Volk (15 page)

“Blue Leader to Laycock Red Leader, three bogies, three o'clock low.”

Bader ordered the Blue section to investigate the three dots. The rest of the squadron continued toward North Weald on an intercept course.

“Red Two here—bandits ten o'clock level.”

As they got closer, Lane was able to make out two boxes of thirty or more bombers, each moving toward North Weald at about 12,000 feet. Then he saw another group of dots above the bombers: fighters, higher than the 242.

“Green section—take on the top lot.”

The Green vic climbed and peeled off to the right. That left the Red and Yellow sections—six fighters to engage the bombers. They were mostly twin-engined Dornier 17's, the so-called “flying pencils,” with a few ME-110 twin-engined fighters interspersed among them. The bombers were headed northeast and were grouped in rows of four to six.

Bader's squadron headed south by southeast to intercept them from slightly above, out of the sun. He led his section on a dive through the third line of bombers. The hurricanes opened fire. The startled bombers scattered.

The Yellow Section followed, and scattered the bombers further. Then all six Hurricanes climbed up to attack the scattered Germans.

It was a piece of cake. Lane oriented on his target, and it was helpless. He fired, and scored, and the bomber went down. He oriented on another, and scored on it, but couldn't get a critical hit.

Now all the bombers were fleeing, and their fighter escort with them. The sky was clear. The Hurricanes regrouped and headed for home.

When they landed, and everyone was present, Bader quizzed his pilots. It turned out that the 242 had made twelve enemy kills, and damaged several more—without suffering a single loss. And the enemy had fled without dropping a single bomb on North Weald.

•  •  •

There was now no doubt: Bader's strategy was sound. He had taken the broken 242 Squadron and made it into a completely successful striking force. The way to foil the Germans was threefold: use large formations of fighters to inflict maximum damage, scramble early—as soon as the enemy was identified—so as to gain maximum height, and use the three combat principles of height, sun and close-in shooting. He argued his case before his superiors, and was given the opportunity to test his theories on a larger scale.

On September 2 Bader was given control of the 310 and 19 Spitfire squadrons at Duxford. Lane and the other 242 pilots became de facto instructors, helping to show the new pilots how to integrate the Bader way. In three days of intensive practice the three squadrons were able to scramble in just over three minutes. They were ready—they hoped.

The Battle for Britain was still being waged. The Germans seemed determined to prevail, making what seemed like suicidal sallies, and all over south Britain it was a struggle to hold them back. London was taking a beating.

On September 7, in the late afternoon, they were given the order to intercept a German bomber formation. They scrambled, but it was already late; they had not been given enough warning.

Bader was not only a good flyer and an effective leader, he was a master at disarming tension among his pilots before combat. When the unit scrambled Lane heard his voice on the radio. “Hey, Woody, I'm supposed to be playing squash with Peter this afternoon. Ring him up, will you, and tell him I'll be a bit late.” “Woody” was Wing Commander Woodall, who gave them instructions from the ground. This was hardly mission business!

“Never mind that now, Douglas,” Woody replied, and tried to get on with business. “Vector one-nine-zero. Angels 20.”

Bader pretended to ignore that. “Oh, go on, Woody. Ring him up now.” Lane was smiling, feeling the tension draining away. It was almost as if they weren't on their way to a life and death struggle with the enemy.

“Haven't got time, Douglas,” Woody, the straight man, said patiently. “There's a plot on the board heading for the coast.”

Still Bader pretended to ignore it. “Well, damned well make time! You're sitting in front of a row of phones. Pick one up and ring the chap.”

“All right, all right, for the sake of peace and quiet I will. Now would you mind getting on with the war?”

And Lane was laughing, having gotten the war into perspective. That was just as well, because they were headed into trouble, and could afford no tension-induced mistakes.

They had reached 15,000 feet when they spotted a formation of Dorniers and ME-110's at least 5,000 feet above them, and ME-109's even higher. This was similar to what they had broken up without a loss before, but this time they lacked the critical advantages of height and surprise. Lane climbed with Bader's squadron to engage, but the Spitfires climbed more slowly than the Hurricanes and weren't there in time. Thus the Hurricanes engaged without any real support. Even so, they scored eleven confirmed kills. Bader took some cannon shells in his left wing, and the others suffered similar damage. One pilot was killed, another was shot down but survived the crash landing with a cut face, and four other planes were damaged. The Spitfires had participated only in showing a reserve force, but that had counted for something, because it convinced the Germans to break off the engagement. It was possible that there would have been heavier losses otherwise.

“We've got to scramble earlier,” Bader said. “We have to gain great height before engaging.” And Lane knew that he was telling exactly that to his superiors. Next time the order to intercept an enemy formation would come sooner.

It did. Two days later the scramble order came early, and the three squadrons reached 22,000 feet before spotting the enemy bomber formations. This was much better. All three squadrons engaged, and by the time it was done they recorded 20 victories at the cost of four Hurricanes and two pilots. As engagements went, it was phenomenal, because the Germans were hardly pushovers. The ragtag band of foreign flyers had become one of the outstanding R.A.F. units.

Bader still wasn't satisfied. He lobbied for a still larger group of fighters that would be able to inflict even heavier damage. Too many enemy planes were getting away, and they would only return for more mischief on other days.

He was given his chance. Air Vice Marshall Leigh-Mallory was now a convert to the Bader strategy, and other squadrons in 12 Group were being urged to mirror his tactics of breaking up enemy formations by diving through their centers. He had even nicknamed the 242 the Disintegration Squadron in honor of this technique. So on September 10 he was given two more squadrons, the 302 and the 611, and there came into existence a new outfit: the 12 Group Wing. All of the original 242 pilots felt the pride of it.

On the 15th, 12 Group Wing was scrambled twice to meet Luftwaffe attacks. The second time they were scrambled late, and forced to attack from below. They hated it, but had to make do. Still, when the engagements were reviewed and tallied that evening, 12 Group Wing claimed 52 confirmed victories and 8 more possibles. What a day!

Bader was to receive the Distinguished Service Order in recognition of his accomplishments. But they weren't done yet; the Germans were still coming, day by day, still determined to bomb Britain into surrender.

On the 18th they scrambled in the afternoon, and were cruising just below a thin layer of clouds at 21,000 feet when they spied two groups of German planes about 5,000 feet below. There were some forty planes—and they were all bombers! No fighter escort.

“Fish in a barrel,” Lane murmured, hardly believing it. Apparently the Nazis were so determined to bomb that they had stopped making fighters. That was their folly.

When the action was done, they had claimed 30 bombers destroyed, plus 6 probables and two more damaged. There had been no casualties on the British side.

By the end of September the German attacks were becoming less frequent and destructive. The Battle over Britain continued, but the days of the heavy bomber raids were coming to a close. The R.A.F. was establishing its supremacy over the skies of Britain. This aspect of the war was being won.

But Lane knew that this was only the first phase. The war would not be over until the Nazis were defeated on their home soil. That would be no fish-in-a-barrel shoot.

Indeed it was not. Lane went on a routine mission, and got ambushed by a German fighter plane, and had to pancake. He brought his plane down safely, but his face had been scratched by shrapnel from an enemy round and the blood impaired his vision.

A medic came to attend to him as he climbed out of the cockpit. “I'm okay,” Lane protested. “It's just a scratch. Just let me get cleaned up.”

“That's no bleeding scratch,” the medic said. “You've got a round in your head!”

Lane laughed. Then he passed out.

•  •  •

Things were hazy after that. They kept him sedated, and there was surgery. When he recovered full consciousness, his head was thoroughly bandaged and his vision blurry.

He was given leave as he recovered. Unable to stand and watch others flying when he could not, he went to London—and was surprised by the changes there. As war loomed closer to Britain, nearly everyone in London carried a gas mask. A large percentage of the people were in uniform, including the women. Newspapers carried features such as “These Are Your Weapons, and How to Use Them.” Balloons attached to cables were hung at an altitude of about five thousand feet, to prevent German bombers from flying low enough to aim accurately. Lane, like other pilots, didn't much care for the balloon barrage system, because balloon officers called what they did “flying.” Also, when visibility was poor, British planes sometimes got snagged on the cables. Just which side were those balloons on?

When his recovery was complete, he reported for duty, but was met by a curious diffidence. The other pilots seemed glad to see him, but were vague about plans.

Bader gave him the bad news. “Your body is fine, your brain is fine. But that wound did things we don't understand to your vision. Maybe you will recover completely, in time. But we can't risk you in a plane now.”

“But I still have missions to fly!” Lane protested. “There's a war to see through!”

“You need perfect vision to fly. Otherwise you will be a risk to yourself and others in the squadron. Would
you
want to be dependent for your life on another man who couldn't see straight?”

Lane saw the way of it. “But I'm otherwise fit. There must be something I can do. I can't let a little injury wash me out.”

“I understand.” Bader glanced down at his own legs. He understood better than any man alive. “Your fiancée—she's in Spain?”

“Yes. Only I haven't heard from her since June. The Quakers had to leave Spain, but she wasn't with them. I've been worried sick.”

Bader nodded; it was evident that he had known this. “Would you like to investigate our facilities in Gibraltar? I understand they may be expanded, to give us better leverage in the Mediterranean theater. It would be better if a battle-experienced flyer had a look.”

“Gibraltar! That's near Spain!”

“Which remains an officially neutral country. Possibly a passport could be arranged.”

Lane saw what the man was doing. He was giving him a chance to try to check on Quality directly. Lane reached up to shake Bader's hand.

Of course Heydrich did not send Ernst straight to Admiral Canaris. Canaris, as the head of the
Abwehr
, the military intelligence unit, was far too canny to accept unknown personnel. Instead he was provided as a routine assignment of personnel to Colonel Oster, Canaris's chief of staff. Oster was a close friend of the Admiral's, and was also under suspicion. Ernst was given the identity of Lieutenant Osterecht, who was a real man but who seemed to have been lost in some distant action; Ernst was in effect taking over the man's career, assuming verifiable credentials. If the real Osterecht ever turned up alive or dead, Heydrich would try to conceal the information until Ernst could be withdrawn. Thus he traded his black SS uniform for the gray Wehrmacht uniform.

The Abwehr offices were in a shabby apartment house beside Berlin's Landwehr Canal. The building was officially designated 72-76 Tirpitz-Ufer, but it was nicknamed the “Fuchsbau”—the Fox's Den—because of its labyrinthine passages, innumerable doors and gloomy offices. The Abwehr offices were on the third floor of Fox's Den, and were shielded from unwanted visitors by a folding metal grille.

Admiral Canaris's office was at the end of the passage and had a small outer office maintained by his serious secretary Wera Schwarte. Oster's office was down the hall, with his assistant, the civilian Dohnanyi, adjacent. Ernst was given a quick tour upon his arrival, meeting the Admiral only to shake hands, before being shunted down to what seemed like the smallest and gloomiest of the available chambers where he would be working.

Ernst had of course done his homework, and knew Oster's background. The man had been decorated for gallantry several times during The War, and was a hero. But he was also temperamental, volatile, arrogant and cynical. It was said that Canaris believed that Oster's exterior concealed a serious-minded man who subscribed to a simple and straightforward code of soldierly and Christian conduct. But others considered him to be a superficial careerist, irresponsible, careless, brash and peremptory, who would not last a moment without the Admiral's support. He seemed to be obsessed with women and horses, with an insatiable appetite for new varieties of each. His womanizing had led to the end of his army career in 1932; only Canaris's intercession had enabled him to return to the service in 1937 as an Abwehr officer.

But it was not Ernst's business to remark on any of this. It was his business to do honestly and well anything that he was assigned to do, and to make mental but no other note of whatever he learned about the ultimate loyalty of those with whom he worked. He was a little fish in an alcove of a pond which was not enormous. At a later date he would report what was relevant to Heydrich, his only concern being accuracy.