Dunne returned the handset to the young captain.
“What have you done, Sir?”
“I’ve stopped the enemy, Captain Bracewell, that’s what I’ve done, Single-handed, no help from any of you bastards. All by myself, I’ve won the fucking war!”
“But that’s our positions, our men!”
“Long gone, Bracewell, I issued orders, don’t you know.”
“No you didn’t, Sir.”
“Silence, you mutinous bastard! How dare you disagree with me!”
“Get the aircraft back on and call them off.”
The operator was fingering two perfect holes in the front of the comms pack.
“Set’s fucked, Captain.”
Bracewell looked at the destroyed radio.
“Then so are we all, Robson.”
The sound of attacking aircraft drew his attention.
“Oh Jesus, so are we all!”
Others came to his aid, and a brief struggle took place. The revolver discharged twice more, before Dunne was wrestled to the ground.
Bracewell, his hand seared by the heat of the barrel, turned to the rest of the staff.
“I am relieving Dunne of his command.”
Turning back to the signals corporal, he issued his first order.
“I’m the radio officer, Sir. There is no such message logged!”
The revolver spoke once, the hole immediately appearing in the canvas overhead.
“Consider yourself under arrest, Bracewell. I will have you court-martialled.”
Suddenly, sure of his course of action, the radio officer leapt forward.
Dunn’s radio conversation had been with Lieutenant-Commander Steele, officer commanding 822’s Fireflies, and the overall leader of a two-squadron sortie by the recently formed Royal Naval Air Wing.
Accompanying him were his old comrades from the days of HMS Argus, the Corsairs of 853 Squadron FAA. Both squadrons had increased in strength, despite days of continuous combat, reinforced by men and machines from the training facilities, and survivors, recovered after the sinking of Argus.
Steele too, had heard the cry for help from Barnstorf, and had led his men into the air, despite the awful flying conditions, confident that their naval air experience in the unforgiving North Atlantic would carry the men through on their mission of support.
South of Barnstorf, 822 and 853 Squadrons found the enemy where Dunne had predicted.
On the ground, the surviving tanks of Yarishlov’s 1st Battalion scattered as the attacking aircraft were spotted. They tried to make cover in the woods, despite the presence of the enemy infantry.
RP3 rocket’s, fired from the Fireflies, left criss-cross patterns in the air, most of the time ploughing up the sodden earth but enough hit to reduce the 1st Battalion to a shambles.
Tank after tank exploded, one tossed on its back, tracks still running, crew dead and dying inside.
One aircraft singled out the road bridge, three rockets destroying the structure, and the engineers who had laboured to preserve it.
Yarishlov’s T-44 was selected for particular attention, two of the rockets landing close enough to remove the tracks, sending pieces of it flying across the field.
Stunned by the shock wave, the tank Colonel fought back the nausea and tried to radio his units. His aerials had been carried away, so he tried in vain to contact men already dead or beyond caring.
Casualties amongst the accompanying infantry had been heavy enough, and they too sought cover in whatever was closest, large bodies of frightened men closing on the woods to the west and north-west, yet more investing the southern edge of Barnstorf itself.
Refraining from a machine-gun sweep, Steele called in the Corsairs, detailing the different sections into their own singular attacks.
853 Squadron consisted of nineteen aircraft, well over strength, a matter hidden from higher authority by the officers and men of the Royal Naval Air Wing, for fear of having them removed.
Five sections dived under Steele’s instructions, his skill bringing each section in, staggering their assaults, and changing angles of approach to confuse any Soviet AA gunners.
Yellow section attacked the Russians to the west.
All but two of the Squadron’s Corsairs had received the special field modification, which allowed a double load of the chosen ordnance to be carried under each wing, sacrificing range and speed for power of attack and maximum damage to the target.
Yellow section’s four aircraft attacked in a slanted line, and conducted a textbook delivery of their payload.
Napalm.
Dunne had much to answer for, as the dropped tanks spread their awful load across friend and foe alike, turning the field and woods into an inferno, secondary explosions marking a grenade cooking off here, a mine there.
Blue section was next, their four aircraft immolating the Guardsmen heading north-west, the wall of fire falling just short of petrified Allied soldiers. Even then, the experience proved too much for some. Scot and American alike started to flee, panic bred panic, and within a minute, all the defenders were running for the Channel ports.
Yarishlov emerged from the turret, still reeling from the near misses, his eyes seeing much, but his brain struggling to comprehend what was in front of him.
Some yards away, Deniken’s jeep stood unmarked, engine running.
Unoccupied.
Deniken had taken refuge in a small shell hole and had survived the attack on the T-44, unlike his two comrades.
From the hole, he had watched as the first aircraft approached the mass of men, fear turning to abject horror, as hundreds of soldiers disappeared before his eyes, as the bright yellow wave seemed to engulf everyone in sight.
Now, he was focussed on his men approaching Barnstorf, willing them forward, looking at the approaching aircraft, knowing who would win the race for life.
White section, all but one of their aircraft modified, swept in line abreast, and dropped their Napalm just short of the buildings southeast of the railway line.
Whole lines of men were gobbled up by the greedy flames.
Deniken screamed in frustration and horror, beating the ground with his fists, as comrades from the old days were reduced to black pygmies by the unforgiving horror weapon.
Others, less fortunate, ran around the field and houses, streaming flames, their screams rising above all sounds of battle until some comrade or enemy gave them mercy.
Through his tears, Deniken saw a few dozen of his men still mobile, but retreating from the blackened fields.
Another group of aircraft, three this time, dropped their fiery loads around the Rechtern Bridge, ensuring that there was nowhere that he could look without seeing death at its most horrible.
Aloft, circling lazily, leaving others to watch for enemy aircraft, Steele was satisfied, his professionalism to the fore, his humanity shelved.
“Good job, Green Flight. Spot on the money.”
Checking his target area, he called the Red flight leader and issued his final instructions.
The four Corsairs turned as instructed, circling to the west and approaching down the rail line, its metal tracks serving as a perfect marker for the attack.
Again line abreast, the four aircraft dropped sixteen napalm canisters on and around the west end of the rail bridge.
Grayson was groggy, a mortar shell having momentarily knocked him out.
Around him, men of his Gordon Highlanders fought alongside GI’s from the 116th Infantry, as the engineers struggled to finish the job.
Many of the brave men had fallen, but the engineer unit’s sergeant seemed to bear a charmed life, and was near to completion.