Flight Lieutenant Hall led once more, his cannon again successful, a fixed 20mm quad position, once of Luftwaffe ownership, instantly destroyed with those who crewed it.
Rawlings, elated by his success, shot up the river, churning the water to foam with his cannon shells. Banking left he sustained a few hits from previously silent machine-guns hidden around the hedges and fields, a thousand metres west of Luhdorf.
Mackenzie’s ordnance was already boring in, inexorably eating up the yards before striking the rail bridge in three places.
The structure had been badly damaged during the big raid but had been swiftly and expertly repaired, enabling trains to use it, albeit at slower speeds.
The bridge still refused to die, shrugging off the RP-3 hits, seemingly unscathed, save for the obvious twisted rails reaching dramatically skywards.
Despite hitting his target, McKenzie cursed his failure as he rejoined the flight, taking formation for the journey home.
Stelmakh sat quietly with his crew, listening and watching as the Engineer Captain ripped into one of his Lieutenants.
The unfortunate man had opened fire with a DSHK machine gun, mounting one of Stelmakh’s IS-III’s to shoot at an allied aircraft, and in doing so, encouraged others to open fire too.
Corporal Stepanov spat in contempt and grabbed for a cigarette.
“What’s the fucking point in hiding away if some fucking idiot officer fires off the damn guns and shows the fucking enemy where we are?”
His young CO took the proffered Belomor and lit it before replying.
“These engineers have had the devil of a time with the British air force, Stepanov. Over one in three of them have gone already, and they haven’t seen a ground soldier yet. He just wanted to hit back that’s all. Be kind.”
The tank driver snorted in disgust.
“He missed the fucking thing by a kilometre too!”
“Maybe so, but this time there is no harm done, and he will have learned.”
Both their conversation and the engineer’s admonishment were interrupted by the swift approach of aircraft engines.
Three Spitfires flashed overhead, one trailing a thin wisp of smoke, evidence that they had not had things all their own way with the Lavochkin Regiment.
Stepanov idly played with a Y-shaped scar on the tank’s flank, product of the brickwork collapse during the air raid.
The sound of Spitfires decreased, until the steady patter of raindrops on camouflage nets took over.
“Anyway, Comrade Kaporal, just leave it and keep out of the way. I’m off to see what the new Regimental Commander has in mind for us.”
Hall and McKenzie could do nothing.
A kindly WAAF Lance-Corporal had pressed mugs of tea into their hands, and the obligatory cigarettes had been provided by the remaining members of Yellow flight.
In silence, they all watched as fire crews gradually gained control of the inferno that had engulfed XM-S when it crashed on landing. Unknown to the pilot or his watching comrades, a single bullet had clipped the port tyre. The impact of the aircraft on the tarmac had burst it immediately, throwing the Typhoon violently to the left. The undercarriage gave way, resulting in the aircraft cartwheeling for a hundred yards before coming to rest upside down and exploding.
The brave fire crew fought hard to hold back the flames, and were rewarded as the rescue crew finally broke through into the cockpit area, dragging out the parts of Pilot Officer Rawlings that the fire had not yet consumed.
Alive, but extremely badly burned, the young flier was loaded into the ambulance and whisked away to the base hospital, where the business of saving his life could begin in earnest.
Hall and McKenzie said nothing; there was nothing to say that hadn’t been said a hundred times before by fliers from all sides.
Handing back empty mugs to the horrified WAAF, they went to be debriefed on their mission, suppressing their horror and sorrow at the loss of another comrade.
Chapter 64 – THE AMBUSH
When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep, and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way.
Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.
They had all been up since four-forty a.m.
The hotel night receptionist had apologetically rung the room two minutes prior to that, waking Mayakov from a light sleep. Explaining, the receptionist said that the caller had been insistent that the message was passed immediately, but the man still baulked at waking paying guests at such ungodly times, especially for a message that could obviously wait until daylight.
None the less, he informed the sleepy voice at the other end of the phone that ‘Señor Juan Flores, with regret, would not be able to join them until Saturday.’
“Is that word for word?”
“Si, Señor. The gentleman made me write it down.”
“Thank you.”
Mayakov immediately roused his team on the basis of this urgent instruction. ‘Juan’ was a confirmation of the plan, as agreed with the Rezident, ‘Flores’ being the imperative of a strike this very morning. ‘Saturday’ referred to the next contact, which would be made at the safe house arranged by the local NKVD station.
‘With Regret’ meant at all costs, the sort of order old men give younger men with monotonous regularity.
The receptionist continued reading the morning paper, still finding Senor Flores’ German accent laughable, despite its hideous strangulation of his mother tongue.
Upstairs, the six spent their time checking the weapons they had checked just a few hours before, making breakfast, and ensuring that each man knew his job for the task ahead. The plan was simple, as are all good plans, with alternatives if required.
Their escape had been laid out by Vaspatin, the NKVD Rezident, the same man who had distributed cyanide capsules to each of them on the orders of Moscow.
By 0625 hrs, the room had been cleaned thoroughly and the group was on its way down the stairs to their vehicles, and a rendezvous with violent death.
At 0635 hrs, two shadowy figures stole into the hotel by a rear entrance and made their way up to the recently vacated rooms.
Twelve minutes later, having completed the task assigned to them, they exited by the same route, re-entering the hotel more openly and making their way to a fifth floor suite, having resumed their identities of the Marquis and Marchioness of Bodonitsa; Greek nobility holidaying in the Spanish capital.
A creature of habit, Francisco Paulino Hermenegildo Teódulo Franco y Bahamonde left his official residence precisely at 0730 hrs, slipping into his official presidential car for the fast drive into Madrid.
As was normal, elements of the Spanish Army and the Guardia Civil were stationed along his route, positioned to discourage attempts on the Caudillo’s person.
One such team of Guardia Civil, complete with one of the newly supplied American jeeps, waited alertly at the convergence of the Avenida de la Guardia and the Avenida del Palacio.
“It is time, Comrades.”
The jeep mounted a .50 cal Browning machine-gun, which was their killing weapon of choice on this warm summer’s morning.
Elsewhere, the other three members of the NKVD assassination team played their own important roles.
The simple plan swung into action.
Four loud explosions rent the air, as the military base on the eastern side of the Avenida del Palacio was engulfed in smoke and flames. Beyond that, a six man army section stationed on the junction of the Pardo al Goloso and the Pardo a Fuencarral came under fire, killing or incapacitating every man in seconds.