Vengeance 10

Their difficulties had begun the evening Simon-Benet asked him to undertake the operation. He had told Janet only that he was being sent on detached duty, but she had either guessed from his attitude, or picked up rumours in Northumberland Avenue, that he was being sent into Germany, and it had occasioned an argument that had nearly ended in a complete break. Janet maintained he had done more than could be expected of anyone, that it was plain his nerves were not up to such a mission, and, finally, that she could not go through the agony of waiting and wondering if he would come back.

During the final weeks before he left for training, the argument had recurred several times until they became afraid to speak to each other. Memling had taken to sleeping in the spare bedroom, and their parting at Victoria Station had been strained. Since then, Janet’s weekly letters had become shorter and shorter until they were little more than notes concerning the weather, the same war news he heard on the BBC, and occasional comments about the increasing influx of Americans.

The ready light went on, filling the tiny space with its reddish glow. He fumbled to make certain that everything was in order. Parachute — he checked each fastening and made certain that the rip-cord ran free; chest pack containing the heavy radio transmitter, rations for three days, and his pistol, a Walther PP nine-millimetre automatic which he had obtained from a captured German officer in France. He himself had made the silencer for it from a length of conduit tubing packed with metal washers and steel wool. He buckled his leather and steel crash helmet securely and did up the laces on his boots, then made certain that the Fairbairn knife was strapped to his left boot — and waited, trying to hold the fear in check.

The pilot apologised for disturbing his rest and announced they were now passing Greifswald. ‘No anti-aircraft fire and no sign of night fighters. Maybe we got through without Jerry spotting us this time.’

Memling muttered something in reply, and when the co-pilot broke in to tell him to stand by, he removed his earphones and clipped them into their rack.

The minutes dragged before the yellow light went on. Memling released the four catches holding the plywood cover over the circular hole cut through the doors of the bomb bay, and slid it aside. He struggled into a sitting position, head bent, legs straddling the hole, and squinted at the frigid windblast. The yellow light began to blink the fifteen-second warning, and Memling slid his feet into the hole. Immediately the wind sucked them back against the fuselage, and he had to brace himself to keep from sliding through. For a moment the urge to pull his feet back, re-cover the hole, and go home to Janet was overpowering. The green light came on, and without thinking, Memling straightened his back as he had been taught, and dropped.

Even with the Mosquito bomber throttled right back to stalling speed, the one-hundred-and-forty-mile-an-hour wind of their passage flung him astern, tumbling him while he sought to spread arms and legs to maintain stability. He had an impression of the dark fuselage slipping past, black paint glinting with tiny highlights; and the earsplitting thunder of two Rolls Merlin 23 engines enclosed him in fury.

Then it was over, and he was wrapped in silence. The cold air brushed his face. The ground below was barely discernible. To his right lay a body of water interrupted by a dark landmass. The River Peene, he thought, the island of Usedom, and the Baltic beyond.

He glanced at the altimeter strapped to the top of his chest pack, twisting to catch the moonlight on its dial. The needle pointed steadily at zero. Damn, he muttered, and was surprised at the sound. Warrant Officer O’Reilly’s voice had dinned into his brain: ‘Wait until the needle points at eight hundred, boyo, or the bloody Hun will be waiting for you.’

There was nothing for it but to pull the rip-cord. Without the altimeter there was no way to judge a low-altitude drop at night. Memling made certain he was in position, took a quick look at the river to establish his orientation, and then pulled. He felt the canvas flaps slap against his helmet, had the impression of the pilot chute snaking behind, and then there was the sudden jolt that always came as a surprise when the chute blossomed and the sense of falling became apparent.

Memling craned his neck upward to make certain the black canopy had spread properly; then searched below for the pinpoint of light that would mark his reception team. There was a small pond or lake near the landing zone, and he fastened on its moonlight surface as a visual reference. The plan had been for the Mosquito to drop him at three thousand feet. He judged that he had fallen free for no more than eight or nine seconds, which meant that he had opened the canopy at about — he calculated the sum in his head — eighteen hundred feet. Maybe.