Authors: The Sands of Sakkara (html)
Glenn Meade (26 page)
He looked out at the bank of ugly
storm cloud off to his left, the lights of Alex just a dim cluster. There was a
sandstorm blowing down on the mainland, the orange-brown swirl just about
visible, even though they were seventy miles from the coast. The Met
Forecasting Unit of Coastal Command had warned them about the imminent bad
weather, but Higgins had checked with the Alex tower every half-hour; the
sandstorm hadn't hit the city yet and the runway conditions were still within
landing limits. As he finished taking the bearing, the Beaufighter broke cloud
at twelve thousand feet. He looked down, and was startled when he glimpsed the
dark shape of an aircraft about a mile off his starboard wing.
'Target at two o'clock low!'
black sky. The moonlight wasn't terrific, and there was only a faint glow of
dawn on the far horizon, but his eyes were accustomed to the dark after almost
three hours' night flying and he noticed the aircraft ahead of them, flying at
about ten thousand feet.
'Right you are, buddy. OK, let's
go down and take a look.'
right, and at the same time eased the throttles forward, giving him a burst of
power. The nose tilted down and he picked up speed.
it was a real thrill to fly and one of the fastest in its class. And right now
he knew he had the advantage; the target was ahead of him and low, and probably
wouldn't see him approach. Within two minutes, he was less than a quarter-mile
behind it, and he recognized the unmistakable outline of a sand-camouflaged
Dakota C-47, the Stars and Stripes on the wing and tail, and the USAAC legend.
He relaxed a little.
'It's a Gooney Bird - one of
ours,' he said on the intercom.
'I see that, sir.'
'The question is, what the hell's
he doing up here?'
there was no report of aircraft in the vicinity.
'OK, let's give him a call.' He
flicked the radio switch to transmit. 'C-47, this is coastal patrol on your
rear, high at five o'clock, identify yourself. Roger and out.'
There was no reply.
'C-47, identify yourself, please. I'm behind you, high, at five o'clock. Roger
and out.'»
When he still got no reply,
on the other three communications channels. One was for the tower and base, and
the other two were distress frequencies, used solely for emergencies in case an
aircraft was in trouble. He scanned each, just in case the C-47 was trying to
transmit. All the airwaves were dead.
'Maybe their radio's out,' he said
to Higgins.
'What do you want to do, sir? Show
him the colours of the day?'
Recessed into the Beaufighter's
fuselage were three dome covered lights; red, green and white. They could be
flashed on in different combinations to display a coded identity signal, which
was changed each day. There was no way an enemy intruder could know either the
code or the correct reply, and by such a simple method genuine Allied aircraft
could still identify each other, even if their communications channels were
unserviceable.
But
have a technical problem, and the last thing he wanted to do was destroy one of
his own planes. But the pre-flight briefing had been very specific. An
intelligence report suggested the Germans were likely to try to breach Allied
air defenses along the North African coast, and any aircraft encountered on
patrol was to be verified.
be certain there was no stray traffic in the area. 'Hold off on the colours of
the day for the moment,' he said to Higgins over the intercom. 'Call up Alex
tower quick, and find out if there's a C-47 m the area.'
got the reply in his earphones moments later. 'Larchtree, this is
a pause, and then the voice said, 'You better bring him back:
last three months he'd seen damn all action. What had started out as a dull
patrol was turning into a lively one. The C-47 could still be legitimate, but
he knew the Germans weren't beyond using captured Allied aircraft. Either way
he was going to find out, and quickly. The C-47 was unarmed and slow. The
Beaufighter was fast and had four twenty-millimeter Hispano cannon under the
fuselage, another four 303 machineguns in the port wing, and two more 303s
starboard.
He flicked open the red 'Fire'
cover on the stick that operated the machineguns. 'OK, just to be on the safe
side, let's flash our friend with the colours. If there's no response, I'll
fire a warning burst and we'll take it from there.'
The Dakota hit a pocket of
turbulence, then settled again.
Rachel awoke in the cold, a dim
white dome light on overhead.
She looked across and noticed that
the two SS men were asleep, just as Haider came down the cabin with a Thermos
of coffee.
'I thought you could do with some
of this. It'll put some heat into you.'
She accepted the coffee without
comment, and Haider said, 'Am I really that repulsive?'
'Maybe it's the uniform you
represent. The man I'm not quite sure about yet.'
Haider smiled. 'That's a slight
improvement, at least.' He saw her shiver. 'Cold?'
'A little.'
He knelt and pulled the blanket
around her. 'Are you afraid, Rachel?'
'I don't know what I feel.'
'It does seem odd, the two of us
together again under these circumstances. I can still hardly believe it
myself.'
She said quietly, 'Tell me about
your wife. Did you love her very much?'
There was an instant look of grief
on Haider's face. She touched his arm lightly, brushed it with her fingertips.
'I meant it when I said I was sorry, Jack.'
Suddenly there was a sound of
machinegun fire, a long sustained burst, and the aircraft rolled violently.
Haider said, 'What in the hell… I'
There was another long burst, the
Dakota rocked again, and Haider was flung forward, landing on Kleist and
Doring, who came awake.
'What the fuck-?' shouted Kleist.
'Stay where you are, all of you,'
and Haider got to his feet and moved quickly towards the cockpit.
Twenty-Eight
Falconi looked worried when Haider
burst into the cockpit.
'What's wrong?'
'We've got an RAF Beaufighter on
our tail,' Falconi cried over the engine noise. 'It came out of nowhere and
flashed us with a colour code. When I didn't reply, the bastard fired a couple
of tracer bursts across our nose and flew round behind us. You should see him
on our starboard side, any second now.'
Haider looked out and saw a
fighter come abreast of them on the right, the pilot and navigator visible in
the cockpit glow. The fighter started to waggle its wings, and moments later
its undercarriage was lowered.
'What's he doing?' Haider asked.
'Telling us politely he wants us
to follow him into Alex and land. If we don't, he'll blow us out of the sky.'
'Terrific. Can you do anything
about it?'
'The Beaufighter's got us for
speed, Jack. There's no way we can outfly him.'
'Can't you try and flash a code in
reply?'
'It's pointless, Jack. There's
absolutely no way we can know the correct colour sequence. The Beaufighter's
skipper might suspect we have a technical problem, but if you ask me, he's
already smelled a rat.'
'How far are we from the coast?'
'About thirty miles. Less than ten
minutes' flight time.’
Haider said frantically, 'We have
to get away from him, Vito.
Do whatever you can.'
'Easier said than done.' Falconi
wiped perspiration from his face and tightened his seat harness. 'I'll see what
I can do. But you'd better warn the others. Tell them to hold on tight and
expect trouble. Then come back up here and strap yourself in.
Things may get pretty rough from
now on.'
landing gear, its nose tilted down gently, and the aircraft started to descend.
Its cockpit was in darkness, but he could just make out the shadowy forms of
the crew. He said to Higgins, 'OK, he's following orders.
Keep your eye on the son of a
bitch. Don't lose him.'
'Got you, sir.'
and applied enough power to gain on the C-47 by half a mile. 'Can you still see
him?'
In the navigator's seat, Higgins
twisted round, looking back through the laminated glass. 'Yes, sir.'
stick forward and began to descend. 'OK. Let's take this guy into Alex and find
out who in the hell he is.'
When Haider came back from the
cabin and buckled himself into the wireless operator's seat, Falconi was
sweating badly.
'You warned the others?'
'Just like you told me.'
'How are they?'
'Worried as hell. What happens
now?' ^ Falconi pointed towards the coast. 'See that?'
In the faint glow of sunrise,
Haider noticed the swirling, orange-brown tint of a ferocious sandstorm, dust
rising high up into the atmosphere and stretching all along the desert coast.
'We're about ten miles from land,'
Falconi explained. 'The only slim chance we have of shaking off our friend is
to head straight into the storm. If we go in fast and keep low, we just might
lose him.'
'Isn't that dangerous?'
'Deadly was the word I would have
used,' Falconi answered soberly. 'A storm like that can be fatal for an
aircraft. Sand can affect your engines and before you know it you're dropping
out of the sky. And that one looks pretty bad to me.'
'Any other good news?'
'Visibility can be down to almost
zero. And if we try to fly too low, we risk crashing into a sand-dune. But we
really have no option, unless you want to follow our friend and face the
consequences?'
'No way, Vito. Can our aircraft
take the punishment?'
Falconi shrugged. 'The Dakota is
reliable enough, a bit of a workhorse, really, but I'd guarantee nothing in
these conditions.'
They were very close to land, and
at eight thousand feet the dark
seemed to be whipping up the desert with awesome ferocity, the orange-brown
cloud swirling up to a thousand feet. The Beaufighter was still ahead of them
by about half a mile, its navigation lights on. Moments later it banked left,
parallel to the coast and away from the sandstorm, heading towards Alex.
'OK, he's about starting his
approach. He's expecting us to follow him in, but this is where we make a run
for it.' Falconi gave a wave to the Beaufighter. 'Arrivederci, amko! He looked
back grimly at Haider. 'Hold on to whatever you can. And if we don't make it,
it's been nice knowing you, Jack. Gear up,' he called out to Remer.
The co-pilot retracted the
undercarriage, and at the same time Falconi pushed the throttles full forward,
nosed down the Dakota, and they descended with frightening speed towards the
sandstorm.
Haider saw the Beaufighter still
off to the right, continuing to make its approach, but at the last moment the
RAF fighter turned in a tight circle and came after them at speed.
'Damn it, he's seen us!' said
Falconi. 'Now we really are in trouble.’
There was a sudden explosion of
machineguns from the Beaufighter as it spewed scarlet flame, tracers arcing
across the sky off to their left. Falconi dived down to a thousand feet,
quickly levelled out, and flew straight over the coast and right into the
storm, the Beaufighter diving after them, guns blazing.
It was like flying through grainy,
thick yellow smoke. The visibility was down to several hundred meters and sand
flurries crackled against the windscreen, the noise like static electricity.
The Dakota shuddered violently in
the buffeting and Falconi had to concentrate hard to keep the aircraft straight
and level.
Haider saw a scarlet blaze of
red-hot tracer fire streak past them on the left. 'The bastard's still after
us.'
'With a vengeance, it seems.'
There was another burst, and a
couple of holes punctured the left wing as a volley of tracers hit them.
Falconi grimaced, his face bathed
in perspiration. 'Damn!
He's not going to let us off
easily. Which means we'll have to try something very dangerous. And if this
doesn't work, then I'm afraid it's ciao.'
Chuck Carlton was sweating. The
Beaufighter was being buffeted like crazy in the sandstorm and he knew the
engines didn't like it. He hadn't expected the target to make a run for the
coast, because it didn't stand a chance, and definitely not in weather like
this. He was certain now the intruder was an enemy aircraft, and his adrenalin
was flowing, anticipating a kill. The C-47 had a slight advantage: its twin
Wasp 1200-horsepower radials were probably better able to withstand a sandstorm
than the Beau's twin 1500-horsepower Hercules engines, whose carburettors and
oil coolers were more likely to clog. But even so, the C-47 pilot was taking a
God almighty risk, flying so low in such extreme conditions.
away. Besides, he'd flown in
dust-bowl, in weather almost as bad, and he reckoned he could handle it as long
as his aircraft could.
'He's picked the wrong guy to fuck
with,' he roared to Higgins.
In the back, Higgins was
ashen-faced, watching the rush of golden sand on the laminated glass, barely
able to make out the tail of the C-47, dead ahead, maybe four hundred meters
from their nose. His nerves were on edge. If the C-47 dropped speed, they'd
crash right into his tail.
'Maybe - maybe we should get out
of this, sir,' he called anxiously over the intercom.
'No way,'
engine.
He had the C-47 directly in his
line of fire. 'We almost have the son of a bitch, and I'm going to blow his ass
to fucking kingdom come.' And with that
wings, and tracers zipped towards their target like angry red hornets.
A tracer shot into the right side
of the cockpit, and punched its way out through the fuselage. It hit Remer in
the side, spinning him round in his seat. He screamed as he clapped a hand on
his wound, and Haider went to help him, but Falconi roared, 'Leave him! Don't
distract me!'
Remer was moaning in pain, bright
red blood pumping from a gaping hole in his side.
Haider said, 'For God's sake,
Vito, get us out of this!'
Falconi didn't answer, his eyes
fixed dead ahead, as if he were looking for something in the middle of the
frightening storm, and then another burst of scarlet tracer tore past their
left-hand side. Falconi nosed down to avoid the blazing gunfire until the
altimeter read eighty feet. They were barely skimming the ground now, low sandbanks
rolling like golden waves directly underneath the aircraft, and then suddenly
Haider saw a huge sweep of sand looming straight ahead, rising up several
hundred feet.
'Vito! For God's sake!'
But it seemed as if Falconi had
been waiting for exactly this moment, almost expecting it. In an instant his
hands were working rapidly, pushing forward the throttles, pulling back hard on
the stick, lowering the flaps. The nose lifted sharply and the C-47 barely
cleared the sandbank. There was a harsh metallic sound as the fuselage scraped
the top, but miraculously they continued to climb.
'Christ, Vito, that was close!'
Falconi's white face dripped
sweat. 'Too close for comfort.
Now let's just pray our friend
doesn't see it in time.'
C-47, preparing to fire again, when he suddenly saw the target's tail climb
sharply.
'Keep level, you son of a bitch.
What the hell…?'
A second later
ahead. 'Jesus Christ’ He pulled back frantically on the stick.
"* Higgins screamed. It was
the last sound
aircraft spun out of control, nosed into the sand, and exploded in a ball of
searing orange flame.
'I think we got him.' Falconi
burst out of the thick cloud at a thousand feet, took in the flaps, glanced
back and saw a bright mushroom of flame rise up out of the sandstorm. There was
no sound of triumph in his voice. 'The poor bastards. God have mercy on them.'
He wiped a lather of sweat from his face and levelled out the Dakota. 'Mamma
mia
’
'What in God's name were you up to
back there?'
'A small game we used to play when
1 flew mail runs down to
We'd fly low and skip the dunes, anything to relieve the boredom of flying over
nothing but desert. Pleasant, enough fun in clear weather, but in a blinding sandstorm,
positively dangerous. You'd better see to Remer.'
Haider felt the co-pilot's pulse.
It was very weak, his breathing shallow, and he was still bleeding heavily.
'He's alive - just about.'
'Get the first-aid kit from the
cabin, see if you can do anything about the bleeding - and check the others.
But be quick about it, Jack. Remer seems in a bad way.’
Haider went back to the cabin and
saw Rachel standing, clutching the cargo webbing, looking frightened and white
faced. Kleist and Doring seemed shaken after the experience, and there were
several holes punched clean through the fuselage, but incredibly no one had
been hit except Remer.
'Is the worst over with, or about
to begin?' Kleist asked bleakly.
'It seems we're out of the woods
for now. Find me the first aid kit. The co-pilot's badly wounded.' As Kleist
went to look for it, Haider said to Rachel, 'Are you OK?'
'I - I don't know. I'm still
trying to recover. That was one of the worst experiences of my life.'
'We're still alive, which counts
for something.'
Kleist came back with the kit and
handed it to Haider. As he went towards the cockpit, Rachel said, 'Do you want
me to help?'
'Not for now, but if I need you
I'll call.'
Suddenly there was a sickening
dropping sensation, and the plane started to lose height. They all heard the
engines struggle as Falconi applied a surge of power, but the Dakota barely
lifted.
'Stay down, all of you!' Haider
went back up to the cockpit and saw that Falconi looked deeply worried. 'What's
wrong now?'
'Engine trouble. More than likely
we ingested sand and it did us some damage. And we're losing fuel, fast. The
machinegun fire must have ruptured the fuel lines.'
Haider put a heavy cotton dressing
on Remer's wound. The man was unconscious, but he groaned in pain. 'Can we
still make it to the landing site?' Haider asked.