Read Online Mosquito Squadron by Robert Jackson - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Jackson
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questions were hurled at Barnes, who held up both hands.
‘Now then, chaps,’ he protested, ‘you know I can’t tell you any more until the CO and the specialist officers arrive. You’ll just have to be patient.’
‘Oh, all right, Freddie,’ said Sloane. ‘However, I should point out to you, before anyone else comes in, that you are improperly dressed.’
Barnes, a fussy man when it came to appearance, instinctively felt to see if the knot in his tie and his tunic buttons were fastened properly. They were. Then, looking down, he flushed with sudden embarrassment. He had forgotten to remove his cycle clips.
‘Never mind, Freddie,’ Sloane grinned, ‘it might have been worse. Your flies might have been undone.’
During the next five minutes, the pilots and Barnes were joined by the various specialists — the meteorological, engineering, armaments and air traffic control officers — all of whom would have something to say in the course of the briefing. Everyone took a seat, and an air of expectancy settled over the briefing room as the hands of the wall clock moved towards 0400. Barnes noted with some surprise that, on this occasion, everyone had arrived early; normally, two or three aircrew burst into the room at the very last moment, panting and out of breath.
A few seconds before four o’clock, the door opened again and Group Captain Davison entered the room, followed by Yeoman. Everyone stood up, then sat down with a scraping of chairs as the Group Captain motioned to them to do so. He himself took a seat behind the assembled pilots, where he would remain an inconspicuous onlooker until the main briefing.
Yeoman stepped up on to the platform, placed his hat on a table and then stood facing the assembly, his hands behind his back, surveying the pilots for a second or two while he marshalled his thoughts.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. I am aware that you are all champing at the bit because of the lack of activity over the past few days.’
There were a few murmurs of assent. Since the squadron had carried out its first long-range operational mission early in August, dropping ‘Window’ in support of a night attack on Hamm by Bomber Command, operations had been badly disrupted by the weather. A few sorties had been flown by single aircraft, but these had involved patrols over the Channel or very short forays into enemy territory, the Mosquitos dropping down through low cloud and drizzle to shoot up targets of opportunity. So far, there had been no losses.
‘Well,’ Yeoman continued, ‘today is the one we’ve all been waiting for. This morning, we shall be carrying out our first big operation by daylight — an attack on three enemy fighter airfields in Holland.’
He picked up a billiard cue that served as a pointer and moved over to the wall map, indicating the target airfields one by one.
‘The first of them, and the one closest to the coast, is Eelde, five miles due south of Groningen. This will be attacked by McManners, Reed, Romilly and Olafsson. Further south, about forty miles inland’ — the pointer moved down the map — ‘is Hoogeveen, which will be attacked by Sloane, O’Grady, Keen and Lorrimer. It’s a fairly small grass field, right on the north-east outskirts of the neighbouring town, so you’ll have to be careful not to endanger any Dutch lives.’
The pointer moved still further down the map, stopping at the third pin which Barnes had inserted a few minutes earlier.
‘This is Twenthe, near Hengelo, and it’s the closest of the lot to the German border. I’ll look after that one, together with Miller, Saint and Telfer. It’s seventy miles inland.’
‘Thanks, boss,’ said a rueful voice from the audience. There was a ripple of laughter; the speaker was Pilot Officer Terry Saint, a slightly-built New Zealander who was one of the squadron’s chief comedians. Yeoman grinned at him.
‘All right, Terry, I’ve no doubt you’ll be taking a spare pair of underpants
‘Now then, chaps,’ he protested, ‘you know I can’t tell you any more until the CO and the specialist officers arrive. You’ll just have to be patient.’
‘Oh, all right, Freddie,’ said Sloane. ‘However, I should point out to you, before anyone else comes in, that you are improperly dressed.’
Barnes, a fussy man when it came to appearance, instinctively felt to see if the knot in his tie and his tunic buttons were fastened properly. They were. Then, looking down, he flushed with sudden embarrassment. He had forgotten to remove his cycle clips.
‘Never mind, Freddie,’ Sloane grinned, ‘it might have been worse. Your flies might have been undone.’
During the next five minutes, the pilots and Barnes were joined by the various specialists — the meteorological, engineering, armaments and air traffic control officers — all of whom would have something to say in the course of the briefing. Everyone took a seat, and an air of expectancy settled over the briefing room as the hands of the wall clock moved towards 0400. Barnes noted with some surprise that, on this occasion, everyone had arrived early; normally, two or three aircrew burst into the room at the very last moment, panting and out of breath.
A few seconds before four o’clock, the door opened again and Group Captain Davison entered the room, followed by Yeoman. Everyone stood up, then sat down with a scraping of chairs as the Group Captain motioned to them to do so. He himself took a seat behind the assembled pilots, where he would remain an inconspicuous onlooker until the main briefing.
Yeoman stepped up on to the platform, placed his hat on a table and then stood facing the assembly, his hands behind his back, surveying the pilots for a second or two while he marshalled his thoughts.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. I am aware that you are all champing at the bit because of the lack of activity over the past few days.’
There were a few murmurs of assent. Since the squadron had carried out its first long-range operational mission early in August, dropping ‘Window’ in support of a night attack on Hamm by Bomber Command, operations had been badly disrupted by the weather. A few sorties had been flown by single aircraft, but these had involved patrols over the Channel or very short forays into enemy territory, the Mosquitos dropping down through low cloud and drizzle to shoot up targets of opportunity. So far, there had been no losses.
‘Well,’ Yeoman continued, ‘today is the one we’ve all been waiting for. This morning, we shall be carrying out our first big operation by daylight — an attack on three enemy fighter airfields in Holland.’
He picked up a billiard cue that served as a pointer and moved over to the wall map, indicating the target airfields one by one.
‘The first of them, and the one closest to the coast, is Eelde, five miles due south of Groningen. This will be attacked by McManners, Reed, Romilly and Olafsson. Further south, about forty miles inland’ — the pointer moved down the map — ‘is Hoogeveen, which will be attacked by Sloane, O’Grady, Keen and Lorrimer. It’s a fairly small grass field, right on the north-east outskirts of the neighbouring town, so you’ll have to be careful not to endanger any Dutch lives.’
The pointer moved still further down the map, stopping at the third pin which Barnes had inserted a few minutes earlier.
‘This is Twenthe, near Hengelo, and it’s the closest of the lot to the German border. I’ll look after that one, together with Miller, Saint and Telfer. It’s seventy miles inland.’
‘Thanks, boss,’ said a rueful voice from the audience. There was a ripple of laughter; the speaker was Pilot Officer Terry Saint, a slightly-built New Zealander who was one of the squadron’s chief comedians. Yeoman grinned at him.
‘All right, Terry, I’ve no doubt you’ll be taking a spare pair of underpants
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