THE FORESIGHT WAR (42 page)

‘If we do have to bomb, at least we should try to pick those targets which will do real strategic damage rather than just terrorising the population.’
 
Mary argued.

‘We do,’
countered
Peter, ‘but they have a tendency to be surrounded by the houses of their workers.
 
And with the best will in the world, despite all of these advanced tactics and navigational aids Don’s been talking about for years, not every bomb will find its target.
 
There will be some collateral damage.’

‘What about those synthetic oil plants?
 
They seem to have been the best targets the last time around.’

‘Unfortunately those are less significant at the moment.
 
Germany has captured extensive oil fields as a result of their successes in the east.’
 
Charles, who had been sitting quietly in a corner of the room almost lost in a large leather armchair, made a rare contribution.
 
Having gained their attention, he went on.
 
‘Lord Cherwell’s paper has a certain appeal to our leader.’
 

Don groaned.
 
‘That man is the bugbear of my life.
 
Lindemann is totally insufferable.
 
Everything the critics said about him in my time has proved to be true.
 
But try as I might, I can’t prise him away from Winston.
 
He thinks he’s a wonderfully imaginative scientist, and they’ve known each other for a long time.’

‘What paper is this?’
Enquired Geoffrey.

‘He has argued that Bomber Command should be obliterating cities in order to end the war by making people homeless and destroying the national morale.
 
He has also vigorously opposed the production of long-range aircraft for Coastal Command – he wants our whole production capacity diverted to bombers.
 
He just doesn’t understand the role of our anti-submarine aircraft in defending our convoys.
 
He thinks that just because they don’t sink many submarines they’re wasting their time.
 
The fact that they keep the U-boats away from the convoys by keeping them submerged won’t enter his head.
 
Nothing enters his head except his own ideas – he doesn’t recognise anyone else’s.’

‘You must admit he has a point, though,’ observed Peter.
 
‘In more ways than one.
 
Thanks to your influence, Coastal Command now has as many long-range aircraft as Bomber Command, but while the bombers can demonstrate the massive damage they’re inflicting on the enemy, all the maritime reconnaissance planes have to show for their efforts is a patch of oil every now and then, where a U-boat might or might not have been destroyed.
 
That doesn’t give our propagandists much to go on.
 
Stirring battles over the Reich, now, that’s much more exciting.’

‘And not just for domestic morale,’ commented Charles.
 
‘We have to convince the rest of the world that we’re still fighting a war.
 
Not just the Soviets, although they need all the encouragement we can give them, but the Americans as well.
 
They’re still generally not interested in getting more involved in Europe.
 
There’s a strong isolationist streak there, and the argument about keeping American sons from dying in foreign wars has a lot of appeal.
 
Even the ones who appreciate the need to stop the Nazis want to focus on Japan as a revenge for Pearl Harbor before they even think about the possibility of war with Germany, and that includes some of their most influential military leaders, such as Admiral King.
 
We’ve got to keep the fact that we’re still fighting a war in the minds of the American public, and the bombing campaign is the best way of doing it.’

‘Nonetheless, sooner or later an invasion there must be,’ said Don.
 
‘Otherwise there are just two possibilities.
 
Either Hitler completes his conquest of the Soviet Union, at which point he can invade us with overwhelming force at his leisure, or Russia survives, recovers and eventually manages to beat Germany, in which case we will be faced with an entirely communist Europe.
 
We have to intervene at some point, and not just by sending in bombers.’

‘The trick is to pick the right moment,’ mused Harold.
 
‘One which offers the least risk to our forces.’

Don grimaced.
 
‘Not so easy.
 
You could argue that now would be a good time, while the bulk of German forces are engaged far to the east.
 
But without the Americans it would be very risky. Of course, if the Russians give up then an invasion becomes impossible – Hitler will be far too strong.
 
The only chance will be if the Russians start forcing the Germans back and weakening them.
 
In those circumstances, the longer we wait before invading, the weaker the Germans will be and the better the chance of success.
 
But the longer we wait, the further Stalin’s troops will get into Europe, and we’ll end up with the Cold War all over again, only this time we might not be lucky enough to avoid a nuclear war.’

‘Which does, of course, raise another option,’ Charles said quietly, breaking the gloomy silence.
 
‘With the information you were able to provide, massive resources are being put into nuclear research.
 
According to progress reports, we should have the first atom bomb late next year.
 
I seem to recall you saying that the USA reckoned that using the bomb to end the war in your time saved them an estimated million casualties which they otherwise would have incurred in invading Japan.
 
The same calculation could apply in Europe.’

Don shuddered.
 
‘I don’t even like to think about that.
 
Atom bombs dropped in Europe!
 
That isn’t what I’ve been struggling to achieve.’

‘We might not have much option.
 
After all, Hitler has your equivalent to advise him.
 
Germany’s research in your time was way off target.
 
That might not be the case now.
 
Who knows how close they are to their own atom bomb? We’re doing our best to find out, but their security is tight.’

‘One thing’s for sure,’ said Harold, ‘despite all of the problems, our army and navy are steadily building up and Stalin is demanding that we find somewhere to use them in order to take the pressure off him.
 
Churchill hates seeing them idle, as well.
 
He thinks it suggests that we’re not trying hard enough.
 
Something’s going to happen, sooner or later.’

The mother listened anxiously to the news as
Berlin
radio gave a running commentary of the progress of the approaching British bombers.
 
All of the most obvious targets on the coast and in the Ruhr had already been passed, and it was beginning to look as if they were heading for
Berlin
.
 
Still, she consoled
herself,
Berlin
was a huge city covering hundreds of square kilometres.
 
It had been bombed before and she had never even been aware of it.
 
They would probably be all right, but to be on the safe side, would spend the night in the basement.
 
She went to look for her daughter, who she found awake in her room, peering out of the window.

Outside, the night was carved up by the probing searchlights, which cast huge circles of light on the base of the clouds far above.
 
She could see and hear nothing of any attack, but decided it was time to leave anyway.
 
She gently took her daughter by the shoulders to pull her away from the window, looking down at her with a smile.
 
Suddenly, her young face was illuminated by an unearthly reddish glow.
 
‘Look, Mama!’
 
She cried, ‘the lights!
 
Look at the Christbaüme!’

The Christmas tree, she thought numbly.
 
Time froze.
 
The mother looked at her daughter’s radiant face then, with a tumbling fall of dread, lifted her eyes to the sky.
 
Her breath was punched from her body in a scream of utter horror and despair, as the coloured flares of the Target Indicator fell gently to earth, all around them.

The crew of the modified Avro Manchester sat in virtual darkness relieved only by the faint glow of the instruments.
 
They had been hard at work since crossing the coast, and the tension was palpable.
 
They were not only defenceless, but they could not even attack.
 
Theirs was an ECM – electronic counter-measures – plane which was packed with instruments of deceit to mislead, confuse, misdirect and jam the German defences.

Flying just ahead of the bomber stream, they had covered the approach by dropping ‘Window’ – strips of aluminium foil a foot long and just over half an inch wide – to blanket the defence radars.
 
Two thousand strips were contained in a bundle and one bundle was remotely ejected from the aircraft every minute.
 
As the bombers approached, they activated ‘Carpet’: an electronic jammer transmitting on the same frequency as the German radars.
 

Not only
the radar was
attacked. The ‘Tinsel’ device broadcast noise on the fighter control radio channels which were constantly monitored to catch shifts in frequency.
 
As an alternative, from time to time the ECM planes carried a German-speaking crewman who tuned in to the fighter channel to mimic their broadcasts in the hope of leading the defenders astray.

Despite all of these measures, the German defences succeeded every night in locating and destroying several of their tormentors.
 
And the favourite targets of the night-fighters seemed to be the ECM planes whose task required them to transmit at high power across many frequencies: a beacon to any defenders who could penetrate their veils of confusion and secrecy.

The Heinkel droned through the night; the Oberstleutnant’s headphones and vision were alive with the confused sounds and sights of the battle: shouted commands of the FCO trying to penetrate the jamming, occasional responses from the other Nachtjäger pilots, once a flare of light a dozen kilometers away as an aircraft went down – whose he could not say.

Far below, he knew the radar operators would be struggling to defeat the jamming; picking out the aircraft at the edge of the bomber stream, coaxing the new Würz-Laus switch on the Würzburg
radar
 
to
highlight the moving targets from the clouds of slowly falling Düppel.

Meanwhile, his crew had
their own
tasks.
 
His radio operator muttered to himself as he strugged with the counter-measures, trying to trap and locate the transmissions from the elusive Eloka plane.

‘We have another Kurier for you!’
 
The FCO’s voice broke through, gave quick directions.
 
The Heinkel turned sharply, forcing the crew into their seats.
 
As their speeding fighter banked steeply onto the new heading, they could see patches of brighter light glowing and fading through the Leichentuch.
 
Bombs were falling.

‘T.I. visible, straight ahead.’

‘Navigator to skipper.
 
Three minutes to go.’

‘OK. Keep alert everyone.’
 
A long period of tense silence.
 
The voice of the replacement Master Bomber could be heard, calmly directing the incoming Manchesters, trying to minimise the ‘creep-back’ as the terrified bomb-aimers dropped their bombs a few seconds early in their attempt to get away as quickly as possible from the killing zone over
Berlin
.

‘Hello bomb-aimer.
 
Bomb doors open.’

‘OK.
 
A little to the left – steady – steady – bombs going – bombs gone.’
 
The plane lurched upwards as ten thousand pounds of destruction plunged from the bomb bay: the drum-shaped 4,000 lb ‘cookie’ surrounded by a swarm of tiny incendiaries.
 
The crew waited, the tension was almost unbearable.
 

‘OK, photoflash gone off’.
 
Relieved of his duty to prove that the bombs had been dropped over the target, the pilot instantly banked and accelerated the Manchester to clear the target area, to get away from the deadly, glowing clouds.

‘Boozer warning!’
 
The voice was urgent.
 
Their electronic defences had picked up the trace of a radar pulse; they were being hunted.
 
The crew stared frantically from every observation port, eyes straining to spot the incoming night-fighter.
 
Above them the stars gleamed, cold and unwinking in the cold, high air.
 
Behind and above the bomber, some of the stars flickered, briefly.

‘Fighter!
Dead astern, high’ the observer screamed.
 
The Manchester suddenly lurched, throwing the crew into stomach-churning chaos, as the pilot slammed the port throttles wide open and the starboard closed, kicked the rudder pedals and hauled desperately on the control column.
 
The huge plane corkscrewed violently away, dropping like a stone, as the shadow of Death swept overhead.
 
All throttles fully open, the bomber recovered and strained for height and distance, desperate to get away from the revealing, glowing clouds.
 
No-one spoke for a long time.