Part 2 (Part 1 can be found here)
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.
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.
