Flying officer Jack Croucher heard the noisy batman tramp into the Nissen hut. “Good morning, gentlemen. It’s eight o’clock.”
Croucher tucked the covers under his chin and grumbled. “So. Get lost. This isn’t an ops day. We’re supposed to be sleeping in.”
“Sorry, sir. Not anymore. I was told to wake you. The CO wants to see you and Pilot Officer Jones in his office at oh-nine-hundred.”
“Why us?” Croucher argued. “I thought we were going on leave.” He kicked his navigator in the bunk beside him. “Ted. Hey, Ted. Rise and shine.”
Jones rolled over. “Huh.”
“Get up. Got to see the CO in an hour. Gotta get moving.”
Pilot Officer Jones grunted and sat up in his bunk. He looked bleary-eyed at his pilot, then at the sergeant stomping out the door. “I don’t get it.”
“Me neither,” Croucher said.
Both in their early twenties, Jones and Croucher were a polished, experienced two-man crew. Accumulating nearly fifty-five hours of operational time in radar-equipped Bristol Beaufighter night-fighters, they had shot down six German aircraft to date, including one during the night only a few hours before. The crew took turns washing their faces over the basin before they slid into their battle dress. Croucher, the bachelor, was the last to leave the hut, adjusting his officers’ cap to sit at just the right angle on his head. Outside, the fog clung to the ground at the RAF aerodrome near the Firth of Clyde, as they hopped on their bicycles for the half-mile ride to the officers’ mess. Over powdered eggs and sausages, tea, toast and jam, they complained about their bad luck. They had both been looking forward to the leave they were promised at the beginning of the week. How dare it be cancelled on them?
Croucher was still brooding as they rode through the damp grass to the commanding officer’s hut. The sun suddenly appeared as a faint orange glow through the fog. “Damn it all, anyway. Why us?”
“You don’t suppose it has anything to do with that brawl at the pub in town, do you, Jack?” Jones asked.
“Couldn’t be. We took off before the police came.”
“What then?”
“Hell if I know.”
The commanding officer of the base, Squadron Leader Bailey, a stout, no-nonsense Welshman, waited for the two to lean their bicycles against the hangar wall, then confronted them outside his office window. There would be no need for the service men to enter, sit, and talk. There was nothing to talk about. It would be short and sweet. “Jones, Croucher,” he barked in the damp air. “Your leaves are cancelled. I want you to know this is beyond my control. Just do what you are told.” Then he pointed to a car in the parking lot. “There’s your man.”
* * * *
Wesley Hollinger had the back passenger door to the Secret Service staff car already open. He caught a glimpse of his unshaven face in the rear-view mirror and he was not a pretty sight. He licked his dry lips to moisten them. He had driven the car most of the night with no sleep at all. His hair was matted and his tie undone. He quickly zipped his tie up to his neck and felt his swollen eyelids. He silently wished for a damn good stiff coffee laced with rum or whiskey to keep him awake. Then he removed his fedora and dragged a comb over his scalp, neatly parting his hair which had not been cut in weeks.
He got out and shook hands with the RAF officers. “Flying Officer Croucher, Pilot Officer Jones. I’m Wesley Hollinger of the United States Naval Intelligence on special assignment to the British Secret Service, otherwise known as MI-6.” He handed the airmen a sheet of paper. “It requires your signatures.”
“By Jove,” Jones said to Croucher. “It’s the Official Secrets Act!”
“Yeah, so it is.”
* * * *
Hollinger drove the MI-6 staff car west for about eighty miles over bumpy roads through the Scottish moors to another aerodrome. In the last few months he was growing accustomed to driving on the left side of the road. It wasn’t that bad.
The more Hollinger saw of these dull, barren Scottish moors the more he missed the English countryside near Bletchley with its neat hedgerows, rolling grain fields, and attractive thatched-roof houses. Here in the moors the absence of buildings made the views look worse. Apart from the occasional herd of sheep, it looked like a desert. No wonder the RAF picked a secluded spot like this for a test base for German aircraft. It was peaceful at the same time as it was ugly.
The aerodrome came into sight. It was nestled in a ravine and one side was bordered by a thicket of trees. Past the front gate and inside a sectioned area stood one large hangar and three smaller ones, and a mile-long runway. There were also a few small maintenance buildings, a two-story house, and a control tower. Every structure was sandbagged. It was all strangely silent, with no aircraft in sight.
Hollinger yawned and drove through the gate checkpoint, then up to the largest hangar. Turning to the fliers in the back seat he said, “Welcome to Dunhampton. This is an RAF base used for the testing of captured German aircraft. You’ve noticed that none are about. That’s because they’re put away when they’re not being flown. If you think you’ll be flying German aircraft, you are wrong. Your job, gentlemen, is about to be made clear.”
A dark-haired man, about thirty-years-old, came out of a service door and proceeded to slide the wide hangar door open. Hollinger drove through. There, in the middle of the concrete was the biggest surprise of all — a twin-engine fighter with Royal Air Force markings and airborne radar aerials protruding from its nose and wings. Two mechanics in coveralls were working on it, but they backed away when Hollinger and the officers stepped from the car and came closer.
“What on earth!” Croucher said, pounding the belly of the aircraft overtop his head. “It’s made of wood.”
“Plywood to be exact, boys,” Hollinger corrected the pilot. “Good old Alaskan spruce, birch and fir from Canada, Ecuadorian balsa, and English ash.”
“What is it?”
“This, Flying Officer Croucher, is a de Havilland Mosquito. In the next year or so hundreds, if not thousands, will be coming off your production lines. My government back in the States would love to get their hands on this baby. Yes, sir.”
“I get it. She’s an untested prototype,” Croucher said, with a certain amount of apprehension. “Why us?”
“It’s more than tested. It works. Why you? Because I heard through the RAF grapevine that you two are one of the best airborne crews in the area. Is that simple enough? Now, if you’ll please allow me to feed you the dope on this bird.”
“Let’s hear it,” Croucher said, staring at the aerials.
“This model has twenty-five hours of flying time on her. The airborne radar, an advanced version of the A1-Mark IV, has been tried, tested, and approved for combat. It works better than the Beaufighter, I’m told.”
“Let my navigator, here, be the judge of that, Mr. Hollinger.”
Hollinger ignored the remark. “I’m sure you will miss your Beaufighter’s roomy fuselage and cockpit, and its general sturdiness, but you have to admit, your old Beaufighter was slower than a turtle.”
“True,” Jones admitted.
“Anyway, the Mosquito, with her light weight and two mighty Merlin engines, has a top speed of four hundred miles per hour in level flight. Nothing, I repeat, nothing, in the Luftwaffe will catch you. You can bet on that!” Hollinger then proceeded to pull out a note pad from inside his suit jacket, in which he had two pages of written information. He saw Jones grabbing one of the nose guns. “For armament, four Hispano twenty-millimetre cannons under the floor, three hundred rounds each, four .303 Browning machine guns, two thousand rounds in total, in the nose. No changing ammunition drums in mid-flight here, guys, like in the Beaufighter. The cannons are belt fed. All the engine nacelles are equipped with divided flaps into inner and outer segments. And, bulletproof windscreen. Nice safety factor there. Now,” he lifted his head, “take a look inside. Go ahead. Don’t be shy.”
Croucher climbed the ladder of the opened hatch under the nose and squeezed his body through the hole. “Hey, Ted, we’re right beside each other,” he yelled down to Jones, who climbed the ladder and poked his head inside.
They both settled into their respective seats.
“A little nip and tuck, there, Jack,” Jones said, leaning his face into the radar screen below the feathering buttons.
Hollinger yawned, referring once again to his notes. “For your information Pilot Officer Jones, your radar version operates on VHF, a circular pulse of energy,” he called up the ladder to the men. “Maximum range is five miles and minimum range is one thousand feet. Outside of that, you will not receive a pulse echo. If the target is further away from the radar than the ground or water, then the geographical image below will smother your screen. The rest,” Hollinger concluded by flipping the note pad closed, “you will find out for yourself as you get used to the aircraft.”
Croucher climbed down the ladder and jumped to the concrete from the second-last rung. “When do we take her up?” he asked. Jones followed behind. They both looked impressed with the fighter.
One of the mechanics walked up. “You can give her a go right now.”
Jones smiled. “I can’t wait; four hundred miles per hour!”
“What I want to know is, what do you have in mind for us?” Croucher asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Excuse me?” Hollinger said.
“What are we going to do with her? I smell some secret operation. Am I right?”
Hollinger rubbed his chin. “We’ll let you know when the time comes.”