night, perhaps even see him.
The T hut was dark. There were no blips on the Seeburg table, for the enemy aircraft were not yet within range of the Würzburgs. August looked at the large-scale map on the wall and every few minutes Willi reported the progress of the RAF bomber stream as it flew across the North Sea straight towards them.
The phone buzzed quietly. ‘Our two planes are airborne,’ said Willi.
‘Tell the blue Würzburg to sweep from 50 to 70 for them.’
Willi Reinecke was biting his fingernails. August smiled. This was the worst time of all. Many nights they picked up the Tommis as they assembled over their own coast, but often the bombers were headed elsewhere. Himmelbett Station Ermine was only one small sector of a long coastline and unless the bombers headed straight into the Ruhr they would pass by out of range. In that case they would spend all night gnawing their knuckles and cursing their luck. One thing Willi knew: the best crews were on duty; if the terror flyers came this way they would be certain to pick them up. After that it was up to the night fighters.
‘Here comes the jamming,’ said Willi. Then, more officially, ‘Airborne jamming on the Freya, a wide band of it, averaging 290 degrees. Constant bearing, increasing in intensity.’
‘The jamming aircraft must be coming straight for us.’
Willi said, ‘I don’t know why the Nachtjagdführer doesn’t send some of our boys out to shoot them down.’
‘How bad?’
‘Not too bad. He’s still getting a clear blip and if the tube grasses up more he can side-tune to improve it.’
‘The Würzburg will have them soon.’
‘Thank goodness they can’t jam those.’
‘Any night now, Willi my son.’
From where August stood he could watch the table and the wall beyond it. The map stretched from East Anglia to Frankfurt. The smaller one showed only Ermine’s sector and the overlapping circles of the sectors surrounding it. Now that the early warning had been given the other sectors were alerted and lit up bright green on the glass map.
Willi tapped the table with his Kneemeyer measure as he listened to the messages. ‘First night fighter overhead.’
‘I want him right out to sea at the extreme range of the Würzburg. Let’s see, if they are coming in from Southwold let’s say code-square Heinz Emil Four. How high is he?’
‘Fifteen thousand feet, still climbing.’
‘As high as possible, Willi. Height is everything.’
‘That’s eight million three hundred thousand and eighty marks you owe me,’ said Löwenherz, setting up the chessboard again.
‘It’s in my other trousers,’ said Kokke. On the radio a close harmony group was singing.
‘Everything ends, everything passes,
Upon every December follows a May.
Everything ends, everything passes,
But two who love always remain faithful.’
The girls cooed to an end and were replaced by a men’s chorus singing Bomben auf England with appropriate wire brushes and drums. There was a loud raspberry of displeasure and the man nearest to the radio turned the volume down before any missiles were thrown in his direction.
Löwenherz looked round the Alert Hut. The crews were sprawled around the place in the most remarkable poses: hair uncombed, ties loosened and feet resting on chairs. It was as if they were all dead, thought Löwenherz, as if fumes or gas had done for them all, and yet if the loudspeaker sounded the quiet double click that warned of an announcement they could all be on their feet, tugging their helmets on to their heads and draping their bodies with oxygen connectors and microphone and earphone leads that made them a part of their machines.
Klimke – Kokke’s radar man – used to spend these hours in the Alert Hut writing interminable letters to his wife, but since she had been killed last Christmas he had taken up knitting. In spite of howls of derision and practical jokes he sat calmly producing endless scarves for everyone he knew. He couldn’t master the knack of decreasing, so he could only knit rectangles. Alongside him Leutnant Beer jerked convulsively in his sleep. A mosquito was buzzing round his ear.
‘What a Wagnerian body of men,’ said Kokke, looking around at the dozing flyers. Klimke grinned but did not stop knitting. Kokke moved his piece and they began a new game.
‘Not fool’s mate, Kokke. You underestimate me.’
‘Never, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Kokke, and Löwenherz lost a knight.
‘Damn.’
‘Experience is better bought than taught,’ said Kokke, moving forward.
‘You lose because you are too reckless,’ said Löwenherz.
‘But I have more fun,’ said Kokke.
‘Probably,’ agreed Löwenherz.
‘Double or nothing on what time the first plane is put up?’
‘Very well,’ said Löwenherz. ‘Midnight.’
‘Midnight?’
‘Short summer night with full moon means a short trip, that means the Ruhr. To get back before first light and allow time for stragglers they will probably time the attack for two o’clock. A Lancaster does 225 miles per hour, so it will pass over the British coast at zero minus 50. A good Freya radar will pick it up then, but by the time they fiddle around talking to the FLUKO and the Nachtjagdführer it will be fifteen minutes past one.’
‘That leaves us fifty minutes.’ Kokke had to raise his voice a little, for the radio music was now much louder.
‘It might leave us all night. Who knows if we shall be put up?’
‘Such modesty, Oberleutnant.’
Löwenherz smiled. ‘About fifty minutes, yes.’
‘And how was “die Wurst” bearing up this afternoon?’
Among his close friends in the Officers’ Mess the gemütlich Hans Furth was happy to answer to ‘Hanswurst’ (clown). However, he took exception to Kokke calling him simply ‘die Wurst’, perhaps because of its feminine gender. Kokke seldom referred to him otherwise.
‘Bearing up remarkably well,’ admitted Löwenherz. ‘Everyone who gets into trouble is an exhibitionist and he’s going pig-shooting to forget it. The Mess will make Wurst of his successes.’
‘Wurst wider wurst,’ said Kokke.
Löwenherz
