“Easy, fella. You fucked up… it happens… no need to get twisted outta shape. It’s our secret. Just make sure you file as required in future, and we’ll say no more about it.”
The RAF officer spun on his heel without exchanging any further words and flounced from the room, muttering words like ‘insubordination’, ‘mutiny’, and ‘treason’.
The door slammed so hard the plaster cracked around the frame.
“Jeez but he has a burr up his arse, Leonard.”
Cheshire could only agree.
The officer in question was well known as a first-class ass, but Cheshire was unused to such displays between ranking officers, regardless of the lack of merit in one or other’s position.
None the less, he was getting used to Banner’s way, and now found that he liked the less formal way he went about his business, at least in the environment of the special unit at Karup.
“Never liked the chap personally.”
“I can understand why, fella. Now, can you wheel their sorry asses in here and then we can go and have our game as planned.”
Cheshire opened the door warily, checking for impending collapse, and ordered the waiting pilots into the squadron commander’s office.
Banner sat behind the desk, looking far less friendly than he had a moment beforehand.
“Right. Start talking, and make it a goddamn work of art, cos I’ve a chewing out to pass on, which you might’ve heard me getting. My ass is sore and I need victims to assuage my pain…so… what in the name of Hades were you doing flying my birds in vic-formation at one-zero-zero feet in the ground attack zone? That’s one-zero-zero feet which my math tells me is four-zero-zero goddamned feet below mission parameters.”
The senior man, a Captain, spoke up as had been agreed.
“Colonel, you told us to fly formation and spend the last hour flying out of the norm stuff… get a handle on our birds in every way we can. We just wanted to get a head start on next weeks’ itinerary. You did say out of the norm stuff, Sir.”
“Did I say that, Captain?”
“Yes Sir, Colonel. You sure did. So we flew deck-level… we figured you’d get us on it at some time, in fact it is in the training schedule… so we thought ahead.”
The other five men nodded their agreement.
Banner’ face would have been at home in a witches hearing in Medieval England, or in the court of Torquemada.
“Really? You thought ahead?
“And it’s in the training schedule?”
“Yes, Sir… err… not yet…err… next week, Colonel.”
“No… not yet… next week… and I told you out of the norm stuff, did I?”
“Yes, Colonel, Sir. We all heard it, didn’t we boys?”
The rumbles of agreement disappeared under Banner’s close scrutiny.
He stood sharply, causing his assembled victims to rock backwards like a wave of hot air had hit them in the faces.
“Well then I guess you were acting under orders, just like I told our gallant RAF ally. Now, get your goddamned faces out of my sight before I start to chew on your sorry asses, and don’t move outside the agreed flight parameters again. Move!”
The six men almost competed to be first out of the door.
Banner lit a cigar and puffed away the last of his annoyance.
“Can’t fault their keenness, Leonard… not at all. They’ve taken to all the training… despite the fact that we don’t want to do the mission… not ever!”
“I certainly don’t, Colonel, but train for it we must, eh?”
“Amen to that, old boy.”
Banner choked at the end of his impersonation, the rich cigar smoke catching his throat.
“You really should give them up, Colonel.”
“All in good time… say… when I’m ninety or so.”
They shared a laugh.
“So, next week we start a fortnight of low flying exercises, and then pack to practice drops until December, when Jasper practice bombs will arrive. Have you picked your crews for Jasper yet, Colonel?”
Banner laughed out loud.
“Natural selection has just taken place, Wing Commander. And you?”
The three crews involved in today’s near miss would be the US crews designated to learn the art of dropping the Jasper, Barnes-Wallis’ latest creation.
“Excellent. I’ve picked three good sets of lads. All of which have some sort of Tall Boy experience, which should stand them in good stead.”
Cheshire had the advantage on Banner, as he had been in 617 Squadron, one of the RAF’s super heavy bomb trained units.
However, even he was chastened by the thought of dropping a Jasper.
A new concept, Barnes Wallis had designed a super penetrating bomb similar to the Grand Slam and Tall Boy weapons, only Jasper had a much greater sting.
An atomic sting.
Cheshire picked up his racquet and made a practice stroke.
“Now, if you will, Colonel. I need the money.”
Two hours later, Cheshire struck the winning backhand volley and was one English pound richer.
1509 hrs, Friday, 1st November 1946, beside Route 106, southeast of Prosecnice, Czechoslovakia.
The man froze in the middle of the road.
‘I hear something… a vehicle… fuck, fuck, fuck… hide… hide quickly… Adonai preserve me…’
“If I thought for one moment that you were deliberately driving into the potholes, I’d have you transferred to the Russian Front!”
“Beg your pardon, Oberführer, but we’re on the Russian Front already.”
Jorgensen, accompanying Knocke on his return trip to the division, failed to stifle a laugh.
“I meant further forward, you stupid ass! Like bloody Moscow”
They shared a roar of laughter, which was punctuated by a violent thump as the Krupp’s back wheel found a pothole.
“Right, that’s it. Pull over, Hässelbach… quickly… before I soil myself. We’ll speak more on this matter once I’m two litres lighter.”
The Krupp came to a swift halt and Knocke alighted, already fumbling with his flies.
Jorgensen decided to take the opportunity and soon both men were unburdening themselves with audible sighs of relief.
Sergent-Chef Hässelbach got out of the vehicle and stood to one side, ST-44 held ready, just in case, for Czechoslovakia was a dangerous place, even to the new liberators.
Alert as he was, he was unprepared for the sudden shouts from his two officers.
The appearance of a pistol in Jorgensen’s hand caused him to bring the ST-44 up to his shoulder and ready himself for whatever threat was about to visit itself upon them.
Knocke emerged from the bushes with a ragged man, half dragging, half assisting the man up the gentle slope to the road.
Jorgensen relaxed as the emaciated man, wrapped in what looked like rough sacks, was clearly no threat. The return of his pistol to its holster signalled a reduction of tension in the group, although Hässelbach decided to retain his weapon in hand for now as he surveyed the area around them, just in case.
“Some water, Hässelbach.”
The NCO looked sheepishly at his commander.
“Oh really? What do you have then?”
The water bottle arrived in Knocke’s hands, and he swiftly smelt the contents.
“What in the name of Brunhilda’s knickers is that?”
“Some sort of Slivovitz, Oberführer. A fruit drink.”
Knocke ignored the attempt at humour and extended the bottle to the desperately thin man.
“Here… drink… slowly… a sip.”
The man warily took the bottle, his senses sharpened by months on the run from the authorities, and confused by the clash of French uniform and German medals.