Richardson carefully watched the sky ahead as the Kent countryside slipped past beneath his nose and away behind. He’d found the A20 just outside of Lewisham and followed it south-east as it cut through green pastures on its way toward the coast, the Mustang rarely rising above treetop height for most of the journey. Had it not been for the unmistakeable howl of its Merlin V12, the aircraft would’ve seemed little more than a ghost in the grey, pre-dawn haze.
He diverted around Maidstone, skirting the city’s southern boundaries. Using local landmarks to assist with navigation, Richardson easily located the grounds for the Kent County Cricket Club and the children’s orphanage at Mote House — positioned as they were within 180 hectares of parkland just a kilometre or two from the centre of town — and used them to bring him back onto the A20, which took the name of Ashford Rd as it ran past Mote Park’s northern border on its way south-east. The A20 would take him right through to Folkestone and The Channel, both of which were now only five minutes away at his cruising speed of almost 500 kilometres per hour.
Ashford Road took him past Harrietsham, Lenham and Charing before he again diverted course slightly, this time skirting north of Ashford and rejoining the A20 as Hythe Rd on the other side. Dawn finally broke over France and the distant horizon as the Mustang howled past overhead at Smeeth and then Sellindge, and as Richardson finally broke away from the A20 just five kilometres or so from the coast, the first rays of sunlight were finally reaching out across the surface of The Channel.
He was glad of the veil of broken cloud spread across the eastern sky that effectively prevented him from being blinded, flying, as he was, directly into the rising sun. Folkestone was visible ahead now, as was the distant French coast beyond, and Richardson went through several final rechecks of his instruments and the status of his aircraft’s systems, including preparation of the cameras mounted in the fuselage behind him.
The Mustang carried a pair of 250-litre auxiliary fuel tanks beneath the wings. He’d been flying on that extra fuel for the entirety of the trip so far, and those tanks were now almost empty. As Richardson passed overflew Sandgate, south of Folkestone, and continued on out over The Channel, he pulled a lever on his instrument panel and the pair of tanks fell away, striking the surface of the water 20 metres below the aircraft and disappearing in twin sprays of foam. The event was instantly noticed in the cockpit, and the Mustang literally surged ahead as their extra aerodynamic drag suddenly disappeared. Richardson selected the appropriate heading east-south-east and edged his throttle forward, the engine’s pitch changing dramatically as he pushed the aircraft toward full power.
Below him, the glinting surface of The Channel slipped quickly away behind as his airspeed crept upward. Even for a seasoned fighter pilot, the acceleration and speed were exhilarating, and he couldn’t help but allow an almost childlike grin of excitement to spread across his face beneath his oxygen mask as the Mustang topped out at its sea-level limit of 700 kilometres per hour. Adrenalin was coursing freely through his system now, his breathing faster as a result: forty kilometres ahead, his target was just four minutes away across the water, and it was now that he was at his most vulnerable.
Dawn had spread across the whole of Western Europe now, and right along the French coast, Luftwaffe pilots would be warming their engines and preparing to take to the skies on combat air patrols intended to seek out and shoot down RAF aircraft exactly like his. The Mustang was currently heading toward danger at a great rate, and it was only after Richardson had passed his target and taken his pictures that he could finally turn back to the west and seek safety in altitude.
SS Special Heavy Battery 672(E)
Near Sangatte, Pas-de-Calais
Edward Whittaker had been working from dawn until dusk every day for the last eight weeks: one man among thousands of POWs and forced civilian labourers now working there at the compound. Like the rest of them, he’d return every night to the prison camp with his hands scuffed and bleeding, his back and shoulders aching from the day’s hard work, but he also had to admit he was a good deal fitter as a result, and his previously pale skin was now quite well tanned from weeks of working shirtless in the summer sun.
They’d arrived with the dawn and had barely climbed down from their trucks that morning as air raid sirens released their piercing wails all over the installation. Non-essential Wehrmacht and SS soldiers and officers immediately headed for slit trenches dotted strategically about the area. The prisoners didn’t bother however, although all of them were of course deeply concerned: they’d learned the hard way during numerous air raid drills over the last eight weeks that POWs weren’t permitted such luxuries as shelters or protection, and only the sheer volume of flak weaponry positioned about the surrounding area stood between the unwilling labour force and potential death from above.
Whittaker was part of a small group working closer to the beach at the far end of the main branch line, beyond the northernmost of the two huge guns. As such, they were in a perfect position to catch sight — briefly — of an RAF fighter as it darted past above the treeline that ran along the installation’s western perimeter, its pale blue camouflage no more than a momentary flash of colour in the morning sun. Some of the nearby lighter flak guns attempted to engage, but the aircraft wasn’t interested in hanging about and made off back toward the English side of the Channel at full throttle, quickly darting out of range once more before anyone could react.
The volume of fire that should have been brought to bear should have ensured its certain destruction as soon as it’d drawn within — at best — two or three thousand metres, but an almost complete lack of an RAF presence anywhere near the coast since the last weeks of July had caused the flak batteries’ crews to become relaxed to the point of outright negligence. They’d paid for that negligence by allowing that single fighter to escape unscathed, and the Commander-in Chief, Home Forces had his detailed photographs as a result…
Richardson kept his throttle at full power and took the Mustang into a steep powerclimb the moment he’d cleared the target area and got turned onto a course for home. His heart was pounding as if it threatened to burst from his chest, and the adrenalin coursing through his veins and arteries meant the exhilaration he felt at the successful completion of his mission was all the more intense.
He’d come in at wave-top height for the entire trip across The Channel, much as he’d travelled the entire landward leg of his approach barely above the trees, ensuring there’d been no chance of German radar stations along the coast having any chance whatsoever of detecting him. That had also ensured the masses of ack-ack protecting the target had been given no prior warning of his presence and enabled him to take his pictures without any opposition.
If there were fighters in the area now, Luftwaffe command would already be vectoring them on to his tail, and if there were none in the air nearby, there’d certainly be some lifting off within seconds. It’d all be to no avail, however. The fighter variant of the Mustang was slightly faster than the new Focke-Wulf J-4A at all altitudes, and the PR Mark IA version, thanks to its weight savings and streamlined armament, was faster still. Now he was at higher altitude and headed for home, there wasn’t an aircraft anywhere near that had a chance of catching him. The Mustang hurtled on westward, following the dawn as Richardson allowed himself to relax — finally — and began to think about how much he’d enjoy his morning coffee.