Blue Flight, 182 Squadron RAF, gathered around the door to the Wing Commander’s office, straining to hear the conversation above the panting, all three out of breath having sprinted from the main radio room, once they understood Hall’s purpose.
“Absolutely not, John. They’d have my guts for garters if I let you go!”
“Sir, I respectfully request permission to try.”
“No, John, that’s final.”
“Sir, we have to give it a try, we simply have to. Those boys need us.”
“No, John, no, no and thrice, no.”
“Sir, the weather has a window, a small one. Old Runes says so,” he referred to the Station Meteorological Officer by his nickname, “And he’s never wrong, is he? Never wrong.”
The Wing Commander stood up abruptly, eyes flashing with anger, controlled, but only just.
“Flight Lieutenant Hall, you will not, repeat, not be given permission to fly. I have my orders, so there it is.”
The silence that followed was an opportunity for both men’s frustrations to become apparent.
Hall’s, because he wanted to get his aircraft up and into the battle. The Wingco’s because he did too, for he had been a pilot. He understood what made such men tick, but rank and responsibility made him take a different course.
Hall tried one last time.
“Sir?”
The one word carried much in it, the tone, the inflection, the absolute dejection of a man who saw his duty clearly.
The pilot in him struggled with the leader, and won.
‘Fuck it!’
The thought occurred, and the expression on the Wing Commander’s face changed almost imperceptibly.
Almost.
“John, understand me clearly. I cannot, and will not, grant you permission to fly. If I see you on the apron, I will have you confined to quarters. If I see you near an aircraft without my express permission, I will have you thrown in the guardhouse. Is that clear enough?”
“Yes, Sir.”
‘Understand me, son, please, understand me!’
“Now, let’s hear no more of it. I’m off to my quarters for some well-deserved kip, and I do not intend to rouse myself before dinner. Flight Lieutenant.”
The salute was returned and Hall found himself staring at an open door. Wing Commander Smith, the notoriously heavy sleeper, was already on his way to his quarters, some distance from the runway apron, having knowingly cast an eye over the three men who seem too preoccupied with a poster outside the office to bother with a salute.
Hall’s grin was genuine.
‘Well, you slippery old bastard!’
“Boys, we’re on!”
Wing Commander Smith lay on his bunk, wide-awake, his ears straining at every sound, his tension increasing at the noise of Sabre engines dragging aircraft into the watery skies, rose above the sound of the rain on the tin roof of his hut.
Looking at the greyness outside his window, he spoke quietly, sincerely, longingly.
“I wish I could be with you, boys.”
Fielding was excited, and out of breath.
Ramsey waited, taking the extra time to survey the hastily scraped positions that his Highlanders were occupying on the small wooded mound.
“Major, we can do it; we can blow that motherfucking rail bridge sky high!”
“Go on, Lieutenant,” exchanging a swift look with the newly arrived Robertson, his attention drawn by the US engineer’s noisy dash.
“It’s full of artillery shells, hundreds of them.”
“Pardon?”
“Major, the underpass was secured and marked with unexploded munitions signs. Seems to me like the Krauts used it as an ammo store. It’s wall to wall with HE shells, Sir.”
“And you can use them?”
“Sure thing, Major. I can do both, underpass and bridge, if we have enough time to stack them on the middle of the fucker.”
He waved a finger at the solid structure, already imagining the trek of three hundred yards, staggering with a heavy artillery shell.
“How many do you need on the bridge?”
“A hundred would make a pretty mess, Sir.”
“And you have enough left to drop the underpass too?”
Fielding was extremely enthusiastic.
“More’n enough, Sir.”
“Then we shall get it done.”
He quickly checked to see if the field telephone was ready; it wasn’t.
“Corporal McEwan!”, he shouted, and the man magically appeared from the next hole.
“McEwan, my compliments to Captain Grayson. I need him to send forward a work party of twenty-five men immediately, reporting to Lieutenant Fielding in the underpass. He can have them back in twenty minutes. Off you go, and be smart about it, man.”
McEwan was gone as quickly as he appeared.
Turning to Fielding, Ramsey continued.
“We will hold and give you your time, Lieutenant, but make it as quick as you can, if you please.”
The engineer threw up a hasty salute, and departed as quickly as he had arrived, armed with renewed purpose.
Robertson stayed silent, waiting, his face set.
“Yes, RSM, I know.”
Looking to the sky, Ramsey jumped automatically, as a large raindrop hit him in the eye.
“Angel’s tears, Sah, angel’s tears.”
Ramsey nodded, knowing in his heart that there would be a heavy price to pay this day.
“Nae room for jessies and bairns here, Sah, not today.”
“Quite so, Murdo.”
The shock of hearing Ramsey use his first name was only superceded by the Major’s offered hand.
“Good luck to you.”
Murdo Robertson took the hand of the man he admired most in the world.
“And the same to yersel, Sah.”
Ramsey smiled, knowing that the RSM had crossed a huge boundary with the handshake, and accepting that Robertson could not go so far as to call him by his name.
“Pass the new plan onto our American cousins, if you please, Sarnt Major.”
Along the Allied rear positions, a few extra units arrived and slid in beside the exhausted men of the 116th and 154th Infantry. Some 4x4’s with AT mounts, the occasional platoon of infantry rounded up by MP’s at the rear.
There were no more tanks to be had.
Droves had found the problem, and fixed it. The loose connection had been squirting a mist of oil over a hot manifold, leading to the smoke problem.
Meanwhile, Griffiths had consulted with the first officer he found, namely Aitcherson, and established what was happening.
Deciding to relocate, just in case any surprises appeared from Rechtern, the Comet tank snuggled in behind a protective wall, near the junction of Route 48 and Rechterner Straβe. A small mound offered a dominating position, whichever route the Soviets selected.
The first inkling of possible disaster for those at the rail bridge was the sharp crack of the Comet’s 77mm weapon, closely followed by Griffith’s urgent message over the radio waves.
“All stations, all stations, enemy tank and infantry force on Route 48… FIRE! TARGET LEFT 15! ENGAGE! …approaching positions from Rechtern, in Regimental strength… FIRE! …over.”
In his excitement, the tank commander forgot to unkey his mike, sending his local instructions over the radio to all listeners.
The Soviet attack fanned out, two of their tanks already smoking after receiving fatal attention from the British tank.
“I’m down to ten AP shells, Sarnt, the rest’s all HE.”
Butler, the normally unflappable gunner, expressed his alarm in his own special way.