hours. There’s a chance of a little stratocumulus at 2,000 to 3,000 feet. Expected visibility moderate.’
‘What about Northern France?’
‘Fine; moderate visibility. Well-broken layer cloud in north-west.’
‘And the weather over UK for the aircraft’s return?’
‘Fine. A little stratocumulus at 2,000 or 3,000 feet. Excellent visibility.’
The C-in-C walked slowly across the highly polished floor to look at the quarter-inch map of Northern Europe that almost covered one wall. Each of the target towns was marked by a colour-coded reference on a flat pin. He looked back towards the moon chart, then moved nearer to peer at the Ruhr. The short routes were marked with coloured tapes and his eyes scanned them, calculating the flying times and fuel-loads that each target would demand.
As the C-in-C followed the routes a knot of staff officers moved with him, murmuring discreetly like Harley Street specialists about to collaborate on an expensive job of surgery. Always their glances went back to the Met wall. As the moment of decision arrived the officers ceased to talk. The only sounds were the air-conditioning and the clock. Suddenly the voices began again; the decision had been taken.
‘Target files, Harry,’ a young Group Captain called to the elderly Wing Commander, for, although it was a high rank on the squadrons, in this place a Wingco was a dogsbody. Nora Ashton pushed it towards him. Once again they had guessed the target to within a few files.
‘Krefeld as primary, Bremen as weather alternative,’ said the C-in-C. ‘H-Hour will be 01.30 hours. No gardening tonight.’
In the centre of the room were large drafting-tables. On one was a map showing enemy radar and night-fighter units. Another displayed overlapping photographs mounted together to make a mosaic of the whole Ruhr. The C-in-C walked across to one and tipped it flat. The Krefeld target file was open and large-scale maps, target maps, plans, diagrams and vertical photos were arranged around it.
‘What’s our availability?’
‘We’ve much better deliveries from the factories this month. We are showing 783 heavy bombers, 148 mediums. The strength of the training units is unchanged.’
‘Well, I’ll use 650 heavies and 100 mediums. This target will give them all a chance.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The Staff Officer put a form headed ‘C-in-C’s Daily Allotment of Targets’ on the table, and arranged the most recent reconnaissance photos of the target.
‘Krefeld then, with 750 aircraft. I’m going to increase the proportion of high explosive to incendiary bombs slightly. I know that the HE raises dust at the beginning but we need the blast damage in order to expose the interiors and have something to set alight. Let’s have twenty-five minutes’ pause before the second wave goes in. That increases the risk from night fighters but gives us a chance of killing his firemen and policemen and air-raid people. I’ll give that second wave mostly HE; one-third of the aircraft will carry one bomb fused for long delay to keep them worried.’
While he was talking, the C-in-C filled in the Daily Allotment of Targets form.
‘Put some Mosquitoes over Berlin to make the sirens go and some leaflets on to Ostend. I want the Berlin route and the Ostend route near enough to our main stream route to confuse them.’ The C-in-C passed the written order to the Controller. He got up slowly and left the Operations Room.
As he stepped out into the daylight the sentry gave a smart salute. Bomber Command HQ was hidden in thickly wooded countryside but the sky seen through the beech trees was clear and blue.
The centre of the depression had moved across Northern England and out into sea-area Dogger. It was a young, vigorous depression and pulled the cold front eastwards after it, leaving England to enjoy a period of anticyclonic weather. There would be no rain.
Even before the C-in-C was through the door the SASO was on the phone to the first of the Group commanders.
‘It’s Krefeld tonight, old boy. Weather alternative Bremen. Our Met chaps seem sure the weather will clear but we’ll have the usual Met conference call. I want to leave it as late as possible today. Naturally you’ll plan for sky marking just in case …’
He glanced at the clock marked Double British Summer Time. It showed 09.55 hours. Alongside it another clock set to Central European Time showed that German clocks were set to the same time.
‘Aren’t you glad we no longer live in Krefeld?’ Anna-Luisa asked.
‘You said there would be lions and tigers, and wild animals,’ the little boy said accusingly.
‘There are lions and tigers, and yesterday I saw an elephant in the woods near Frau Richter’s farm.’
‘You’re always saying that,’ the little boy said with a chuckle. ‘You just make those stories up.’
‘If you’ve finished your egg you ought to get along to school. It’s nearly nine o’clock.’
She took a handkerchief and wiped a trace of egg from his lips. Hansl hurried to get his schoolbooks. ‘Take your raincoat, Hansl,’ she called. ‘I’m sure it will rain.’
Anna-Luisa made sure his coat was buttoned and his collar straight. She checked the schoolbooks in his case and ran a comb through his short hair. When all was approved she gave him a little salute. ‘All is in order, Herr Leutnant, say goodbye to Pappi.’
The little boy saluted gravely. Anna-Luisa reached for a second egg and placed it carefully in the simmering water.
‘Breakfast, Herr Bach,’ she called.
Neither the little boy nor his father, for whom she was preparing breakfast, belonged to Anna-Luisa. She was a member of the RADwJ, a uniformed labour force of mothers’ helps and social workers. A little over a year ago she had gone to work for Frau Bach in Krefeld, twelve kilometres away in the Ruhr district. She had liked the job, adored the child, and Frau Bach had been a not unreasonable employer. Within a month of her starting work Frau Bach had been killed in an air raid. Herr Bach and his elder son Peter, an infantry private just eighteen years old, had been flown back from the Russian Front. The authorities had a simple solution. They wanted to evacuate little Hansl to a Hitler Youth camp in the Protectorate of Czechoslovakia, but Herr Bach preferred that Anna-Luisa should stay with the boy. He wanted some place that he could think of as home, although the cost of renting an apartment just for one ten-year-old made terrible demands upon his Oberleutnant’s pay.
Herr Bach’s cousin suggested that they should move into this apartment in the town of Altgarten not far from the Netherlands border. It had been the home of Gerd’s father but had been unoccupied since the old man’s death almost two years before. Gerd had loaded Bach’s salvaged furniture into his grocer’s van and brought it here from Krefeld. That was a year ago, and since then August Bach, Luftwaffe Oberleutnant and Commanding Officer of radar station ‘Ermine’, had learned to call it home. Now that he was stationed on the Netherlands coast he was able to see his small son every two or three weeks. Last Christmas his grown-up son Peter had also come home on leave. It was a happy time.
‘Breakfast
