Jackson - Mosquito Squadron : Yeoman in the battle over Germany

MOSQUITO SQUADRON

ROBERT JACKSON

Robert Jackson 2015

Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 2001, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 1981 by Corgi.

This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

It had been a long, hot day, and the old man was very tired. Every jolt of the cart sent new aches through his bones, and although the sun had now set and the air was cooler, clouds of midges continued to plague him.

He stared moodily at the backside of his patient, plodding old mare. Her patchy coat was grimed with coal dust, as was the old man himself. The sway of her body between the cart shafts registered protest and he gave her an affectionate flick with his long stick, dislodging a cluster of flies which seemed intent on bedding down for the night.

Not long now, old girl, he muttered encouragingly. Soon be home now.

It wasnt fair, he complained inwardly, to make them work until such an hour. Why, it was only a matter of months ago that Schneider, the coal merchant for whom they worked (the old man always considered himself and his mare as partners) had put the pair of them out to grass. No longer of any use in a mechanized age: that was the expression the pompous ass had used. Well, here they were, back in harness again, because Schneider had come begging with cap in hand after the authorities had requisitioned his fine new-fangled trucks to move supplies destined for the troops on the Russian front up to the docks in Hamburg.

The old man glanced over to his right, across the miles of flat, low-lying ground and the great expanse of the Elbe estuary towards the old Hanseatic seaport the second largest in the world, or so they said. Dieter had told him about that. He smiled with inward pride as he thought of his only son; Dieter knew all about such things, for he was a clever lad who had been top of his class in college. The old man wished that he had had the benefit of such an education, for he wouldnt now be staring at the coal-streaked posterior of a horse. At least that was one good thing Hitler had achieved; he had given the youth of Germany the chance to be educated, no matter what background they came from.

Educated, he thought with sudden bitterness, to be pitch-forked into this crazy war. He had fought in the previous one, and he knew that the real losers were the poor bastards who had to do the fighting, no matter what side they were on. Like the twin sons of his neighbour, Widow Mengel, swallowed up with the Sixth Army at Stalingrad along with ninety thousand others. Hardly a family in Germany had been untouched by that catastrophe, and it had been quickly followed by another: the collapse of the Axis armies in North Africa. Then, only a few days ago, had come the news that the British and Americans had landed in Sicily. The newspapers said that the Allies were being pushed back into the sea, but the old man didnt believe them, although he never said as much to anyone, not even to the few close friends with whom he smoked a pipe twice a week in the Red Hen just down the road from his little house on the outskirts of Stade. Talking too much could be dangerous, and the old man wanted to go on smoking his pipe and drinking a few steins in the Red Hen for a few more years to come.

His thoughts turned to Dieter once again. At least the boy was safe enough, commanding a flak battery on the outskirts of Paris and having a pretty good time there, by all accounts. One of the old mans greatest regrets was that the German Army had never got as far as Paris in the last war; but the next generation had got there all right, and the cognac Dieter brought home during his leaves was more than welcome as a change from the Red Hens beer.

In fact, reflected the old man, Dieter was probably safer than most of the folks at home. The air raids were getting worse. The Tommies, who came at night, had been bad enough, but now the Amis were coming over in daylight, and the Luftwaffe didnt seem able to stop them. What was it fatty Goering had said, back in 39 in one of his radio broadcasts? If an enemy plane ever flies over the territory of the Reich, you can call me Meyer. Yes, that was it, or something like it. Well, thought the old man, Ill bet those poor devils in Essen and the other Ruhr towns are calling him Meyer now, and a few other names besides.

The old man let the mare have her head while he fished out a battered pipe and tamped some tobacco into it. Searching his pockets, he found a box of matches, struck one and touched it to the bowl, carefully shielding the flame in his cupped hands. These days, one could be locked up for showing any kind of light after sunset.

Puffing contentedly, he tapped the weary mare with his stick, urging her to move faster. There was still a good deal of daylight left, and with luck they would be home before dark. He didnt like to arrive back after nightfall, because his wife worried about him and her heart was by no means strong; there was no sense in causing her unnecessary anxiety.

In any case, he didnt like to linger on this stretch of the road. He preferred to look straight ahead and pass along it as quickly as possible, past the tall fence with its concrete posts and barbed wire, the long, low mound beyond it, the gate and the armed sentries. He did not know what went on in there, nor did he want to; in fact, he could not even hazard a guess. There were a lot of aerials around the bunker, sticking up like skeletal fingers, but what purpose they served he had no means of knowing.

The guards were there as usual. He knew most of them by sight, and somehow they had found out his name. One of them called out to him as he drew abreast.

Why, its old Kurt, the coalman. Long past your bedtime, old codger. Hurry along home, now. The Tommies might be over tonight.

The old man spat into the road. Then youd better keep that thick skull of yours under cover, hadnt you? he grunted.

The sentry laughed and watched as the old man trundled on his way, leaving an acrid smell of sweat and pungent tobacco behind him. Overhead, the stars were beginning to come out, showing briefly through rifts in the cloud that was drifting slowly in from the sea across Lower Saxony.

*

Beneath the long mound, protected by fifty feet of earth and reinforced concrete, lay the great underground operations room of the Luftwaffes 2nd Air Division. The room was bisected by a huge sheet of frosted glass; on it, overlaid with a grid, was an outline map of Germany, the Low Countries and part of the North Sea. On the other side of the screen, behind small individual desks, sat twenty or so Luftwaffe women auxiliaries; each girl wore a headset and was in direct contact with one of the big Freya warning radar stations that stretched in a great arc along the north-west coast of Germany, down through Holland and into Belgium.

In front of each girl, meticulously checked and rechecked to ensure that it was in full working order, was a small projector. As soon as a report of an incoming raid was received from one of the coastal radar units, she would project a spot of light on to the appropriate square of the grid. The spot could be varied in size to indicate the strength of the attackers to the fighter controllers across the room.

The latter sat in two long rows directly in front of the screen. Behind them, on a raised dais, was the position reserved for the Divisional Commander or his deputy. On this occasion the big chief, Lieutenant-General Schwabedissen, was present in person, flanked by liaison officers from the various fighter units under his command. There was another identical operations room in Germany, at Doberitz near Berlin, a third at Metz, in France, and a fourth at Deelen near Arnhem, in Holland, all in constant touch with one another. Between them, they were responsible for the air defence of the Third Reich by day and night.