Under Dark Skies Chapter 3

Chapter 3 (earlier chapters can be found in previous posts)

British Expeditionary Force
Sunday, May 12th, 1940
Operation Chokepoint: Infiltration into Belgium

 

Biffy wasn’t joking about moving quickly. Just past midnight they crossed the border into Belgium. A civilian police car and a military staff car were waiting for them there and they crossed in moments. Shortly after they were flying north again in the darkness. The crescent moon was growing and shed a bit of light, but Bill was depending on the slitted headlamp and the lights of the car to show him what the roads were doing. Several times they had to slow due to bomb damage and work their way around some rough bits, but they were often doing better than sixty miles per hour nearly blind.

The Mercedes was making quick time on empty, Belgian roads. The man at the wheel knew how to handle a car and was winding it out whenever he could, sometimes pulling right up behind the civilian police car which then redoubled its efforts to stay in front.

Bill trailed along at the back on the BMW which had long legs for this kind of work. Those telescopic forks were so good, they felt like the future, and the engine and gearing were such that the bike could easily roll along at sixty miles an hour. Bill wondered if it had been breathed on since the R12s he’d read about topped out at sixty. This one was happy looking at the other side of it.

The Belgian countryside flew by in the shadows. By 2am the fast-moving group found themselves east of Liège and within striking distance of their target. Castle Selys-Longchamps was a Belgian operational centre for the front, so they pulled into the grounds. Several Belgian military vehicles were packed under the trees. A young man in full field kit carrying a rifle waved them into the area and silence swept over them as ignitions were cut.

Bill swung a stiff leg off the BMW and stretched in the damp grass. The men in the staff car were also getting out and stretching after an intense blast through the dark. Whether Biffy was any good at planning was put to rest as one of the military lorries revealed another carafe of steaming black coffee. Biffy waved everyone over, and they stood in a circle around the warm metal container with camp mugs in hand.

“We’ve made good time, gentlemen,” he began, a voice in the dark. “The main rail line crosses the river that divides Belgium and The Netherlands just northeast of here. Latest Belgian intelligence shows multiple German units on this side of the river, the Dutch side doesn’t seem to have any special attention. We’ll do this as under the guise of a rabbit hunt. The staff car will park under the cover of the bridge and you two will wire it to blow. Bill, you get off the road a hundred yards back. If we draw any attention, we’ll explain we’re looking for a saboteur on a motorbike. If things look like escalating, you pop out, fire a couple of shots over our heads and then make for back here with all possible speed. We’ll do a bad job of following you with the Germans. Questions?”

Bill liked the bit where he never had to try and have a conversation with anyone because he didn’t speak any of it. If riding quickly was his main job, he had a handle that. He nodded curtly along with everyone else.

“The Belgians are supplying us with a crate of dynamite, so we need to load that into the trunk of the Mercedes and then avoid big bumps,” Biffy continued. “It’s half past three now. If we can be ready to go by four, we can be at the target before dawn. We can have it wired on a timer and be out of enemy territory before the sun comes up. Check your kit and get yourself sorted. We move in thirty.”

The two younger, dangerous looking fellows in lieutenants’ uniforms immediately went over to a Belgian vehicle that was parked a distance from everything else and began removing a wooden crate carefully. Bill finished his coffee and then took a nature break. Returning to the BMW he looked it over, but it seemed perfectly happy after its prolonged, high speed night flight through Belgium. The German uniform he was wearing included a service revolver, a newer model of the same Luger he’d found in the crashed Dornier. It was amazing to think that happened only yesterday, and he still hadn’t slept yet. The coffee must be what’s keeping him on his toes, but eventually he’d have to put his head down somewhere and have a kip.

He unclipped the Luger and removed it from the holster. They’d done basic firearms training when he joined the RAF, but guns weren’t his focus. Biffy was watching them load the crate into the back of the Mercedes and pack straw around so it wouldn’t shift.

“Um, sir,” Bill began, holding up the Luger.

“Ah, not so familiar with German handguns, eh?”

“Haven’t had much opportunity.”

Biffy took the pistol and demonstrated how to turn off the safety and open the chamber.

“Testing firearm!” he shouted.

No one stopped what they were doing. Biffy turned to face one of the large trees in the area, aimed the Luger at it and pulled the trigger. The concussion from the shot was stunning in the quiet night.

“This one shoots straight, they don’t always. You’ve still got six more bullets in it. If things go cock-up, pull out on the bike, fire your shots then toss the gun and go.”

“Yes, sir,” Bill replied, taking the smoking Luger back and turning on the safety.

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that. Is the bike alright?”

“Yes, sir. Once I’m moving, I can get it to dance.”

“Perfect!” Biffy’s eyes glinted in the dark. “Part of me is hoping you have the opportunity to dance!”

Biffy turned and walked over to a senior officer. They began talking in German. He was the one who would be doing the majority of the talking if they ran into the enemy.

Preparations were wordless and quick; these men had done this before, which made Bill feel even further out of his depth. The Belgian soldiers supplied more petrol for the vehicles and Bill took the panniers off the bike, which included a heavy jerrycan full of fuel, and left them under a tree. Given more time he would have stripped it down further. The fenders on it looked like they were made from cast iron and weighed a ton. Biffy called them all together one final time.

“Gentlemen, this is a quick in and out. Our captain here will do the talking if we run into any German military. You two look unapproachable,” he nodded to the two-man demolition crew. “Since he doesn’t ‘sprakenzee Deuch’[1] , our sergeant will be down the road out of sight on the bike. If things look tense, he’ll pop out and provide a distraction. When we get to the bridge, we’ll park under the arch the road passes through. Demolitions will rig the girders where they leave the foundation over the river. Ten minutes to set up a basic circuit?”

The taller of the two young men nodded.

“Once we’ve got the bridge wired, we make haste back here. If you get separated, you’re on your own. Get back over the river. There’s an intact bridge five miles south of the target we’re going to cross to get in. Eleven miles north is another bridge, but there is a lot of activity up that way so I wouldn’t suggest it. If you’re on foot, an alternative might be seeing if you can find a rowboat to get back into Belgium. Off we go!”

Bill returned to the bike and kicked it to life. The men folded themselves into the Benz and carefully made their way back to the dirt road that led to the castle, going out of their way to avoid bumps. Bill fell in behind them, a bit further back than before.

The road bridge into Lise in the Netherlands was the first goal. Even in the bottom of the night the Belgian military were active, and a number of vehicles were in motion on their way to the bridge. The Belgian army staff car leading them got them waved through two roadblocks when they finally crested a ridge and saw the river wreathed in fog.

The Belgian car led them down to a fortified placement on the west side of the bridge. Another military vehicle that had seen better days was waiting there. Biffy jumped out of the Mercedes when they pulled up and everyone killed engines and lights. After a brief chat with the front-line officer, they shook hands and Biffy returned to the Benz. The beaten-up army vehicle moved aside and let them onto the bridge, lights out.

They crossed through the thickening river fog and stopped again. The Belgian officer handed Biffy a map through the window. Bill kept an eye out but there wasn’t much to be seen in the grey wall of fog. Bill hunkered down on the BMW, feeling the heat from the engine rising up around him. After another brief discussion and a handshake. The German staff car started up and took a right up the road next to the river. Bill kicked the BMW over and followed. As he passed the front-line officer the man gave him a salute and Bill nodded awkwardly in return.

This was one of those strange parts of Europe where the borders followed a tortured history of conquest and take back. This pocket of Belgium bulged over to Germany, but The Netherlands was now north of them. Because of this it was a nightmare to defend and had been quickly conceded, but the rapid advance meant things were still chaotic, especially in the countryside where they were headed. German paratroopers had taken Eben-Emael so quickly it had made a mess of any plans.

The Mercedes’ taillights shone red through the thick fog, providing the only source of direction as they followed the river. The road was paved and clung to the edge of the Meuse. They crept north moving slower than they’d planned, but the fog also provided excellent cover. Finally, the massive rail bridge appeared as a monolithic shadow in the mist. The staff car pulled into the even darker shadow of the arch and went dark. Bill pulled up at the entrance. The plan was going to have to change if visibility was this poor.

“Go through to the north side of the bridge and keep an eye out,” Biffy said quietly as Bill pulled up.

He kicked the BMW into gear and pulled through to the other side. When he killed the engine, his blood froze. German voices could clearly be heard through the fog. Still sitting on the bike, he shifted it into neutral and made a three-point turn, so he was facing south, and then, leaving the bike there, crept back through the bridge tunnel to the Mercedes.

“German voices, north of the bridge,” he whispered to Biffy.

The two young men were lifting the crate out of the back of the car and paused after hearing that, waiting for the next order.

“We proceed,” Biffy said quietly and calmly. “Hauptsturmführer Müller and I will stay up that way. If we run into anyone, we’ll delay them as long as possible. Take the bike just south of us. If you hear voices being raised, take your shots, and then get south back to the bridge as planned.”

The two demolition boys took the crate between them and carefully made their way down the south side of the muddy riverbank into a darkness so absolute Bill couldn’t understand how they could work in it, but it didn’t seem to bother them. The German speaking French soldier dressed as an SS Captain and Biffy in his SS Major uniform both followed Bill back to the north end of the tunnel where the German voices echoed hollowly through the fog. It sounded like they’d made a camp by the river.

Bill rolled the BMW quietly back through the tunnel and past the Benz. He stopped when he could just make out the bridge in the darkness. Minutes passed by. He eventually stepped off the bike, pulled it up onto its stand and went for a stretch and a pee by the river. If anything, the fog was even thicker now, with rolls of it blowing through.

The bridge and river along with the dense fog made for strange sound distortion. The end of this long night was wearing on Bill as he alternately sat against the warm BMW and occasionally got up to stretch. At one point he nodded off for a moment and was woken up by unfamiliar voices. The tunnel amplified the voices of the people standing in it. The French officer’s upper-class accent was clear even though Bill couldn’t understand the words. Standing up, Bill threw a leg over the bike and waited tensely. The mist was a lighter tinge of grey; sunrise wasn’t far off.

The two figures of the French officer and Biffy loomed in the shadows under the bridge, followed by way too many silhouettes. Bill’s adrenaline surged. The French officer was speaking with one of the figures and gesturing around the area. This was it, time to do his bit. Bill pulled out the German handgun and turned off the safety as he’d been shown. Aiming at the top of the arch with a shaking hand, he was about to pull the trigger when he remembered the bike wasn’t running. Getting caught trying to start it wasn’t the way. Holding the Luger awkwardly, he stepped down on the kick starter and the BMW thudded to life. Bill pulled it off the stand. The figures in the mist had frozen at the sound.

Bill held up his shaking hand and began pulling the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand and the figures in the mist scattered for cover. When he stopped firing, Bill threw the gun into the mud and spun the heavy bike on the wet road before roaring away with a handful of throttle. Behind him shouts of “achtung” and “halt” and then sporadic gun fire erupted. One bullet sizzled through the mist nearby but by then Bill was thundering through the fog as fast as he dared.

The small town of Vise lay ahead where the road bridge back over the Meuse lay. It had been stone silent when they passed through earlier but now in the predawn there were people out and about. The fog was patchier a couple of miles south of the bridge and when Bill could see better, he urged the BMW forward. The bridge back to free Belgium loomed in the grey morning light and Bill aimed for it. Skidding to a stop at the intersection, he turned right to cross the river. Several locals looked wearily at the madman in the SS uniform on a Nazi bike.

Behind him vehicles roared in the fog and a moment later a sidecar outfit and Biffy’s Mercedes staff car burst out of it. The two German army types in the sidecar looked grim. The French officer in his SS uniform was yelling at them and pointing at Bill while hanging out of the back window of the Benz.

Bill gunned the motor and tore off over the bridge. The outfit gave chase with the Mercedes right behind. As Bill got onto the bridge, he looked back up the riverside where two panzerwagens were catching up with them. Ahead of him the Belgian military was on full alert, watching the pale motorcyclist thunder towards them. A bullet whizzed by from the Belgian side.

“Marvelous,” Bill thought. “If I slow down, I get shot by Nazis and if I keep going, I’ll get shot by Belgians.”

He could see the officer who’d wished him luck waving his arms and yelling to the Belgian soldiers on the bridge, so he kept going, hoping for the best. Approaching the roadblock, he held up a hand and the officer pointed him through a gap in the vehicles and Bill took it.

By this point the Germans on the sidecar outfit had slowed, but the Benz surged past them onto the bridge and drove right at the Belgians. The sidecar seemed to think better of it and turned around back to the east side where many German vehicles were now parked with troops swarming around. As the Mercedes filtered through the gap in the Belgian line the Germans on the east bank began to fire and everyone ducked for cover. The Benz pulled up next to Bill behind one of the heavy Belgian military lorries.

“That went well,” Biffy laughed, sticking his head out of the window of the car. “When you fired your shots the demo boys had just returned. There was a whole regular army regiment north of the bridge! We told them to aid us in capturing the deserter when the bridge lit up. We didn’t take it down, but it’s severely damaged. Follow us back, Corporal, good job!”

Bullets were being exchanged across the river behind them. Both sides were bolstering their forces and it looked like it was going to turn into a pitched battle, but there was little they could do dressed as SS, so they made their way back east to Selys-Longchamps.

The ride back was the hardest bit. Bill kept dozing off as the early morning sun hit his face. They pulled back into the castle grounds they’d left only hours before to find the officer’s mess was in full production and breakfast waiting for them. Bill got off the bike feeling a hundred years old, but the smell of eggs and bacon were calling.

 

Biffy thanked them for their work over breakfast, eaten off metal trays and drunk from steel camp cups; it was one of the best breakfasts Bill had ever had.

“The main structure of the bridge got damaged when the demolitions went off. Can you confirm that, Pierre?” Biffy asked around a mouthful of eggs.

“Oui,” the German speaking French officer replied with a quirky grin. “They won’t be running trains over that any time soon.”

Biffy nodded vigorously and turned to the two demolitions men, “Are you two headed to Achnacarry?”

They glanced at each other before the taller blond one replied, “nothing confirmed, but it looks a good site.”

“Achnacarry in Scotland?” Bill interrupted, surprising himself.

“And how would a Norfolk lad like you know where a remote castle in Scotland is?” asked the younger dark-haired demolition man.

“I did the Scottish Six Days out of Fort William in ’38. Achnacarry’s just up the loch from there. We spent a day bouncing across the grounds,” Bill replied, sipping his coffee.

“Did you finish it?

“Silver medal.”

“Impressive! I watched a day of it last spring while on leave. It’s a ferocious thing.”

“What the corporal is not telling you is that he also rode from Norfolk to the Trials, competed on his bike, and then rode it back again,” Biffy interjected.

The hard men at their make-shift table were appraising Bill now in a different light. Things had relaxed at mission’s end, and everyone seemed more comfortable with each other. This latest revelation had Bill’s stock rising.

“We’ll have to stay in touch, Corporal,” the taller blond man said. “We’re aiming to bring in bike training.”

Biffy smiled and raised his mug, “that was a good night’s work, gentlemen. I’m off to Antwerp for some things and Pierre and Bill must get back to the war. I’ve arranged with the Belgian Army to run you both back to France after you’ve finished breakfast.”

Biffy was an efficient eater and had already cleared his plate. Leaving it on the hood of the staff car they stood around he gave them all a nod and turned to go, “Get yourself some sleep gentlemen, you’ve earned it.”

The remaining four quickly finished their breakfasts and necked their coffee. A Belgian NCO appeared and directed Pierre and Bill into the car they were eating breakfast on.

“Sirs, I’m to take you south to the French border at Cendron where the French military will take you back to your units,” he paused for a moment looking a bit emotional. “Thank you for your service today, for Belgium.”

Pierre and Bill glanced at each other, both taken aback by the emotionality in his voice.

“It has been our pleasure,” Pierre said, stepping forward and taking the man’s hand in a firm shake. “We are all in this together, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied, almost in tears.

Their little action in the night had evidently buoyed up the troops. It hadn’t occurred to Bill that what they did might help these exhausted soldiers keep up their fight. The sergeant ushered them into the back of the staff car and then ran around and jumped into the driver’s seat before driving them through the camp and out to the road. Exhausted, grotty tough-as-nails Belgian regular army types smiled and waved as they passed by.

“It’s a relief to be out of the wind?” Pierre asked as the car bounced across the wet lawn and onto the gravel driveway.

“Usually, it’s all I want to do,” Bill replied with a tired smile, “But this morning all I want to do is sleep.”

“Oui, moi aussi!” Pierre laughed.

They drove south on winding roads through the morning sunrise, but soon both were sound asleep. The sun was high when the driver shook them awake.

“Sirs, we have arrived at the border,” he said, opening the car door to let warm morning air in.

Bill and Pierre rubbed their eyes and stretched while getting out of the car. At the border crossing a French military Citroën was idling and its driver was standing by. They changed cars quickly and were soon moving through the French countryside back to Reims.

Bill asked after a moment, “Sir, are you a translator?”

Pierre’s easy smile returned, “Ah, non. I fly bombers pour l’Armée de l'Air. We have been flying over eastern Belgium for the past two weeks, so I knew the area.”

“Ah,” Bill replied. “I’d assumed you were a translator because your German is so fluent.”

“I’m not sure how Biffy knew about that. My mother is German.”

Bill hesitated for a moment before asking, “Is it difficult fighting your own people?”

Pierre looked him in the eye, “Nazis are not my people. My mother is Jewish. If we don’t stop them, I doubt there will be many of ‘my people’ left in Europe.”

There were a couple of Jewish fellows in Seventy-Three. Nice chaps. Bill couldn’t understand what the problem was with them, but Nazis seemed to talk about little else given a chance. Bill pressed on.

“Why do Nazis hate Jews so much?”

Pierre seemed taken aback by the question and paused to consider his answer.

“I think Hitler had bad experiences when he was younger and now it has become one of Nazi Germany’s main distinctions. A common enemy has a way of making people blind to other things.”

“Sorry if I offended…” Bill began, but Pierre waved off his apology.

“My friend, it’s people not asking these questions that caused the problem to begin with.”

They drove in silence for several minutes. The Citroën was much newer than the old Belgian car and silently glided over the pavement. It occurred to Bill that they were driving for hours away from the war to get back to the war. This wasn’t his father’s war of trenches and mud. Pierre seemed to read his mind.

“This war is like no other. I worry that we aren’t fighting it the way the Nazis are. Have you read about what happened in Poland?”

“Only that is was over before it began,” Bill replied.

“Blitzkrieg is what the Germans call it, ‘lightning war’. They use mechanical support to move much faster than their opponents. Poland had a good army, but it was swept aside in only a few weeks. I fear the same may happen with us.”

“But the allied countries have so much man-power,” Bill replied.

“Oui, but we respond slowly to this Nazi lightning.”

Bill was surprised to hear this from a French officer, not that he spent a lot of time talking to French officers.

“Isn’t the Maginot Line impregnable?” Bill asked.

“It may be, but I’ve flown over it many times and it has never slowed me down,” Pierre hesitated again, but Bill was starting to realize it was his way of thinking through a difficult topic in a foreign language. “It would have been invaluable during The Great War, but this isn’t that war.”

Any time an officer had talked to the squadron they had been absolutely certain of victory, but maybe that was just for show. It had never occurred to Bill that the people running things doubted what they were all doing. They drove on in silence into an overcast afternoon.

 

Reims-Champagne was running at full chat as their car pulled up to the gate. Pierre rapid-fired French to the guard and in seconds they were bouncing over the grass towards the main French buildings.

“My squadron has been scrambled and I missed it,” Pierre said, worry in his voice. “I’ll have the driver drop you off at the RAF north field.”

He collected the Belgian overcoat they’d given him and pulled it on over the rumpled SS uniform.

“What should we do with these?” Bill asked, gesturing at his own German outfit.

“Souvenir, I suppose?” Pierre smiled. “I’m going to fold mine up, keep it in my barracks box and hope I never have to use it again.”

He opened the door of the car as it rolled to a stop in front of French HQ.

“Bon chance, William, it has been a pleasure meeting you,” Pierre said, offering his hand.

The two men shook, and Pierre turned to face the busy airfield. As he walked away a bomber limped in trailing smoke and hit the ground hard beyond the control tower. The car jumped into gear and bounced over the field to the north end of the sprawling air base where the RAF’s temporary buildings had been growing like mushrooms in Bill’s absence.

He thanked the driver and made sure to get his Belgian overcoat on before getting out of the car. Things looked hectic. Two of the squadron’s Hurricanes were refueling and another was a burnt husk beyond the busy hangars. Men were running to and fro rearming and refueling. A squadron of Fairey Battle light bombers were lining up for takeoff while a group of Hurricanes, two of them trailing smoke, were landing behind them on the rutted field.

Bill pushed through the busy entrance to the operations hangar and found Flight Sergeant Grimes orchestrating field maintenance under the heavy clouds. Bill waited while he directed mechanics and support staff with questions. When the last left, Grimes looked over at Bill.

“What have you been up to, Corporal?”

Bill undid the top button of his Belgian great coat showing the SS uniform underneath. Grimes’ eyebrows shot up.

“Belgian coat, SS uniform underneath… did it go well?”

“One less bridge for the enemy to supply petrol with,” Bill smiled through a grotty face.

“Jolly good,” Grimes replied, eying Bill’s grey face. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I might have had forty minutes in the car ride back.”

“We’re busy but we have a lot of new bodies, and everything is where it needs to be. Drop by the mess and then hit your bunk. The war will still be here for you tomorrow.”

Bill stood to attention and then went to look for a place to lay down.

Chapter 4 can be found here.

Under Dark Skies Chapter 2

Part 2 (Part 1 can be found here)

British Expeditionary Force
Saturday, May 11th, 1940
Rouvres, Thionville

             Bill lay on his bunk for the better part of an hour. He should have fallen back asleep, but his mind was racing. He finally got up quietly, dressed and went by the mess which had breakfast underway. One of the cooks made him a quick plate of eggs and bacon and he ate it alone in the dark tent with a hot cup of tea.

The bike shed loomed grey out of the pre-sunrise mist. A quick wipe down of the dew and the Norton he’d been on yesterday cleaned up well. The military blue paint was in good shape, only the stenciled registration and British Expeditionary Force markings gave it away as a military bike. Bill spent a few minutes with a brush and painted over the white stenciled paint. It wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny, but from a distance it was just another old Norton.

By the time the sun rose, the squadron was in top gear. Temporary structures where being broken down and packed into a convoy of lorries that had shown up from Reims. The squadron had passed through there on their way to Rouvres and were currently the most easterly operational allied airfield closest to the German border. Behind the incredible fortifications the French had built along the Maginot Line, they were safe from ground attack, but Seventy-Three’s forward location had already taken a hammering as the wrecks of two German bombers and three Hurricanes in the surrounding fields attested. With their location known, today was likely to see a never-ending stream of German bombers, it was time to move.

Still early morning air was broken by the bellow of a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine as a Hurricane readied for takeoff. They used to wait and take off as a wing, but things had become frantic in the past two days and getting planes up now happened on a case-by-case basis. They formed up once airborne. This Hurricane looked in good shape. The twin bladed prop spun up, sending a wash of air rippling across the wet grass. The plane spun to its right with surprising agility and began picking up speed. In moments it pulled cleanly into the morning air, its wheels folding up neatly. Another of the massive V-12 aero-engines barked to life, ready to follow their flight leader into another day of uncertainty in the sky.

The orders for the Reims move come in at 5am, but by then Bill had the van loaded with four Nortons along with his spares and tools. That left another six to get to Reims. A waved down MP returned with a list of six men who were available to pick up the remaining bikes and ride them to their new home. Bill fueled everything and looked them over, but they were ready for action.

“Corporal, I’m here to ride one of the motorbikes to Reims,” Jenkins, the new fellow from the guard hut appeared.

“Do you know the way?” Bill asked.

“I was told to follow the convoy,” Jenkins replied.

“They’ll be taking the main road, but there are some nice back roads that’ll get you there faster. I’ll make you a map,” which he did on the workbench.

“All the heavy gear will be on the A4 heading west,” Bill began, pointing to the map. “There are some good country roads north and it would be handy for me to hear if there is any traffic on them. We’re on the edge of the Ardennes here, so you get forested hills and valleys the further north you go. If you get lost just cut south until you hit the A4 and head west.”

Jenkins nodded and took the map.

“Do you have something for your head?” Bill asked. Most of the riders went out bare headed, but Bill found he could ride longer if he wore one of the leather aviator caps and goggles.

Jenkins shook his head.

“Look in the bucket over there.”

Jenkins peered in and saw several well-worn pilot hats. Trying a couple on he found one that fit.

“Hang on to that, they do a good job of keeping your head warm.”

Jenkins took one last look at the map and then kicked a 16H over. It started after he tickled the carbs and gave it a second kick.

By 9am all the working planes were airborne and would land at the big base in Reims rather than return to their farmer’s field in Rouvres. The burnt hulk of one Hurricane was left behind, and another salvageable one was placed on a flatbed transport. Seventy-Three had spent their time in northern France moving about and had become dab hands at picking up and moving. This wasn’t even their first trip to Reims; the squadron had been based out of there twice already.

The experienced members of the squadron had the fresh faces working hard to remove any traces of their time in Rouvres. As the last heavy vehicles began to move into convoy, Bill started the Citroën TUB van and followed them to the now empty gate.

Loaded down with bikes and spares, the Citroën TUB was much more manageable, though it still felt odd sitting in a vehicle with no engine in front of you. Bill drove it off the field and onto the road, following the last of the convoy west. It was a partially overcast morning and cooler than the day before. He wound the window down to let some air through. He’d miss Rouvres, it was a lovely bit of France.

As the convoy moved through Étain, Bill took a right turn east toward the German border. The partial overcast meant a less clear view from people on high who might want to kill him, though being in a French civilian vehicle was the best protection of all. The road to Louis Jeannin’s shop on Rue de la République in Knutange was empty until he got closer to Thionville. French military vehicles were out in force, and the roads to the Maginot fort were busy. Bill took the less travelled country roads north and came into Knutange from the northeast. Rue de la République was the main thoroughfares and was easily found. The shop was also evident as there were a number of motorbikes parked out front, including a new Triumph Speed Twin.

Bill pulled the TUB up in front of the shop and stepped out. He was wearing regulation turtleneck and fatigue trousers, which were uniform but looked less like it as they had no insignia on them. His black hair was combed back and oiled. The shop was closed but the big door to their service area was ajar, and the sound of mechanical work emanated from within. Bill stuck his head in the open door and saw a middle-aged man disassembling the back end of what looked like a grand prix motorcycle.

“Excuse me,” Bill began. “Do you speak English?”

The man looked up. Bill recognized him from magazine articles, this was Louis Jeanin, the 1932 Grand Prix champion.

“I speak English,” he replied warily.

“I’ve been given orders to meet you today,” Bill replied.

“Ah, you are Corporal Morris?” he brightened.

Bill nodded and stepped through the door.

“I know of you. I read an article about you on the Scottish Six Days Trial. It was impressive that you medalled on such an old machine, and after riding it the length of Bretagne.”

“Thank you!” Bill blurted, feeling his colour rise. He’d caught all sorts of stick at home for taking a week off work to ride up to Scotland and attempt the event but having a grand prix racer compliment you on it made it all go away.

“Your Miss Downey is a very convincing woman. She is also well funded,” Jeanin stood up and wiped his hands on a rag.

“I’m sorry Monsieur Jeanin, well funded?”

“She said you’d be along today and that I should provide you with a civilian moto. They wired cash. I think we have just what you need.”

“I’m getting a motorbike?” Bill asked, struggling to catch up.

“Oui!” Jeanin smiled. “Downey said for you to leave whatever you can’t fit behind. We’ll find a use for it.”

Jeanin was getting on in age but was still fit.  He stepped to the back of the shop floor and rolled a new Triumph Tiger out from behind a storage rack, it had obviously been fettled. The stock fenders had been cut short and the bike looked like it had been prepared for a trial with all the heavy stock bits either gone or replaced by something simpler and lighter. The gleaming silver paint Bill had seen on these new models in magazines was gone, replaced by a dull grey, though even that minimalist paint couldn’t hide the purposeful stance of the thing. It was called a T100 because it could do 100mph. All Bill could think of was how jealous his sister would be when he sent her a photograph.

“You’ve prepared this for racing?” Bill asked, excitement slipping into his voice.

“Oui!” Louis laughed. “These Tigres are quick, but now it is plus rapide, eh? We have taken cinq kilos of weight from it, and the engine has higher compression pistons. Do you use the essence d'aviation?”

Bill gave him a quizzical look.

“The, um, petrol for the aeroplanes?”

“Ah, oui!”

“Tres bien! This will use it well. I had it well beyond cent huit kilomètres par heure, um, one-hundred and eighty K.P.H.”

Bill’s eyebrows shot up. He’d never been that fast on a bike before.

“You should take it out for a ride,” Louis had a gleam in his eye as he gestured for Bill to take the Tiger in hand.

The bike was shockingly lighter than the old Norton, which itself was based on a twenty-year-old design. This Tiger was new in every way and it managed to look both simpler and more complex all at once; it was like looking into the future.

Bill rolled it to the entrance as Louis pushed the door wider.

“It has racing fuel in it, but that will be similar to your aviation petrol, yes?”

“I think so, yes,” Bill replied, throwing a leg over the machine. “Any trick to starting it?”

“Non, it is a unité fiable, um, dependable moto. Tickle the carb, choke, and kick.”

The Tiger barked to life immediately. These were not stock pipes and while it was quiet at idle, when he cracked the throttle, the big twin blew dust back into the shop.

“Fantastique!” Bill shouted over the engine. Louis gave him a thumbs up and ushered him out onto the road.

“The road to Fontoy and back is a bien, return and we shall have café!”

Bill kicked the bike into gear and let the clutch out slowly. The Tiger was remarkably tractable considering how high strung it sounded. He rolled through town keeping the revs low. The road northwest out of the village followed a small river as it twisted and turned through the valley it had cut. Once clear of the houses, Bill opened it up and in a blur of curves suddenly found himself four miles up the road in Fontoy, grinning like an idiot. Standing up on the pegs he turned across the empty road and thundered back to Knutange, crouched low behind a smaller custom headlamp with a blackout grill over it. The grey Tiger rolled to a stop in front of the shop.

“What a thing!” Bill exclaimed breathlessly as he cut the ignition.

“I am happy to help the cause,” Louis said, handing Bill a mug of strong coffee.

Bill glanced up and down the empty main street.

“Is it usually this quiet on a Saturday?”

“Ah, non, the people are worried and staying in their homes. Something wicked this way comes, eh?”

Bill nodded through the steam of the hot coffee. Both men sipped their coffee quietly on the empty street, wondering about what was to come. The Tiger ticking and popping as it cooled down.

Louis finally broke the silence, “I have some équipement pour vous.”

“Right,” Bill replied, pulling the bike up onto its stand and finally stepping off it. “Lead on!”

Louis had collected oil, a tire patch kit, inner tubes, tires and a toolbox together in a pile inside the door. It was all new and still packaged. Bill gave him a questioning look.

“Dans la prix… in the price, I thought you might need some spares.”

“Thank you, Louis,” Bill replied, grinning. It all looked like stuff he sold out of the shop anyway, but it’d be handy to have.

Bill opened the back of the TUB and Louis saw the old Nortons packed in there.

“Ah, bien! The 16H, spécification militaire! A dependable old hack,” he looked them over. “Considering current events, perhaps the one without RAF markings would be the one to leave behind?”

Bill’s go-to all-blue Norton was the last one he’d wheeled in, so getting it out was easy. He had a pang of regret, but the lusty Tiger sitting on the pavement made it easy to get over. With a bit of wiggling, the nameless Norton was rolled out of the back of the van and into the shop.

“This has been a dependable bike,” he said, giving it a pat.

“I imagine one of my mechanics will be happy to have it,” Louis smiled, looking it over. “Do you maintain them toi même, um, yourself?”

“Always have,” Bill replied.

“Oui,” Louis replied, “the Scottish Six Day story Downey shares tells the story of your riding over two thousand kilometres in ten days and medalling too!  In French we say, indomptable.”

Bill smiled, “indomitable! I like that!”

They wheeled the Tiger into the van and Louis invited Bill back to the office. Rows of trophies lined the wall. The 1932 grand prix championship had a place of honour. Bill looked closely at it.

“That was an indomptable year for me,” Louis smiled, tapping the trophy.

“I read about it in Motorcycling, the British magazine. Your Jonghi was a French bike, wasn’t it?”

“Oui,” Louis smiled wistfully. “We were not a big factory, but it was a tres belle machine.”

A young mechanic’s apprentice appeared in the doorway with a basket.

“Please eat with me,” Louis gestured to the office desk.

Bill sat down and talked bikes with the former grand prix champion. Working for Downey had its perks. He got a few questions in about riding the grand prix circuit on the continent, but Jeanine had a fixation about the Scottish Six Days and wanted all the details from Bill’s brief time in the highlands.

 

By early afternoon Bill was heading east towards Reims amongst a lot of military traffic. It was then that he discovered just how useful his new identification card was. Driving a civilian vehicle, it didn’t take long for an angry MP to wave him over. He was British Expeditionary Force army and surprisingly officious for an Australian. When he demanded to know why Bill wasn’t giving right of way to the military traffic Bill was tempted to pretend to be French but thought better of it when he couldn’t think of any French words. Instead, he handed the irate, red-faced Aussie his ID without saying anything.

The MP’s face drained as he looked the card.

“Right, Corporal. Sorry to bother, the unmarked civi-vehicle and all...” he trailed off, handing back the card. Suddenly Bill was on his way again.

The BEF shared the Reims Aerodrome with the French Air Force, and it wasn’t really in Reims, but north of the ancient cathedral city in Bétheny. The roads south into Reims were a zoo. Bill knew the logistics types would have everyone on the shortest route on the biggest roads, so he turned north at Sainte-Menehould onto empty country tracks. His farm van was invisible in this environment, the perfect camouflage. French farming villages came and went until he got to Savigny-sur-Aisne where a just crashed Dornier 17 was burning in a field. Bill pulled the van to the verge and shut it off.

He’d seen his share of crashes in the on again off again aerial battles of the early spring. There were seldom survivors, but if the plane wasn’t engulfed in flames, it might provide some valuable information. This Do17 had its wings shot off. Dorniers had wing fuel tanks that seldom let them down, and this one’s missing wings meant the fuel wasn’t where the fuselage came down.

Bill approached the wreck cautiously. It had a long, thin fuselage designed for speed more than raw carrying capacity and was remarkably intact considering how it had come down. The glass nose was cracked and broken open, so Bill had a look inside. It was a horrific mess, with blood everywhere. The impact must have meant instantaneous death for the crew.

Moving the forward gunner’s torso to the side, Bill climbed into the smoking ruin. The pilot was above, still strapped into his seat, though his head hung at a terrible angle. Bill moved quickly, trying to breathe through his mouth. The cockpit reeked of charred flesh and blood, and thin smoke filled the cabin. Climbing up to the pilot he rummaged through his flight suit and found a notepad with handwritten scrawl in German. Pocketing that, Bill moved over to the FuG radio set, which had come clear of the fuselage where it was mounted. He was able to lift it, so he heaved it up to the broken nose and dropped it out into the farm field.

While down in the nose he had a look around the bombardier’s station and found another notepad along with a targeting map on it. That would be useful – Grimes always sparked up when he was able to bring them evidence of how the Germans were seeing allied troop movements.

The bombardier also had a strange bit of personal kit on him. Most of the bomber crews didn’t carry personal firearms, but he had a Luger in a holster. It wasn’t a new model though, and it had German naval insignia on it. Bill unclipped the holster and took the gun. Smoke was starting to fill the cabin, so he clambered back out of the wreck and picked up the radio laying in the mud, it was heavy but manageable. One of the benefits of working in coal delivery before the war was that Bill had physical strength most people couldn’t imagine.

With the radio on the passenger seat and the documents stuffed underneath so they wouldn’t blow away, Bill fired up the Citroën and made a note of the Dornier’s location before pressing on. It was another twenty miles going the north route, but as he pulled into the Reim’s-Champagne Aerodrome in late afternoon he discovered that even with his side trip to see Louis, he’d still arrived ahead of most of Seventy-Three’s heavy gear.

Showing his papers at the gate to a jumpy French MP, Bill was told to park at the north end of the airfield where the RAF Advanced Striking Force squadrons were operating. Seventy-Three was joining One squadron and Bill noticed Hurricanes from the Five-Oh-One as well. Having lost several planes the day before, seventy-three was re-kitting its remaining planes and bringing new ones up to operation in the late afternoon sun, though they were having to rely on other squadron’s ground crews to help them get sorted.

The Advanced Air Striking Force was spread across northern France, but they had a big station in Reims. Seventy-three had passed through here before moving out to Rouvres, so Bill was familiar with the place, though last time he was here he was driving fuel bowsers rather than a Citroën full of motorbikes.

Flight Sergeant Grimes would have set up a temporary office in one of the storage hangars, and Bill found him in the middle of doing exactly that.

“Beat the slow movers back, eh Morris?” he said, eying the beaten-up radio at Bill’s feet. “Bag yourself some German electronics, did you?”

“Yes Flight, there is a Dornier down southeast of the D21/31 intersection in Sainte-Marie, visible from the road. I got there right after it came down and was able to get some useful bits out of it.”

Bill put the radio down on a chair, removing the maps and notepads from his trouser pockets before handing them to Grimes who opened them up and began reading the German.

“Very good corporal! This isn’t just information on their last mission, but everything they’ve flown in the past week. These’ll find their way up to command right quick,” Grimes then unfolded the maps and looked them over. “They were targeting the main roads between forts on the Maginot Line, that’s interesting. I know people who will want to see these too. What do you think about the radio?”

Bill looked at the unit. Considering the shock of the impact it was in surprisingly intact, “If we can get it going it might be handy to listen to what German bombers are saying to each other.”

“Indeed. Run that over to the repair bench and see if they can sort it out,” Grimes turned back to the maps, so Bill picked up the radio and walked it over to a workbench in the same hangar where a couple of airmen in overalls were working on a machine gun assembly.

“Hey boys,” Bill said, putting the radio on the bench. “Fancy a change in work for a bit?”

“’Ello,” the older man replied, looking at the radio with interest. “Where’d you get that?”

“Out of a Dornier that came down about 20 miles west of here. I’m Corporal Morris,” Bill offered a hand, and both men quickly wiped theirs before shaking.

“’Oim Riggles ‘n ‘ees Dumfry,” the older fellow said, but both only had eyes for the radio.

“Nice to meet you Riggles and Dumfry, think you can get this thing chattering again? Might be interesting to hear what the Germans were saying.”

Both men’s eyes lit up and they immediately went to work. The radio was steel framed in an aluminum box. The cover was dented but intact. Riggles flipped the unit on its side revealing flat bolts on the bottom. In seconds, the cover was off revealing neat wiring.

“There’s the power in,” Riggles muttered, nudging a bunch of cords that came out of an opening at the back of the unit. He quickly traced the wiring and discovered one of the grounds had been broken where it bolted to the unit frame. “Let’s try and hook it up to a battery and see what happens. They’re direct current, like ours.”

Dumfry left and returned wheeling a cart with a big lead acid battery on it, the top still wet from being refilled. He sparked the two ends together and then handed Riggles the positive before clipping the ground to the large black wire. A similarly thick white wire was separated and clipped to the power, the moment it did the radio lit up and all three men grinned.

“We’ve got a loudspeaker, hang on!” Dumfry turned and darted out of view, returning with a gutted RCA radio with wires hanging out of it.

“Wish we ‘ad the headset,” Riggles said, eying the input jack.

“I might!” Bill replied, turning on his heel and running out of the hangar. He returned moments later with the bloody headset. “It was smashed in the crash but was still attached to the radio, so I just grabbed it all.”

Dumfry looked at the mangled headset with a green face.

“You just need the plug, though, right?” Bill asked, holding up the end.

Dumfry nodded and removed the end by cutting the wire with a knife. He split the insulation and separated the wires inside. In moments he had them connected to the speaker in the civilian radio. The sound of static filled the room.

“We’re in business!” Bill laughed, patting Dumfry on the back.

“Let’s see who’s chatting,” Riggles began moving the knobs.

German voices emerged through the crackling static.

“Keep listening, boys. If you hear any place names make a note!” Bill turned and pelted across the hanger to find Grimes.

“Flight! You’re going to want to hear this,” Bill said, interrupting a phone call.

Grimes signed off immediately and followed him back. Dumfry held up a scrawled and oily piece of paper with ‘Verdun and Metz’ written on it. The staticky, distant German voices had been cleared up a bit as Riggles continued to fiddle with the unit. Bill didn’t say anything but turned to look at Grimes.  After listening for a moment, the Flight Sergeant nodded abruptly.

“Outstanding work, gentlemen!” He paused to listen for a moment. “These are Dorniers currently over northwestern France. They’re not being very coy; they believe their radios to be secure. I’ve got to get people in on this right quick, we don’t know how long this will work.”

Within ten minutes half a dozen people had arrived in the hangar, bringing with them folding camp seats and clipboards, pencils and paper. Two of them were in French uniform. They quickly set up, taking the greasy note from Dumfry and began making notes of their own. Grimes waved the three over to the entrance away from the hive of activity.

“I imagine they’ll change their frequencies when these missions are over, but perhaps not. In the meantime, we need to keep that radio chattering. What do you need to do that?”

Bill looked to Riggles, who was already working it out.

“If I kept the battery charged from the mains, it would it all running, Flight,” he replied. “Other than that, we just need to make sure it isn’t leaking too much and stays topped up with water.”

“Right, see to it airman!” Grimes replied. “And excellent work. Let me know your immediate superior and I’ll put in a good word for you.”

Bill followed Grimes out of the hangar where the shadows were growing long. The airfield was buzzing with returning allied planes, some of them trailing smoke. Seventy-three’s crews were finally arriving and had started pitching up in the empty fields behind the permanent buildings.

“I’m not sure how you keep managing to bring this sort of information in, but keep doing it, Corporal,” Grimes said. “Get yourself squared away in one of the temporary hangars and then hit the canteen, you’ve had a busy day.”

 

Returning to Reims meant access to the standing mess hall which was always in full production. The room wasn’t busy as most of the RAF crews were working into the evening getting their planes sorted out and food had been run out to them. Bill was sitting at a table alone, working his way through a pile of mash with a tiny pork chop on the side when he was surprised to see a dashing, middle aged man walk into the mess wearing an SS uniform. The man had a bemused look on his face as he looked at the half empty room of exhausted airmen staring at him in enemy uniform.

“Hello gentlemen!” he said loudly with a Scottish brogue. “Sorry for the attire, my uniform got blood on it.”

A few of the men smiled, but most still looked confused.

“Go back to your pork chops, gentlemen. I’m with the DMI. I was never here.”

With a gallic shrug, everyone went back to eating their dinner. A Scottish SS officer walking into the mess wasn’t the strangest thing many of them had seen in the past couple of days. He collected a tray from the empty counter and made a beeline for Bill.

“Corporal Morris?” the man asked as he approached. “Mind if I join you?”

“Certainly, Gruppenführer,” Bill said, pointing to the seat across from him with his fork.

“How does an RAF lorry driver know SS ranks?” the man asked, sitting across from Bill and placing his peaked SS cap on the table before tucking in.

“Probably the same way you’re wearing an SS uniform,” Bill replied.

“How’s that?”

“I ran into some SS fellows yesterday, so I made a point of looking up who’s what. The fellow running things yesterday at the Luxembourg border was a Hauptsturmführer, but I didn’t know the badges then.”

“That’s why I’m here, actually.”

Bill put his fork of pork down and sat back. His intuition was prickling. Fellows like this were good at getting other people killed. The man took a mouthful of mashed potatoes and made a face.

“We’re not going to win a war feeding people this!”

Bill waited, watching the man with mounting suspicion.

“We have a little job to do and I’m hoping you can help.”

“Is it voluntary?”

“What is these days, eh?” the man smiled, cutting off a piece of stringy pork.

“What’s the little job?”

“Ah, that’s the trick. I can’t tell you unless you’re in. I was having lunch with Miss Downey in Paris when your name came up, so here I am.”

“It’s starting to sound more like a command,” Bill said, finally shovelling the pork into his face.

“Right, that’s the spirit!” The man grinned, sitting back, and pushing the tray away.

“We’ve gotten our hands on a German communique. It has the schedule of a major fuel shipment by train into Belgium. Do you know Fort Eben-Emael?”

“Isn’t that up near the Dutch?”

“Indeed, it is. The Nazis have taken it with paratroopers, so their mechanized ground troops are moving quickly into Belgium. They need fuel to do this. The rail line from Cologne to Maastricht in the Netherlands is how they’re going to, and tonight is when it happens. There is only one operating rail bridge over the Meusse River into Belgium from The Netherlands. I intend to blow it up.”

“It’s a long way into Belgium.”

“I’ve got Belgians at the border ready to assist. If we left by ten and take a northern route through Namur, we could be in Bassenge well before sunrise. We then pop over to the river, blow the bridge and get out before anyone knows we were there.”

“Couldn’t we just bomb it?”

“Germans have piled up anti-aircraft defences around it, but they’ll be looking up instead of sideways. In any case, our bombs don’t find their targets very often.”

Bill considered the energy this man was putting into convincing him. His crazy idea was sounding plausible, which made it even more crazy.

“Why do you need an RAF lorry driver? Bill asked.

“Ah, but you’re not just a lorry driver, are you?” the man had an infectious smile. “It’s your other talents that might come in handy. Have you ever ridden a BMW?”

“They don’t come my way very often,” Bill said, an involuntary grin creeping onto his face.

“We’ve gotten our hands on some Nazi kit. I’ve selected a driver for our staff car, along with another couple of handy fellows who are fluent in German to sit in it with me, but the motorbike is sitting empty. We were going to leave it behind, but Miss Downey suggested you might be up for it. I can’t honestly order you to do something like this. It works better with volunteers in any case. Are you up for it, corporal?”

“Yes, sir.  I am.” Bill paused, the man still hadn’t given his name or rank. “Are you a sir?”

“Let’s not worry about all that rank malarkey,” he smiled. “Just call me Biffy for now. Once we’ve gotten everyone assembled and dressed up, we’ll work out German names on our way north. Do you Sprichst du Deutsch?”

“Only enough to get shot at,” Bill replied.

“If you’re an enlisted escort you won’t be doing much talking. I’ll have one of the fellows teach you some basic phrases. Are you about done with that lovely dinner?”

Bill nodded, and both men stood up. Every eye in the place was on them.

“You’re making lots of friends with that uniform,” Bill noted.

“Thought it might pique your interest,” Biffy replied, putting on his officers’ hat. “Never hurts for the men to know we’re playing every angle to win this thing though.”

Bill shrugged and followed the SS officer out of the mess. A Rolls Royce was parked out front and the driver, seeing them appear, ran around to open the door for them to get in.

“Do I need to get any kit?” Bill asked, hesitating before stepping into the car.

“All will be provided! You’ll not need any RAF issue on this trip.”

The inside of the car was opulent. Bill felt a bit filthy sitting in it but tried to lean back and relax. The driver ran around to the driver’s door and jumped in. He handed Biffy some scrawled notes on office paper. The bottom paper was typed and had ‘eyes only’ stamped on it in red ink.

Biffy glanced up from the papers, “do you know MI6?”

“Military intelligence?” Bill guessed.

“Indeed,” Biffy replied. “We usually focus on gathering intelligence, but we sometimes act on it. You boys are busy dealing with Hitler’s blitzkrieg, so we thought we’d hop in and give you a hand. If we can stop this fuel shipment it means our pilots see a lot less of their pilots in the sky for the next few days.”

“How do we get from France to the Dutch border in German vehicles?” Bill asked when Biffy finally put down the notes. The Rolls Royce was making quick time on dark French country roads heading due north toward the Belgian border.

“The French and Belgians are helping with that. Here’s our stop.”

The Rolls pulled up into a field on the side of the road. In the shadow of the trees that lined the side a heavy lorry was parked. A big Mercedes Benz staff car with German military markings was parked behind the lorry, and next to that the motorbike.

“Get familiar with that R12. Once everyone gets here, I’ll do introductions,” Biffy said before walking off to the front of the lorry.

The BMW was a big old thing. Throwing a leg over it, Bill was reminded of the Norton, but this machine was modern in ways the Norton couldn’t imagine. The first thing that struck Bill was the telescopic front forks. This thing would handle on rough ground, even though it did weigh a ton. Bill hopped off it and had a look at the back end. Heavy duty framing held panniers over the massive rear wheel. Compared to the kinds of motorcycles Bill was familiar with, this was more a bomber than a fighter.

The final bit of technical wizardry was to be found on the back wheel. The bike had no chain or belt drive, only an industrial looking closed unit, a shaft drive. Bill had read about them in trade publications but had never ridden one. They were sturdy things that made a bike heavier but more dependable. On the upside, the BMW was comfortable to sit on and looked like it would ride forever. He could see why the German military was full of them. He could also see why he would be able to stay well ahead of them, especially on that Tiger.

Bill threw a leg back over and pulled the bike forward off its stand. For something as heavy as it was it held its weight low making it easy to manage. The bizarre boxer engine layout meant a piston was poking out of each side of the bike in front of his shins. It really did feel like foreign technology unlike any he was familiar with.

“Can you manage it?” Biffy asked, appearing out of the dark.

“It’s bulky but it feels lighter than it should,” Bill replied.

“Take it for a spin around the field. Radio says we have about twenty minutes until our team gets here.”

Bill located the kickstart on the wrong side of the bike and stepped on it awkwardly with the wrong foot. The big motor fired immediately before dropping into a rocking idle where you could feel each cylinder pumping. He kicked it into gear and let out the clutch. The bike pulled away with ease. In moments Bill was standing on the pegs and weaving around the trees. Pulling it out onto the road he goosed it, causing a spray of gravel, and started kicking it up through the gears. The big twin handled astonishingly well, especially once it got going. He did a hundred- and eighty-degree turn, noting how much steering lock it offered, and then thumped back down the road to the lorry parked in the shadows.

“That’s managed,” Biffy laughed, as Bill slid to a stop in front of him. “I was worried the German technology would make it difficult to operate.”

“It’s not my kind of motorbike,” Bill said, killing the ignition. “But it’s interesting.”

At that moment, the dim, slitted lights of a military vehicle came into view.

“Here are our compatriots, time to get dressed!” Biffy waved Bill back to the lorry.

The approaching vehicle was a French officers’ saloon. It was painted grey with black military markings. Four men got out of it once it came to a stop in the field next to the lorry. One was in British army fatigues, the other three were wearing French uniforms. Biffy walked over and shook hands with all four. Bill put the BMW on its stand and joined them.

“… on our way shortly,” Biffy finish as he approached the group. “Gentlemen, this is Corporal Morris, but for the duration of the evening he is Scharführer Wilhelm Meyer. He’s handy on two wheels and will be operating our borrowed BMW. Bill, these gentlemen will all be wearing officer ranks and will do the talking. We’re pressed for time, so we’re going to get kitted up and make some miles.”

A red light was switched on in the back of the lorry and a variety of German uniforms could be seen hanging inside. Biffy jumped up into the vehicle and handed Bill an enlisted man’s SS uniform.

“Congratulations on the promotion,” he laughed.

Scharführer Meyer was a bigger man than Bill and the clothes were too large, but it was a cool night and Bill elected to put on the German kit over top of his RAF fatigues, which made the uniform a closer fit. The other men were busy changing into officer uniforms like Biffy’s.

“We want to make sure we’re up that way well before dawn, so have a coffee,” Biffy pointed to a carafe that had materialized next to the lorry in the dark. Mugs were passed around and everyone filled up. It was scalding and black, but bracing, though Bill found his adrenaline was doing an excellent job on its own. What was he doing here with these men?

“Gentlemen, we’ll make proper introductions later. As of now I’m Gruppenführer Schmidt. Pierre here speaks the best German, so he’s Hauptsturmführer Müller and will do most of the talking. You other two are more likely to kill people than start a conversation with them, so you’re both junior officers Wagner and Becker in the front of the car. The key to this is to look like we’re supposed to be doing what we’re doing, so look confident and do what you’re told. With any luck, we’ll be in and out without needing to chat with anyone.”

The German staff car had a retractable roof so the two killers, who certainly looked the part, were pulling it up against the cool night air. Bill had no such luck on the BMW, but with goggles, the big German helmet, and a scarf, he was well muffled for the long, dark ride ahead.

“Stay close, we’ll be moving quickly,” Biffy said, taking a last hit of coffee. “We have an escort to the border and then the Belgians will escort us north quickly and quietly. After we’ve done the business, we’ll be on our way back here for a late breakfast.

Part 3 can be found here.