Apart from total defeat, things couldn’t possibly become worse. Britain was beleagured everywhere, and in addition to the losses off Greece, they heard that Hood, the pride of the navy, had been blown up with her whole ship’s company in battle with the German Bismarck.
They had passed over Suda Bay in the first light of dawn. There had been one or two nightmarish moments as they saw flights of Junkers 87s and 88s in the distance, but none of them had taken any notice of the Sunderland, and in the growing daylight, they could see vessels of all kinds gathering in the outer islands, caïques, motor boats and small local craft from harbours and coastal villages on the mainland.
As they landed in Egypt, ships packed with soldiers were moving in and destroyers from Greece were disembarking troops as fast as they could. By this time the evacuation had become a matter of pure invention. Men with initiative and courage were still trying to get away and the destroyer crews were splicing slings for stretchers and lashing drums together to make rafts, because it soon became clear that the only men who would get away would be finding their way out from the beaches on anything that would float.
The RAF in the Middle East was at its wits’ end to find aircraft either for strikes against the enemy or merely to provide air support for the navy. Suspecting that Crete would be the next battleground, Diplock and his committee had not stayed long there and by the time Dicken arrived in Egypt, he was already on his way back to England. Cairo was in a turmoil and the naval and air force commanders-in-chief, each certain the other was demanding too much, were at each other’s throats as the struggle began to fortify Crete before the German attack, which everybody knew was about to start. By the time it ended, another 13,000 British prisoners had been added to the 11,000 captured in Greece.
It made gloomy reading. The enormous naval losses were almost more than could be borne while the army and the RAF were both looking over their shoulders, wondering where their reinforcements were coming from. The only satisfaction was that the Germans had found that, though they had once again convinced the world of their power, this time it had cost them dearly. Seventeen thousand of their finest soldiers and 170 troop-carrying aircraft had been lost in Crete and one of Hitler’s most effective weapons had been blunted, while the British were beginning to find the answer to the dive bombers and they had been lost in dozens.
But with the British in disarray, the whole of the Middle East was in a turmoil. The Iraqis had risen in revolt and, fully occupied with a new offensive towards Tobruk which was already in difficulties, the British had been obliged to go into French-held Syria, while Malta appeared to be on its last legs, bombed, battered and desperately hungry.
Just when things were at their blackest, however, they heard that Hitler had attacked Russia. Nobody knew much about Russia. It had been a blank space on the map since the Revolution in 1917 and the only thing in everybody’s mind was the memory of what had happened to Napoleon in 1812, the fact that they at last had an ally and that Hitler had committed himself to that bogey of all strategists, a fight on two fronts.
Despite the hopes that had lain behind Hitler’s attack on Russia, by October the Germans were at the gates of Moscow. The desert army, now known as the 8th Army, had been pushed back once more, the aircraft carrier, Ark Royal, had been lost, followed soon afterwards by Sydney and Barham, and finally the appearance of the Japanese.
The news that they had attacked the Americans brought shouts of joy because they knew that at last they had an ally of tremendous potential, but the shouts soon died when they learned that the American Pacific Fleet had been annihilated at Pearl Harbour. Three days later they learned that the Japanese had landed in Malaya and that the battleships, Repulse and Prince of Wales, had been sunk by bombing.
‘So much,’ Dicken said dryly to Babington, ‘for the navy’s claim that no ship properly handled need fear anything from bombs.’
It was a gloomy Christmas with the Japanese in the Philippines, and Hong Kong and Singapore in danger. What they all felt must surely be the last disaster was the escape of Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen up the Channel from Brest right under the noses of the Royal Navy and the Royal Air Force.
Dicken’s duties took him all over the Middle East and there was hardly a day when there was not some air action to initiate or sustain because, even with the army temporarily lying low, the RAF still had to maintain a programme of bombing, fighter defence, ground attacks and intruder trips. Flying a Hurricane, he visited Syria, Palestine, Cyprus, Malta, and the desert.
The recent string of defeats in North Africa had started up angry demands for success, however, and twice in a year the general in command had been sacked, while at home the repercussions from the loss of Repulse and Prince of Wales and the escape of the German battleships up the Channel were shaking people out of comfortable jobs by the dozen. Even in the lethargic atmosphere of Cairo, senior officers were being shed by all three services and newer men with more energy and more initiative were taking over almost overnight.
The backbiting was clamorous and, ordered with Babington to England, Dicken found he wasn’t sorry to go. They arrived just in time for the inquest on the escape of the battleships up the Channel. There had been a whole series of misunderstandings, and a great lack of initiative and, calling at the Air Ministry to see Hatto, Dicken found that their old enemy, Air Marshal St Aubyn at Coastal Command, was finally about to get the sack.
‘He helped shove Dowding into limbo,’ Hatto said. ‘Now it’s his turn. Guess who fixed it?’
‘Surely not Diplock?’
‘His old chum.’ Hatto frowned. ‘It makes you think, doesn’t it. You’ll remember Sidney Carlin, a retread like us, who lost a leg in the trenches and managed, wooden leg and all, to fly SE5s. He succeeded in becoming an air gunner and was killed by a sneak raider, hobbling to his aircraft. When you see gadgets like Diplock flourishing it makes you wonder where all this God’s mercy we read about has got to.’
‘What happened?’
‘Having shown his usual aggression in Greece, he’d just settled into his job back here when Salmon and Gluckstein bolted up the Channel.’ Hatto’s face was grave. ‘It was a bloody poor show, y’know. A whole squadron of Swordfish was sacrificed for no end at all, and a lot of good young men were lost through somebody’s bloody sloppiness.’
‘However–’ Hatto gestured ‘–Bert Harris, who’s just taken over Bomber Command, wasn’t really sorry to see them go. He’d had his machines constantly tied up trying to hit them in Brest but now they’ve disappeared back to their own little rathole, both damaged by mines laid by us, and, in the end, apart from the poor young devils who didn’t live to see it and a bit of propaganda value to the Germans, we’re probably better off.’
Hatto even managed to sound optimistic. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘In addition to the Russians who seem at last to have brought the Germans to a full stop – we now have America in and the days of fighting a war with two men, a boy and a flying hearse are over. Things will tick from now on. And, if nothing else, all those defeats have finally shaken loose all the useless bods at the top who’ve been proved too old and too slow.’ Hatto shrugged. ‘As usual in the case of a national disaster, however, the final stage’s the apportioning of the blame, and Diplock, of course, was in there at once protecting his own arse-end. He put in a paper, full of protestations of loyalty to St Aubyn but also full of claims that nevertheless he felt he had to speak out. Parasol Percy at his best. St Aubyn’s still wondering what hit him.’
‘Is he hoping to get St Aubyn’s job?’
‘He got it. Like God, bad leaders only reveal themselves when it’s too late. However, he didn’t win what he expected. He’d hoped for a bomber group but Harris has old memories of him in Iraq and won’t have him within a mile of him.’
Hatto pushed a packet of cigarettes across. ‘You know Harris. He always thought all the leaflet dropping we were doing was just giving the Germans enough toilet paper to last them through the war and when he had 5 Group he found his Hampdens were inadequately armed so he had gun mounts made to increase their fire power. Privately. Because he knew it would take months for his request to work its way through the red tape. And he ordered a lot, because he knew if he ordered only a few he’d have to pay for them himself.’ He paused. ‘How are you on multi-engined jobs?’
‘I’ve just flown a Sunderland.’
Hatto nodded approvingly. ‘I always did think you could have flown a three-ton lorry if somebody had fitted wings to it. What else?’
‘Everything. Bombays. Hyderabads. Vernons. Wellingtons.’
‘That’s good. Because we got splendid reports of what you did in Greece and Bert Harris has asked for you.’
‘Is he getting me?’
‘Temporarily.’
‘Willie, I’m sick of temporary jobs. I’m always getting temporary jobs!’
Hatto smiled. ‘That’s because you’re good at flying.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I’m an office type these days, old lad.’ Hatto slapped the desk top. ‘I fly these. Mahogany bombers. But I’m a wizard at clearing away the bumph.’ He indicated a waste-paper basket full of files. ‘My predecessor’s,’ he pointed out. ‘But you’re not and never have been and when they need some fat pulling out of the fire they send for you. You’re going to 21 Group. You’ll be based at Rumbold Manor. Once belonged to an uncle of mine. Pity you’re not married. You could have had your wife with you. You’ll have the rank of Air Commodore and Tom Howarth’s running Harwick, one of your stations.’
Hatto beamed and started to polish his eyeglass. ‘We’re beginning to think that the idea of putting all our money on heavy bombers might at last begin to pay off,’ he said. ‘They’re going to knock hell out of Germany, and the Germans, who put their money on dive bombers and two-engined jobs, are going to find they don’t pack enough punch. All that’s needed is to build up the bomber force and Harris has a few ideas about that. Go and see him. He’s here and he wants to talk to you. He says he’ll give you a lift back to High Wycombe where there’ll be a car waiting to take you to your headquarters.’
As Dicken opened the door, Hatto called him back. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said. ‘There’s an item of news you might be interested in. Erni Udet shot himself. We’ve just been informed. It seems his face didn’t fit in with the Nazis any longer.’
Dicken was silent for a moment. A straightforward man who was never a political animal, Udet had always been completely at sea among the ambitious and perverted minds of the Nazis and Dicken remembered something he’d said when he’d last seen him just before the outbreak of war. ‘I put a noose round my neck when I put on uniform again.’
‘Thanks, Willie,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think old Knägges was ever really part of the set-up.’
Harris hadn’t changed much. The red hair was sprinkled with grey now and the hot temper had mellowed a little, but not much. He signed to Dicken to get into his canvas-topped Bentley and started talking as soon as they left London.
‘All this damned involvement in the army’s campaigns has reduced Bomber Command to the level of everybody else’s skivvy,’ he growled. ‘There’s a lot of talk now of invasion but it’s a waste of breath before we’ve smashed German industry. Besides, it’s time the Germans had a taste of their own medicine. Agreed?’
‘Agreed, sir.’
‘The good old British sporting public is beginning to ask when we’re going to start hitting them back and Winston doesn’t disagree. But when I took over Bomber Command I found we had only about seventy-five more machines than we had in 1939 yet nearly twenty squadrons were added last year. They’ve all been lost to Coastal Command and North Africa. The only bright spot is that we’ve got forty or fifty heavies, Stirlings and Halifaxes, and there’ll be two squadrons of the new Lancasters very shortly. However, they’re all due for Coastal Command, too, and most of the mediums and lights are due for the Middle East, while what can be spared will go to Russia. What it amounts to is that the Admiralty and the War Office are trying to divert practically the entire bomber force to tasks for which it’s not designed and not trained. I’ve started to get ’em back, and this time I’m going to keep ’em. But to do that I’ve got to do something that’ll make the bloody politicians realise that they’ve got a potential war-winner in their hands. It’s got to be something that will fill the newspapers and make those fat-heads in Parliament understand that you can’t whittle away a good weapon just to help out the army and the navy. I’ll expect ideas from you.’
Harris concentrated on his driving for a while. ‘It’s going to mean that a lot of young men are going to die,’ he went on. ‘But from now on I’ll want to know why. You know me, Dicken. Most people go in healthy fear of me. But it’s best that way. It makes people work harder. If a chap makes a genuine mistake I’ll do all I can for him. But God help the buggers who dissemble. You and I know one or two like that, don’t we?’
They were heading along the Great West Road now and approaching ninety miles an hour.
‘There’s a police car behind me,’ Harris said. ‘I expect he wants to tick me off but if he goes on the way he is, all he’ll do is kill himself.’
With a sigh he drew the Bentley to the side of the road. The police car swerved in front. The policeman who appeared saluted gravely.
‘Do you realise, sir,’ he said, ‘that you were doing almost ninety?’
Harris gestured. ‘Have a look at the front of the car. There’s a plate on the front bumper clearing me of all speed limits. Sometimes I’m called on to deal with emergencies.’
‘That’s all very well, sir, but you’re liable to kill people.’
Harris gave a grim smile. ‘I’m paid to kill people,’ he growled.
As he drove off, he was frowning. ‘I hope I wasn’t too rude,’ he said. ‘But it’ll get back and everybody’ll think I’m a ruthless commander and that’s what we want just now. They call me “Butcher”, did you know?’
‘I’d heard.’
‘It worried me a bit at first but then I learned it had started simply as “Butch” among the Commonwealth crews and doesn’t mean anything.’ Harris swerved round a milk float pulled by an elderly horse. ‘I hear I haven’t got you for long.’
‘I heard that, too.’
‘Well, no matter. We’ve got around four months and that’s enough for what I want you to do. Your group’s a bit lost. We’ve expanded too fast and we’re losing far too many crews. I want to know why.’
‘Can I pick my own staff?’
‘No. I want them there when you’ve moved on.’ Harris paused. ‘But I see no reason why you shouldn’t have one or two who’ve worked with you. Got any ideas?’
‘Chap called Babington, sir. He’s Signals but he’s worth much more as an organiser.’
‘He’s yours. Ask for him. Do you mind giving up your leave?’
‘No, sir. I have no family wanting to see me.’
Harris grunted. ‘I heard about your wife. She was a good flier.’
‘Not quite as good as she thought, unfortunately.’
Harris was silent for a moment. ‘That’s probably the trouble with a lot of the crews. They’ve been trained too quickly and all the good ones from before the war have gone because of the bloody stupidity in the Houses of Parliament that failed to give them the machines they deserved. As it is–’ he shrugged ‘–well, as usual they all see themselves as Richthofen or Albert Ball, which is the one thing they’re not, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the much-advertised destruction of precision targets is quite mythical. Most of our crews can’t hit a target 250 yards long in broad daylight on their own doorstep. I want to change that and I’m taking steps to make sure I do. I want you to make sure that 21 Group fits into the picture.’