Opening Moves

A burst on the port side close in moved the bomber to starboard in a small surge.

“Left, left, steady.”

Another Lancaster was hit, this time more spectacularly, main spar giving way, smashed by the explosion within her fuselage, four distinct pieces of aircraft slowly separating and falling to earth.

A pained voice spoke a single word.

“Aaron.”

As the rear section fell, the tail-gunner’s voice lost its emotion, sounding mechanical and detached.

“That’s C for Charlie going down Skipper.”

Silence, oppressive silence, as oppressive as only silence containing real horror and pain can be.

Saul swallowed hard and keyed his mike.

“Roger Den. I’m sorry mate, really sorry.”

A short delay, enough for a man to steady his voice and get control of his emotions once more.

“Roger Skipper. I’m ok.”

Saul looked at the flight engineer, automatically correcting as the bombardiers instructions came in. They nodded at each other.

“Want a spell there Den? Give you some time? Wally will come back.”

No delay this time.

“Negative. I’m fine Skip. Let’s get it done.”

Wally shrugged and resumed his position.

“Roger that Den.”

Saul wasn’t too sure what else he could usefully say to a man that had just watched his twin brother die.

“Bombs gone!”

The aircraft leapt and Saul cursed himself for not hearing the bomb-aimer’s warning as the weight difference caused the bomber to gain height rapidly.

On the target, three different colour flares had been set by the Pathfinders, Mosquitoes of 163 Squadron.

S for Sugar’s crew was an efficient group and their bomb-aimer was one of the best in the business. So provided the 163 Squadron boys had done their job right then the bombs would be on target.

Both groups were on top form and S for Sugar put her cookies right on the money.

0259 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, Headquarters of Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe, Schloss Schönefeld, Leipzig.

Whilst the Soviet night-fighters had proved ineffective and the Flak little better, those on the ground had reason to be thankful for their advance warning and preparations for such attacks.

Had there been none, then the loss of life would have been extreme. As it was, whilst many soldiers and civilians were killed, key personnel were almost unaffected, although the disruption to Soviet military affairs would be considerable.

Schloss Gundorf disintegrated under the pounding of eleven bomb loads, each of twelve thousand pounds of high explosive.

Admittedly, the headquarters of the Red Banner Forces of Europe had planned to move to its forward location the following evening and so some personnel and accoutrements had already moved out, but it could not be denied that the loss of the Schloss was a setback.

Zhukov sat in a special radio truck with his communications staff, briefing his Front commanders on events in Leipzig, receiving news of similar occurrences at half a dozen places behind Soviet lines and, more importantly, sorting out how the following day’s military affairs were going to be managed.

Finally, before returning to the air raid shelter to grab a few hours sleep, he and an NKVD Colonel discussed the untenable position of the Front’s Air Force Commander, Major-General Boris Komarov.

Zhukov was woken from his slumber at 0600.

Anna Komarov had been a widow for just over an hour.

0535 hrs Friday 10th August 1945, Vendeville Airfield, France.

The flight back from ‘stonking’ Leipzig was quiet, far quieter than normal. Another kill occurred briefly but spectacularly close by, the ever-present NF30 Mosquitoes of 141 Squadron pouncing on an enemy, aircraft type unknown, which was a threat and then it was dead.

Approaching their temporary airfield, designated B51, at Vendeville near Lille, the banter was absent and as they touched down the standard derisory comments about a bumpy landing were not forthcoming; nothing.

S for Sugar came to a halt near a newly erected blast screen, bulldozed into place so recently that the shrubs which had been removed in its favour still stuck haphazardly skywards, some roots first, others branches uppermost.

Engines off and shut down complete, the crew made their way out of the aircraft.

The six men looked at each other. Wally moved to the fuselage door and called down towards the tail-gunners position.

“Den? Come on mate. Den?”

As he did so, Saul walked slowly around the tail-plane and came to an abrupt stop, knowing what he might see and shocked to confirm his suspicions.

The rear turret was fully turned to port and the break out hatch in its rear was gone, exposing the workings of the guns to the elements.

It was empty.

As Saul looked on in disbelief, Wally’s ashen face appeared.

“He jumped Wally. The poor bastard bloody jumped.”

Wally said nothing, holding Dennis Riley’s parachute up for Saul to see.

“The poor bastard.”

0320 hrs Friday 10th August 1945, Advance Headquarters of 12th US Armored Division, Bad Windsheim, Germany.