Dutch Caper

James Baddock

Description

The First in the acclaimed Cormack and Woodward series. On May 9, 1943, while World War II raged in Europe, a German Ju88 night fighter landed at Dyce Airfield, Aberdeen, Scotland, equipped with the new FuG202 Liechtenstein airborne radar. The authorities have never disclosed the story of where this plane came from and how it reached the UK.Originally published as The Radar Job in the UK, The Dutch Caper weaves fact and fiction into a gripping story of what might have happened. British losses of aircraft and men were mounting at such an alarming rate, because of the new German radar, that the order came down that at all costs the RAF had to get its hands on one and study it if they were to maintain their hard won victory during the Battle of Britain. So two men, Royal Marine Commando Captain Alan Cormack, and Flight Lieutenant Tony Woodward, are sent to Nazi-occupied Holland to work with the Dutch Resistance. Their mission: To steal one of the German night fighters with the new radar on board from under the very noses of the Gestapo, the SS and the Luftwaffe. Their chances: slim to none.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 19 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782346128
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
THE DUTCH CAPER
James Baddock
To Mum and Dad for starting it all
and Melanie for helping me finish it.




Publisher Information
Digital edition converted and published
by Andrews UK Limited 2013
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © James Baddock 2013
The right of James Baddock to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or any means, without the prior written permission of the author.




Author’s Note
The following is an extract from The Secret War by Brian Johnson (BBC Publications, 1978):
“The secrets of ‘Liechtenstein’ were further revealed when on 9 May, 1943, a Ju88... landed at Dyce Airfield, Aberdeen, equipped with the FuG202 Liechtenstein radar. There remains a mystery about this aircraft, which is preserved at RAF St Athen... not only was its arrival expected but, according to one report, it even had an escort of RAF Spitfires. Whatever the reason, the gift of an operational Ju88 was a windfall for the Telecommunications Research Establishment and the radar was soon evaluated...”




Prologue
Germany: Night Of October 10/11, 1942
The pilot gently eased the Ju88 night fighter through a 180 degree turn and began the next leg of his patrol. He resisted an impulse to call up Himmelbett Station Wolf; they would tell him soon enough if they had anything on the radar. It seemed inconceivable, however, that they had nothing for him at the moment as, all around him, the sky was illuminated by searchlight beams and flak explosions. Somewhere below him, he knew, there were probably over five hundred RAF bombers on their way to attack whichever target had been singled out for mass destruction tonight but, so far, he had not seen a single one of them.
The radio crackled into sudden life, startling him. “Wolf to Adler One.”
“Acknowledged,” replied the pilot, crisply.
“Order: turn port, ninety degrees.”
The pilot responded immediately: he touched the rudder bars and hauled the stick over. This was the first rule of radar controlled night fighter interception: to react instantly to any order from the ground.
“Order: lose height. Come down three hundred metres.”
The pilot eased the stick forward and concentrated on watching the altimeter. Alongside him, the observer scanned the night sky although he knew that the chances of his seeing anything at the moment were virtually non-existent.
“Announcement: the target is five kilometres ahead of you,” said the ground controller.
“Acknowledged.”
“We’ll bring you in below and behind him.”
“Excellent.”
“Prepare: ten degree starboard turn.”
The pilot said nothing. Behind him, the radar operator would be watching the screens for the tell-tale blip that would be the enemy bomber. Until that happened, the pilot had to rely entirely and exclusively on the instructions from the ground station.
“Order: execute turn.”
The pilot touched the rudder bars and settled on the new course.
“Announcement: range three thousand metres.”
The radar operator cut across the controller’s voice with an excited shout: “Got him! We’ve got him!”
“Good luck, Adler One,” said the ground controller. From this point on, the aircraft would effectively be under the radar operator’s control; he would guide the pilot onto the bomber.
“Down a hundred metres,” said the radar operator. “Turn to starboard. Hold it. Range two thousand.”
Despite himself, the pilot found himself straining his eyes into the darkness ahead. He was aware of the futility of the act; he would see nothing yet.
“Fifteen hundred. Turn to port a fraction. That’s it.”
“How far above is he?”
“Fifty metres.”
The pilot grinned to himself in anticipation; any minute now...
“Range two hundred and fifty metres.”
“Where is he?” muttered the observer. “We ought to be able to see the damned thing by now.”
The pilot pulled back on the stick and the Ju88 began to climb. Somewhere ahead of them was a British bomber, just ripe for the taking. “Come on, come on, where are you?” He suddenly realised he had spoken aloud and mentally cursed himself for revealing his anxiety. Wouldn’t do at all...
“There!” shouted the observer and, half a second later, the pilot saw them too: eight bright yellow flames in a line, the exhausts of a four-engined bomber.
“Kettle drums, kettle drums,” the pilot intoned, giving the strange, almost ritualistic incantation that told ground control he was in visual contact.
“Lancaster,” reported the observer.
The pilot flicked the gun safety catches switch and saw a row of red lights on the instrument panel: the three 20mm cannons in the nose were ready to fire. He checked the airspeed indicator and throttled back a fraction. The Ju88, with its unwieldy array of aerials for both radar and radio, had a high stalling speed and they were only just above it, but the pilot wanted to close with the bomber as slowly as possible so that he would have ample time in which to carry out the attack.
The pilot stared upwards at the monstrous shape of the Lancaster as he brought the Ju88 in behind and below it. This was going to be too easy; they had not even seen him yet. He pulled back on the stick and the Ju88’s nose lifted abruptly; she was just on the verge of stalling now, hanging in the air on her straining propellers. “Opening fire,” he announced and then pressed the firing button, feeling the aircraft shudder to the recoil of the 20mm cannons.
The pilot kept his finger on the button as the Ju88’s nose began to fall away from the target, until there was a sudden silence: the ammunition drums were empty. He was distantly aware of the observer crawling into the nose to reload the guns but his entire attention was concentrated on the huge shape above.
The Lancaster was heeling over to starboard; the pilot moved the stick to port to take the Ju88 clear and then put the night fighter into a banking turn so that he could follow the stricken bomber down; he wanted to see this one die. The port outer engine burst into flames and the bomber began to side-slip; the pilot watched, mesmerised, as the port wing flapped like some colossal bird’s and then the bomber’s nose went down as the wing tore itself away in grotesque slow motion. The doomed Lancaster began to turn over, slowly at first, but the pilot knew that the spin was irreversible, that within seconds the bomber would be tumbling over and over too rapidly for its crew to have any chance at all of baling out. Like a gigantic sycamore seed, the dying bomber spiralled away into the darkness below.
“Announcing: bomber destroyed.” The pilot’s voice was expressionless.
“Congratulations, Adler One,” said the ground controller.
“Good work, both of you,” the pilot said to his two crewmen.
Behind him, the radar operator patted the ‘Liechtenstein’ radar set. It had been installed only two months previously but it had already proved its worth; they had downed six bombers in the last month alone. “Thank the radar,” he said and then added, “Who said it wouldn’t work, Herr Oberleutnant?”
“I take it all back,” the pilot laughed. “Our wonder scientists have finally done something right.” His tone grew more serious. “Now we might even be able to shoot down enough Tommis with it to stop them turning our cities into piles of rubble.”




Chapter 1
London, United Kingdom: March 1943
Sir Gerald Cathcart finished reading the list of statistics in the report in front of him and shook his head slowly before looking up at the two men facing him on the far side of the large desk. “I see what you mean,” he said quietly.
“And the figures are getting worse,” said the man in the Wing Commander’s uniform. “We’re losing a higher percentage of aircraft with almost every mission.”
“So I see,” said Cathcart, indicating the report. It contained details of last night’s RAF bombing mission. Over seven hundred Lancasters, Stirlings, Wellingtons and Halifaxes had bombed Essen, in the Ruhr Valley. Out of these, forty-three aircraft had not returned; six per cent of the bombing force had been lost.
“That’s why we need your help,” said the Wing Commander urgently. “We must have more information about their airborne radar.”
“Well, I’ve sent for the man you need to talk to. Major Guthrie runs our Continental networks.”
There was a knock at the door; Cathcart smiled at his two guests as if to comment on the perfect timing of the interruption and then called out, “Come in.”
The man who came into the office was dressed in an impeccably cut pinstripe suit, the uniform of the senior Civil Servant; but there was no disguising his military bearing. Major Guthrie was in his middle thirties with prematurely greying hair; he glanced at the two visitors and it was immediately apparent that he was on his guard.
“Ah, Major. Good of you to be so prompt. May I introduce Wing Commander Ryan and Professor Daniels? Gentlemen, this is Major David Guthrie, on temporary secondment from his regiment.”
“I’ve been on ‘temporary’ secondment for the last three years,” said Guthrie, smiling, as he shook hands with the two visitors. Cathcart motioned Guthrie into an empty seat; the major sat down, apparently relaxed.
“These two gentlemen have come to ask for our help,” explained Cathcart, his tone somehow excluding Ryan and Daniels; they were outsiders. Ryan suppressed a smile; he had never had dealings with Cathcart befo