A Thousand Suns (30 page)

Pieter would fly, and he would navigate. The mission could still be completed.

An image of Stef’s face, stretched and contorted by the heat, flickered across his mind. He screwed his eyes shut, pushing the image away. There were fifteen hours of flying time ahead of them. There’d be plenty of time to torment himself and grieve for those two later.

The sea of flames had spread towards several of the Me-109s. He watched as one of Schröder’s pilots scrambled up onto the wing of his plane and into the cockpit, as the flames licked hungrily underneath its belly. The pilot had managed to start up the engine and the plane had begun to roll forward, away from the fire, when it exploded. Two other planes followed suit and exploded in a chain reaction, one setting off the other.

The initial eruption had damaged several of the planes parked closest to the fuel drums, and with the other three destroyed, Max could only count four planes as yet undamaged. He feared, as he watched more of Schröder’s men succumb to the flames, that there were now even fewer pilots left than planes.

He heard Pieter calling out, he didn’t hear the words, but there was a distinct tone of relief in his usually gruff voice. Max loosened the last retaining bolt on the belly-gun blister and it clattered heavily to the ground. He emerged from beneath the bomber’s belly to see Stef and Hans loping across the grass, ducking low to avoid the bullets that passed over the top of Koch’s improvised defences.

He angrily slapped them on their backs as they passed. ‘You two stupid bastards gave me a scare.’ He hastily gestured for them to get inside. ‘We’re leaving, we’ve got as much fuel as we need,’ he shouted, his voice struggling to compete with the deafening gunfight and the roar of the nearby fire.

He waited until Hans had scrambled up through the hatch and then stuck his head up inside. ‘Pieter!’ he shouted, his voice now beginning to sound hoarse, punished by the fumes of the smoke that was gathering around the plane. ‘Start the engines. I’ll be up in a second.’

He heard Stef shout, passing the message up to Pieter in the cockpit as he ducked back outside. He dropped down and made his way on all fours across to Koch’s position.

‘We’re going now,’ he shouted.

Koch turned round, his face a picture of overwhelming relief. ‘About bloody time.’

Max pointed down to the far end of the strip at the Americans who were spread out across it, currently laying down fire on Büller and his men holed up in the canteen. They were going to prevent any of them taking off with the promise of a devastating wall of small-arms fire on any plane stupid enough to rumble down the strip towards them.

‘I need them moved. They’ll shoot us to shreds before we can get off the ground.’

Koch looked down the strip. There were twenty to thirty of them spread out across it, most of them kneeling on the grass or prone. ‘I’m not sure how we can shift them. I’ve only got a few men left here . . . what am I supposed to do?’

‘They’ve got to be moved, we can’t take off otherwise.’

The young captain looked around. He had seven men here; amongst the overturned tables of the canteen there were a few more men; inside the hangar with the prisoners were perhaps a couple more. He looked back at Max; ready to shake his head and tell him it couldn’t be done when his eyes rested on the fuel truck.

Max followed his gaze. He could guess what the man was thinking. ‘Yes, good idea.’

‘You get your plane ready to go,’ said Koch.

Max held out his hand. ‘Thanks. You and your men have done us proud.’

‘Last skirmish of the war . . . wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Let’s just hope whatever it is you’re up to is worth it,’ Koch said, grabbing his hand.

‘It’ll win us the war.’

Koch’s eyes widened, and Max smiled reassuringly. ‘Trust me . . . this has been worth it.’

A volley of bullets peppered the ground near both men, and Max decided it was time to move. ‘We’ll turn, and then you’ll hear the engines rev up for take-off speed. That’s us ready to go.’

‘Understood. You’d better go now,’ Koch said, offering Max a hasty salute. Max returned the gesture and then headed back towards the bomber’s belly hatch at a sprint. He pulled himself up inside and clambered through the bombardier’s compartment to the cockpit.

‘What took you so bloody long?’ said Pieter.

Chapter 45

Mission Time: 6 Hours, 12 Minutes Elapsed

8.17 a.m., an airfield outside Nantes

Koch watched as the B-17’s engines roared to life and all four propellors began spinning. Almost immediately the plane began to roll forward on its wheels. It turned in a tight arc, around one hundred and eighty degrees, to face down the strip towards the GIs, who, even now, were getting ready to deliver a withering barrage of small-arms fire for the plane to hurl itself at.

Koch watched as three of the remaining, undamaged Me-109s began to move too. They pulled away from the flames, which had now subsided a little, and moved to one side to allow the bomber the room to manoeuvre.

He got to his feet and waited for a lull in the firing before scurrying across to Schöln’s stack of crates. He slid down beside him as Schöln finished off firing a clip to give him a little covering fire.

‘Lovely weather for it,’ he said, grinning at Koch.

‘I’m driving the fuel truck down towards those men,’ he said, pointing to the Americans at the bottom of the strip. ‘We need them moved before the planes can take off. Have you got any grenades?’

Schöln shook his head; he called out to the man on his right. ‘Erich . . . you got grenades?’ The man shook his head. ‘The captain needs grenades, pass it on.’ The man nodded and the message was passed down the line.

Koch could have kicked himself. On his orders, they had shed a lot of their heavier field equipment from the U-boat prior to climbing aboard the dinghies. He’d wanted them to travel light. They hadn’t been expecting this kind of action today. He’d ordered one or two of his men to keep hold of a couple, just to be on the safe side. He hoped that one of those men was here.

His luck was in, and a moment later he watched as several grenades were tossed gingerly from one man to the next until finally Schöln handed him three. ‘Is that enough, sir?’

Koch nodded. ‘That’ll do.’

The bomber had turned round and was now facing down the strip. He heard the engines rise in pitch, the pilot’s sign that they were ready to go.

‘Pass this along, I want you all to lay down covering fire on the sandbags while I go for the truck and start it off down the strip. It’s still half full of fuel, and enough shots on target by those bastards over there and it’ll go up like a torch,’ he said, pointing to the Americans by the sandbags, maintaining intermittent fire on them, keeping Koch and his men on the ground behind the crates.

‘Yes, sir, covering fire.’

The truck was only about thirty feet back from Schöln’s position; Koch decided it should be relatively easy to get to the driver’s cabin and start her up. Once the truck started rolling, the movement would attract everyone’s attention and it would quickly become the Americans’ favourite target. He hoped the covering fire would last long enough for him to drive the truck out of range of those bastards up at this end of the airfield.

‘Schöln . . . make sure you keep their heads down as long as possible so I can get the truck away, all right?’ The man nodded. ‘Use up your ammo if you have to, but keep it going as long as possible.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right . . . pass the order on.’

Schöln bellowed the instructions out to the other men nearby, while Koch took a moment to steady his nerves. Running for the truck would be nasty, but bearing down on the men at the far end of the strip in a vehicle still carrying several thousand gallons of aviation fuel while they all concentrated their fire at him . . . that was going to be even nastier.

‘We’re ready when you are, sir,’ said Schöln as he slid another magazine into his MP-40.

Koch slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Once the planes are up, the job’s done. You make sure you boys surrender, right?’

He nodded.

‘Fine. Then I’ll see you and Büller later.’ He got to his feet, crouching, waiting for a pause in the sporadic fire of the Americans. The pause came, and Koch rose quickly, sprinting towards the truck. He reached the door to the cabin only a few seconds later, having attracted no shots whatsoever.

Just you wait until this thing begins to move.

He tugged the door open and pulled himself up inside. Despite the half a dozen or so dents and bullet holes in the vehicle’s engine hood, she still started easily. He threw the truck into gear and the truck began its journey towards the far end of the strip.

‘He’s off!’ said Max.

‘What’s he going to do?’ asked Pieter, leaning forward in his seat to look down from the cockpit window.

‘I think the plan is to drive it down there and blow it up. If nothing else the smoke will hide us from them until it’s too late.’

‘Shit, we’re taking off through smoke? What if we hit something?’

Max shrugged. ‘There isn’t much else we can do.’

‘True.’

‘Let’s just get ready.’

Koch threw the truck into third gear and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The truck’s suspension bounced him up and down without mercy as the wheels found the occasional dent and bump in the grass strip. Over the laboured whine of the engine he could hear the splashing of gasoline in the fuel tank behind the cabin. Ahead he could see the enemy soldiers pointing towards the truck, bringing their weapons to bear on him. Some of them started firing, but the range as yet was still far enough that most of the shots were off-target. With one hand, Koch pulled the three grenades out of the hip pocket of his camouflage jacket and laid them on the scuffed and torn leather of the passenger seat. He put the truck up another gear, and the whine of the engine dropped to an unforgiving moan that rose in pitch as he pushed the accelerator down again. The truck rolled over another small bump; its flaccid suspension bounced Koch out of his seat and the three grenades up into the air. Two landed back on the passenger seat, the third clattered onto the floor of the cabin. Ahead the Americans were now close enough to fire on him, and in well-trained unison, under the orders of an officer, they let rip.

Koch lay down on his side, still holding the steering wheel with one hand as the windscreen imploded and showered him with glass. He heard the engine hood and the radiator grill clang and shudder as a multitude of bullets began to shred the front of the vehicle. He stole a quick look over the dashboard. The men ahead of him were now the size of a thumb at arm’s length, no more than forty or fifty feet away.

Now’s as good a time as any.

With his knees he held the steering wheel, with his hands he grabbed one of the grenades, unscrewed the cap and grabbed hold of the fuse-string inside the handle.

Here we go.

He pulled on the string, and the grenade’s fuse commenced its ten-second burn. He dropped it on the passenger seat and reached for the handle on the driver-side door.

From where they were at the top of the strip, it looked like the truck was now almost amongst the soldiers at the bottom. Max wasn’t sure if the young captain had intended to blow the vehicle up or simply drive it through to distract them momentarily. If he’d intended to blow it up, Max thought, he’d have done it by now. Whatever his plan, he decided it would be best that they start their way down the strip
now
and take advantage of the distraction and confusion the truck was currently causing.

Of course, there was the added danger that the truck was going to blow up just as Max lifted the plane over the top of it. The way things had gone here this morning, he wouldn’t have been surprised if that was the way this mission was going to come to a messy end.

Go now or not at all.

He set the tail-wheel lock to ON, and turned to look at Pieter.

‘We’re going,’ he said as he eased his foot off the brake and opened the throttle. The plane’s four powerful engines roared angrily at 3000 rpm, and the bomber began to roll forward down the grass strip, hungrily consuming the distance between it and whatever consequence lay ahead at the end of the strip.

‘Stupid damn thing’s stuck!’ Koch shouted aloud as he fumbled with the door handle, lying flat across the seats with one foot still down on the accelerator. He pulled hard enough on it to crack the ceramic handle, but the door remained closed.

‘Shit!’

The driver-side door had taken a volley of bullets, which had dented and buckled the metal outside. The truck was still bouncing along on suspension that had given in while the truck’s hood and cabin rattled and clanked with the impact of small-calibre bullets raining in. He quickly stuck his head up to snatch a glimpse through the shattered windscreen. They were no longer ahead of him; he was now amongst them. Both the passenger- and driver-side windows exploded as bullets whistled in from the left and the right of him. He instinctively dropped back down onto the passenger seat as bullets slammed into all sides of the cabin. He looked down at the stick grenade in his hand.

Five . . . six . . .

For a moment he considered throwing it out through the passenger side window and aborting his plan to detonate the truck. But then there was the bomber to think about. Already he could hear it approaching, its engines roaring loudly, pulling the giant plane rapidly towards him, the truck and the American soldiers.

No, the truck needed to go up. There wasn’t time now for foolish indecision.

He smiled, it might not have been a Gran Sasso, but today’s fun and games had done the regiment proud.

. . . Seven . . . Eight . . .

He was intrigued about the last thing the pilot had said to him. The thing they were doing was going to
win the war for Germany
. . . so, it wasn’t just an escape plan for some cowardly general. The pilot hadn’t seemed like the kind of man who would part on a lie.

. . . Nine . . .

He was curious, though - how a single stolen American bomber was going to do that, win them the war.

. . . Ten . . .

Ahead, Max could see the fuel truck slowing down amongst the American soldiers. It had almost come to a full stop when it was suddenly ripped apart by an immense explosion.

‘Bloody hell,’ Pieter muttered, instinctively bringing his hands up to cover his face.

A brilliant ball of flame rolled upwards into the grey overcast sky, while flaming gasoline rained down around the carcass of the truck.

‘We’re going to fly through that!’ cried Pieter.

‘Over it, if we’re lucky,’ answered Max through clenched teeth. He checked their speed; they were running at seventy miles per hour, not fast enough yet. She would lift only over one hundred miles per hour, and they were rapidly running out of strip to achieve that speed.

‘We’re going to hit that bloody thing!’ Pieter shouted.

There was nowhere for him to go with the throttle, and all four engines were screaming at full capacity, the ailerons were fully extended in the vertical position, there was nothing he could do but watch the fireball race towards them and hope to God that the plane lifted off before they smashed into the remains of the fuel truck.

Fifty yards to go.

Some of the Americans had been caught by the blast and had suffered the same agonising end as Schröder’s men earlier. The majority, it seemed, had been far enough away to escape that, but nonetheless had been thrown off their feet by the blast. Max watched as some of them had their wits about them to scramble to their feet and grab their weapons in a last-ditch attempt to shoot out the canopy glass and prevent the plane from taking off.

He felt his face contort in anticipation of the bullets that awaited them as they approached the raging wall of fire.

Twenty yards left.

Max checked their speed, ninety-two miles per hour. He sensed the plane beginning to pull upwards, her giant wings grabbing hungrily at the air and forcing it under them.

‘Hold on!’ he heard himself shout as the burning chassis of the fuel truck raced towards them and disappeared from view beneath the nose of the plane. For the briefest moment the cockpit of the plane was immersed in the churning column of oily flames below.

Max felt the landing gear smash into something below, and the plane shuddered violently as it cleared the smoke.

‘Shit!’ Pieter shouted once more.

The plane was now at one hundred miles per hour; the lift beneath her wings and the hot air of the inferno below pushed the plane upwards. He felt the lift and pulled back on the yoke. The bomber’s nose rose and they were off the ground and climbing steeply.

Schöln watched the B-17 recede to the west, tailed closely by three of the Messerschmitts. The sporadic fire from the Americans had ceased. It seemed everyone, through unconscious collaboration, had agreed to momentarily suspend the fight in order to watch what happened to the bomber as it had charged down towards the flaming truck. Now it was away, it appeared that normal business was ready to be resumed.

Koch’s order had been to surrender once the planes were up. The few men that were left were probably ready to do that now; he knew he was. They’d given a good account of themselves, and more importantly the job was done. The planes had made it away.

The gunfire hadn’t started up yet; it was silent save for the gentle hiss of drizzling rain, and to his right, the crackling fire amidst the burned carcasses of the 109s. He decided to take advantage of this lull.

‘Okay, lads, put your weapons down,’ he shouted, his voice echoed loudly across the airfield.

The men huddling behind the crates nearby did as they were ordered, clearly relieved that this particular skirmish was over. He raised his hands above his head and slowly raised his head above the crates.

A single shot rang out, thudding mercifully into the ground nearby and he immediately heard the sharp voice of an officer calling a ceasefire.

Schöln slowly got to his feet and shouted loudly in heavily accented English, ‘We surrender!’

There were no further shots, and one by one the men near him rose from behind their crates, hands raised unequivocally. He saw movement from the canteen and movement from the hangar doorway. Only a single man emerged from the canteen, and three others from the hangar. Schöln totalled up the survivors. There were twelve of them left. Twelve out of the original thirty.