Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

Stef, Hans.

They’d both been handling one of the large drums.

He watched with horror as several men on fire from head to toe staggered around amidst the inferno before collapsing to their knees, and then with agonising slowness to the ground. He hoped they were dead at that point, rather than enduring the unimaginable agony any longer.

The last he had seen of his lads, they had been holding one of the large fuel drums. The blast would have killed them immediately.

He hoped.

He forced his mind to switch to practical matters. With Stef gone, he’d have to handle the navigation himself. He had undergone basic training for navigation, and had, as a matter of habit, always gone through the flight plan with his navigator before every sortie. The skills were a little rusty, but he could just about get them there. Stef had done the hard work finding their way to this small airfield.

Pieter would fly, and he would navigate. The mission could still be completed.

An image of Stef’s face, stretched and contorted by the heat, flickered across his mind. He screwed his eyes shut, pushing the image away. There were fifteen hours of flying time ahead of them. There’d be plenty of time to torment himself and grieve for those two later.

The sea of flames had spread towards several of the Me-109s. He watched as one of Schroder’s pilots scrambled up onto the wing of his plane and into the cockpit, as the flames licked hungrily underneath its belly. The pilot had managed to start up the engine and the plane had begun to roll forward, away from the fire, when it exploded. Two other planes followed suit and exploded in a chain reaction, one setting off the other.

The initial eruption had damaged several of the planes parked closest to the fuel drums, and with the other three destroyed, Max could only count four planes as yet undamaged. He feared, as he watched more of Schroder’s men succumb to the flames, that there were now even fewer pilots left than planes.

He heard Pieter calling out, he didn’t hear the words, but there was a distinct tone of relief in his usually gruff voice. Max loosened the last retaining bolt on the belly-gun blister and it clattered heavily to the ground. He emerged from beneath the bomber’s belly to see Stef and Hans loping across the grass, ducking low to avoid the bullets that passed over the top of Koch’s improvised defences.

He angrily slapped them on their backs as they passed. ‘You two stupid bastards gave me a scare.’ He hastily gestured for them to get inside. ‘We’re leaving, we’ve got as much fuel as we need,’ he shouted, his voice struggling to compete with the deafening gunfight and the roar of the nearby fire.

He waited until Hans had scrambled up through the hatch and then stuck his head up inside. ‘Pieter!’ he shouted, his voice now beginning to sound hoarse, punished by the fumes of the smoke that was gathering around the plane. ‘Start the engines. I’ll be up in a second.’

He heard Stef shout, passing the message up to Pieter in the cockpit as he ducked back outside. He dropped down and made his way on all fours across to Koch’s position.

‘We’re going now,’ he shouted.

Koch turned round, his face a picture of overwhelming relief. ‘About bloody time.’

Max pointed down to the far end of the strip at the Americans who were spread out across it, currently laying down fire on Buller and his men holed up in the canteen. They were going to prevent any of them taking off with the promise of a devastating wall of small-arms fire on any plane stupid enough to rumble down the strip towards them.

‘I need them moved. They’ll shoot us to shreds before we can get off the ground.’

Koch looked down the strip. There were twenty to thirty of them spread out across it, most of them kneeling on the grass or prone. ‘I’m not sure how we can shift them. I’ve only got a few men left here

… what am I supposed to do?’

‘They’ve got to be moved, we can’t take off otherwise.’

The young captain looked around. He had seven men here; amongst the overturned tables of the canteen there were a few more men; inside the hangar with the prisoners were perhaps a couple more. He looked back at Max; ready to shake his head and tell him it couldn’t be done when his eyes rested on the fuel truck.

Max followed his gaze. He could guess what the man was thinking. ‘Yes, good idea.’

‘You get your plane ready to go,’ said Koch.

Max held out his hand. ‘Thanks. You and your men have done us proud.’

‘Last skirmish of the war… wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Let’s just hope whatever it is you’re up to is worth it,’ Koch said, grabbing his hand.

‘It’ll win us the war.’

Koch’s eyes widened, and Max smiled reassuringly. ‘Trust me… this has been worth it.’

A volley of bullets peppered the ground near both men, and Max decided it was time to move. ‘We’ll turn, and then you’ll hear the engines rev up for take-off speed. That’s us ready to go.’

‘Understood. You’d better go now,’ Koch said, offering Max a hasty salute. Max returned the gesture and then headed back towards the bomber’s belly hatch at a sprint. He pulled himself up inside and clambered through the bombardier’s compartment to the cockpit.

‘What took you so bloody long?’ said Pieter.

Mission Time: 6 Hours, 12 Minutes Elapsed

8.17 a.m., an airfield outside Nantes

Koch watched as the B-17’s engines roared to life and all four propellors began spinning. Almost immediately the plane began to roll forward on its wheels. It turned in a tight arc, around one hundred and eighty degrees, to face down the strip towards the GIs, who, even now, were getting ready to deliver a withering barrage of small-arms fire for the plane to hurl itself at.

Koch watched as three of the remaining, undamaged Me-109s began to move too. They pulled away from the flames, which had now subsided a little, and moved to one side to allow the bomber the room to manoeuvre.

He got to his feet and waited for a lull in the firing before scurrying across to Scholn’s stack of crates. He slid down beside him as Scholn finished off firing a clip to give him a little covering fire.

‘Lovely weather for it,’ he said, grinning at Koch.

‘I’m driving the fuel truck down towards those men,’ he said, pointing to the Americans at the bottom of the strip. ‘We need them moved before the planes can take off. Have you got any grenades?’

Scholn shook his head; he called out to the man on his right. ‘Erich… you got grenades?’ The man shook his head. ‘The captain needs grenades, pass it on.’ The man nodded and the message was passed down the line.

Koch could have kicked himself. On his orders, they had shed a lot of their heavier field equipment from the U-boat prior to climbing aboard the dinghies. He’d wanted them to travel light. They hadn’t been expecting this kind of action today. He’d ordered one or two of his men to keep hold of a couple, just to be on the safe side. He hoped that one of those men was here.

His luck was in, and a moment later he watched as several grenades were tossed gingerly from one man to the next until finally Scholn handed him three. ‘Is that enough, sir?’

Koch nodded. ‘That’ll do.’

The bomber had turned round and was now facing down the strip. He heard the engines rise in pitch, the pilot’s sign that they were ready to go.

‘Pass this along, I want you all to lay down covering fire on the sandbags while I go for the truck and start it off down the strip. It’s still half full of fuel, and enough shots on target by those bastards over there and it’ll go up like a torch,’ he said, pointing to the Americans by the sandbags, maintaining intermittent fire on them, keeping Koch and his men on the ground behind the crates.