16. Once More Unto the Breach
Beaucourt-en-Santerre
Near Amiens, Northern France
Saturday
August 24, 1940
François Reynard waited by the side of the empty country lane, feeling very unhappy about the fact that there was no cover whatsoever that he might hide behind, should a German patrol happen by. It was unlikely so close to midnight, but one couldn’t take anything for granted, particularly when one considered the forward headquarters for the entire Wehrmacht was just fifteen kilometres away across the fields to the north-west. Beaucourt-en-Santerre was a small commune of less than a hundred people and didn’t warrant its own garrison, however the road where Reynard stood was less than twenty minutes ‘ driving time from the barracks at Reuters’ HQ, and as such there was a valid and very real need for caution.
A half moon hung low in an eastern sky streaked with infrequent patches of silvery cloud, with more than enough light for Reynard to see some distance in either direction. His motorcycle was hidden in the grassy verge, the old Automoto lying on its side not far from where he crouched. The town lay behind him to the west, no more than a dark and featureless silhouette in the moonlight, while the road alone lay before him to the east, disappearing into the distance as a black strip of nothingness set between wide, open fields of silver grain. He’d only had to wait ten minutes or so before he finally heard the faint sound of an aircraft approaching from the east, and as he checked his watch, noting the time on its luminous face, he was forced to grudgingly give a silent nod of approval that the man he was expecting was punctual at least.
The plane was almost upon him before he’d heard it at all, so skilful was the pilot. The Westland Lysander was an RAF co-operation and liaison aircraft that had was quickly becoming a favourite of British covert forces due to its exceptional short-field take off and landing capabilities, and the Mark III model he now spotted against the backdrop of the moon was no exception as it dropped out of the sky at what seemed to be an alarming rate. Constructed from metal tubing and wooden frameworks with a predominantly fabric covering, the Lysander was a single-engined aircraft with two seats and a high-wing layout, and had been designed from the outset with field-of-view, low-speed handling and STOL ability as priorities.
Painted completely matte black, and fitted with a 680-litre fuel tank between the spars of its main landing gear, the aircraft had left Newmarket in Suffolk two hours earlier, and had since spent the entirety of its journey east at an altitude of no more than fifty metres in order to avoid German radar. It now seemed to be flying at an impossibly slow speed and approaching the ground far too quickly as it dropped toward the roadway in the moonlight, although from past experience, Reynard knew how slow the Lysander could actually fly and still remain aloft, and therefore wasn’t all that concerned. At the last moment, the experienced pilot deftly flattened out his descent and the main wheels touched down in a perfect landing, the aircraft taxiing quickly along the road toward him and coming to a halt just twenty metres away.
Reynard sprung from his position by the road immediately and ran across to where the Lysander had stopped. Even low-powered radial engines produced enough noise to be heard over great distances under the right circumstances, and the sound of an unexpected aircraft engine overhead in the middle of the night, so close to the Wehrmacht’s forward HQ, was likely to attract all sorts of unwanted attention. The Frenchman was working on the assumption that someone unpleasant would be along shortly to investigate, and it was important they were well clear of the area when that happened.
A dark figure was already climbing from the Lysander’s rear cockpit as he drew near, dropping to the ground from a ladder fixed to the port side of the fuselage. The pair worked quickly, each taking position at the plane’s tail and pushing it around to face the way it had come as the pilot gunned the engine and prepared for a quick take off. Another moment, and he was airborne once more, the aircraft leaping into the sky within a few hundred metres and immediately banking away to the south, disappearing almost instantly into the blackness of the night sky.
The pair moved quickly back to where Reynard had left his motorcycle, and as he picked it up and wheeled it out onto the road, he turned and addressed the new arrival properly for the first time.
“Glad to see you’re on time,” he began with a thin smile. “We need to get out of here quickly — there’ll be patrols all over the area within minutes, and we need to reach safety before they head this way.”
“Of course,” the man now answering to the name of Phillip Brandis answered in perfect French, a wry smile appearing for a moment. “I doubt it’d be a good idea for either of us to be found together.” Brandis was dressed in the uniform and peaked cap of a standartenführer (colonel) of the Waffen-SS, and quite disturbingly looked the part… right down to the issue P-38 pistol in the cross-draw holster at his belt.
“I’m thankful that our contacts warned me of what to expect,” Reynard replied dryly, looking the man up and down as he straddled the motorcycle and prepared to start it up. “Your appearance would’ve come as quite a shock otherwise.”
“A necessary disguise for the benefit of our German ‘friends’… the orders and identification I have with me are authentic, and would probably get us out of trouble were we challenged, but I’d prefer not to make my presence known just yet. There’s a lot still to be done, and I’d prefer to remain incognito for the time being.”
“Best you hop on then,” Reynard advised with a grin, tilting his head toward the rear of the bike as he kicked the 250cc engine over. It spluttered once then caught, idling roughly as Brandis climbed on behind him, taking off his cap and securing it in one hand. The Automoto set off along the lane heading east, in the same direction as the Lysander’s take off of moments before.
They were long gone by the time an eight-wheeled Puma reconnaissance vehicle cruised down that same road ten minutes later, following up reports of an unidentified aircraft landing in the area.
Home Fleet Naval Anchorage at HMS Proserpine
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
The howl of air raid sirens brought everyone to alert just after eleven that Saturday night, and sent all personnel at Lyness scrambling for shelters and slit trenches under the cold, star-filled night sky. The alarm had been raised after the radar unit atop the Martello Towers at Hackness had detected a single, fast-moving aircraft approaching from the east at high altitude.
Thorne, Trumbull and Davies were the only men qualified to fly the F-35E in combat, and took turns remaining on duty at Eday on a rotating roster. It was Davies who was roused from a camp bed by the night piquet and forced to stagger out of the Galaxy’s freezing cargo hold and climb into the Lightning’s cockpit. Within seconds he was in radio contact with Thorne, back at Lyness.
“We’ve got one bogie coming in fast and high… gotta be a Flanker,” Thorne observed, keeping a close eye on his radar screen of the radar control unit from the safety of an underground shelter at the main naval base.
“Give the word and I can be after him, Max,” Davies’ reply came back instantly, the sound of the F-35’s warming engine quite audible over the speaker of the portable radio unit Thorne held. The man had been sleeping in his flight suit, and could be airborne within a few minutes if necessary.