.

Sachs the Saxon; Löwenherz wondered why there were always jokes about their capacity for hard work; it was a commendable virtue.

And that accent: ‘No, Junge. Grandfather’s ashes will not go on the mantelpiece. They will go into the hour-glass. Grandfather must work, all we Saxons must work.’

Sachs’ father had been a builder’s labourer in 1935 but when the West Wall was started he had gone into business with his brother-in-law, supplying metal clamps for poured concrete structures. By 1940 the company was listed on the Hamburg Stock Exchange. On the day of issue several Todt Organization officials were given free shares in the thriving young company. In 1941 Britain’s unwillingness to come to terms meant the beginning of the Atlantic Wall. The most extensive engineering project in the history of architecture was to deface Europe’s northern coasts. The project devoured endless tons of prestressed concrete and used countless clamps. Georg’s wrist-watch was Swiss, gold and as thin as a Pfennig. His cufflinks were jade, his shoes handmade and under his regulation NCO’s uniform his underclothes were silk. His trips into Amsterdam were made in a new sports car, except at weekends, when his father would send the chauffeur in the Mercedes with its Todt Organization pennant flying.

Georg Sachs, to his father’s great disappointment, had become a radar operator after failing to meet the requirements of the pilot’s course. He had grown to like his job and was good at it, which is why Löwenherz had chosen him from all the others on the Staffel. During the final minutes of an interception Georg knew that the aircraft was under his command. As he told his father, at the moment of the kill Baron von Löwenherz was nothing more than a machine-minder.

‘Everything is ready, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Georg Sachs.

Control came on the air.

‘Major Redenbacher to Himmelbett Station Tiger, circle beacon at 5,000 metres. Leutnant Kokke to Himmelbett Station Ermine, circle beacon at 5,000 metres. Oberleutnant Löwenherz to Himmelbett Station Gorilla, circle beacon at 5,000 metres.’

Each of the pilots acknowledged the order.

‘We’re going on to oxygen now’ said Löwenherz. Some of the crews waited until they were over 1,200 metres but Löwenherz knew that loss of night vision is one of the first symptoms of oxygen-lack.

The wreck of the old Junkers 34 was garlanded with red obstruction lights. They came past it round the perimeter track as fast as safety would allow. The ground was soft and he was careful not to cut corners. Across the aerodrome the Flying Control personnel saw his navigation lights, and as soon as he reached the end of the runway they switched the flarepath on.

‘Clear to take off, Katze One,’ said the Control Officer without waiting for him to ask. There were gusts coming from the IJsselmeer that made his plane falter as it passed over the dijk road. Löwenherz pulled the control column back and the variometer showed a steady climb while holding the air-speed. Now he extinguished the navigation lights on his wingtips. There was no light anywhere except from his instrument panel. The artificial horizon with its tiny green luminous aeroplane tilted as he came round on a course for Gorilla, almost due south of him – the long rectangle of runway lights passed under him getting smaller as it went.

Kokke was the next to go. Redenbacher was next behind him and perhaps that’s why his take-off was a copybook example of flying skill. The forward window was hinged down the centre. Kokke pulled it closed but did not lock it. He left it slightly ajar, for like many flyers he liked to hear the note of the engines as clearly as possible. He enjoyed the sound of the airstream as it whistled through the gap. Gently the tail came up and they were airborne. Leutnant Klimke, the radar man, felt the wind round the back of his neck. He shivered, adjusted his hand-knitted scarf and watched the airport buildings tilt and drift under the port wing.

‘It’s freezing back here,’ he said, ‘close the …’

Until radar was discovered and manned by dedicated men, few people guessed how many flocks of birds moved after dark. This night nearly one hundred gulls, driven inland by the bad weather, were flying towards the fishing villages on the IJsselmeer where nets laden with juicy titbits had been hung out to dry. Only eight birds of the flock hit Katze Five. Two were bisected by the propeller blades and three struck the engine nacelles, were mangled and sucked into the air intakes. Two hit the leading edge of the wings and were cracked open like eggs.

It was the one that burst through the slightly opened front window that did the worst damage. By the time it entered the cockpit it had no wings or head. It was little more than half a pound of bloody offal that hit Kokke in the face, plus of course a thousand feathers. But it came in at two hundred miles per hour, putting out both eyes, fracturing his skull (with multiple fractures of his right cheekbone and nose) and dislocating his jaw. It was impossible to distinguish where the bird’s remains ended and Kokke’s face began. He lost consciousness almost instantly, but somewhere a reflex had ordered his hands to pull on the control column and they pulled. Neither the observer nor Klimke realized what had happened even when the cockpit was white with shredded feathers. Kokke was dying, medically perhaps already dead, but his muscular arms strained at the control column with a live man’s strength. It was no use. Kokke’s radio line was not fastened to his back. The radio plug from his helmet had fallen into the gap in the floor through which the control column passed. To have got the control column back far enough to gain height he would have had to crush a solid metal plug to wafer-thinness.

The Ju88 hit the IJsselmeer at a shallow angle. Finishing his sentence as though everything depended upon it, Klimke gasped ‘… Window’, and was dead. The waves were about a yard high and with a soft crunch the plane was swallowed like a gourmet’s oyster. All the crew were dead by then, for the impact snapped their vertebrae. The black aeroplane slid into the dark water, banking and turning as it had in the sky, until with a gentle thud it struck the seabed. The tail broke off and the aircraft was enveloped in a cloud of muddy water.

With a thump the yellow life-raft, activated by a water-immersion switch, erupted from the compartment in front of the tail. There was a hiss of compressed air and a flurry of bubbles. It inflated, writhing like a demented monster, as the air entered each rubber compartment in turn. Finally it was a perfect yellow circle and it floated up until it was held by the six feet of restraining cord. It stayed like that just under the surface of the sea: a sculpture-like yellow ring seemingly balanced upon the taut cord. The current sent it spinning gently like a hoop upon a conjurer’s finger. For many months it remained there, turning in the sunlight and in the darkness and attracting foolhardy fish until, rotting compartment by compartment, it finally sank to the ocean bed and disappeared. By that time eels had eaten the three flyers.

‘I’ve lost radio contact with Leutnant Kokke in Katze Five,’ said the ground operator.

‘Damn these bloody radios,’ said the officer. ‘He’s only been on the air for two minutes. You’d better reassign Löwenherz to Ermine; they’re getting fidgety out there. And tell Kokke to return to base. It’s probably only his transmitter gone, in which case he’ll still be receiving you.’

The operator nodded and tuned to Kokke’s wavelength to tell him that his transmitter was not functioning. ‘Announcing: I am deaf,’ he said. ‘Announcing: I am deaf.’

Löwenherz laughed when he heard the news. He could imagine Kokke cursing. So they had ordered him to return to Kroonsdijk. Not a chance of Kokke doing that; he would try and get into the stream and find a Tommi without radar aid. Löwenherz’s radar operator tuned their radio to the controller at Ermine.

‘Order: proceed to Heinz Emil Four,’ said the new voice calling him from Himmelbett Ermine. Let’s see, Heinz Emil Four was halfway to England. He’d probably be the first pilot into the bomber stream. Tonight was starting well.