Showing posts with label Under Dark Skies Chapter 2. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Under Dark Skies Chapter 2. Show all posts

Wednesday 21 August 2024

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.