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  FREEFALL

  Robert Radcliffe

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  About the Author

  Table of Contents

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  About Freefall

  Dreadfully injured in the Arnhem landings, paratrooper Theo Trickey was never expected to survive. In the aftermath of defeat, captured Medical Officer Captain Daniel Garland pulled Trickey's comatose body from a pile of copses, keeping him alive as they were shipped to a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany. Now, as Trickey slowly recovers, Garland is discovering that there’s something quite unusual about his young charge.

  Trickey has had a remarkable war. Boy soldier, commando, paratrooper, intelligence officer – he has fought from the northern coast of France to the deserts of Africa. But that’s not all. What was Trickey’s connection with Germany’s greatest general, the recently deceased Erwin Rommel? Why have the Desert Fox’s loyalest officers tracked him down and just what is it that they want Garland to do?

  From the bestselling author of Under an English Heaven, Freefall is the second part of Radcliffe’s Airborne trilogy which tells the extraordinary story of a young soldier, of a new regiment and how, together, they changed the course of a war.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Freefall

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  About Robert Radcliffe

  The Airborne Series

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  For my brother, John, and my sisters, Judith and Deborah

  CHAPTER 1

  At 6 p.m. Lieutenant Charteris appeared round the door of the hut. ‘It’s on, boys,’ he said breathlessly, ‘get your stuff together.’

  Heads shook knowingly; wry smiles were exchanged.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ someone sighed, ‘soon as I finish my newspaper.’

  ‘Yes and I’ve darned my socks.’

  ‘I mean it!’ Charteris protested, ‘it’s really happening. Tonight!’

  ‘That’s what they said last night.’

  ‘And the night before, and the one before that.’

  ‘Yes, but this time it’s true. Listen!’ He opened the door wider. Beyond it the moonlit field lay motionless.

  ‘Listen to what? I cannae hear a thing!’

  Charteris grinned. ‘Precisely!’

  ‘So...’

  ‘The wind.’ Theo sat forward. ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘So it has.’

  ‘Christ, boys, it’s on!’

  Fifteen minutes later the 120 Scotsmen of C Company, the 2nd Parachute Battalion, were crammed aboard army buses, singing lustily as they lurched along narrow Wiltshire roads to the aerodrome at Thruxton. There they disembarked to find twelve black-painted Whitley bombers dispersed around the perimeter being prepared for flight. Fuel bowsers hurried to and fro, engineers kicked tyres and screwed down cowlings, flight crews checked maps, radios, signal flares and code books, while gunners loaded and tested their weapons. Meanwhile, beneath each bomber, ground crews carefully manhandled equipment canisters into the Whitleys’ bomb bays, and attached their parachute lines ready for release over the target.

  A wan-looking airman in an RAF greatcoat was watching proceedings to one side.

  Theo rubbed his hands against the cold. ‘All right, Charlie?’ he asked him, although it came out as a-reet.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Looks like we’re really going, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does rather.’

  ‘Can’t quite believe it. All that running around on cliffs and messing about in boats, I think I persuaded myself it wasn’t actually, you know, real.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Now I’m scared stiff I’ll mess everything up. For everyone.’

  ‘You won’t, you’ll be fine.’ Theo regarded the airman. Inserted late into the team as a ‘technical expert’, Charlie Cox was the typical boffin, intense, nervy, bespectacled – and slight, child-like in size compared to the huge Scotsmen noisily disembarking from the buses around them. Theo had been told to stay close to Cox. A few minutes later he finally learned why.

  ‘Well, good evening, everyone!’ Major Frost, standing on a chair, grinned broadly at his men, ranged in an attentive semi-circle before him. They were assembled in one of Thruxton’s cavernous hangars; no one outside C Company had been allowed in, and Company Sergeant Major Strachan had locked the door shut behind them. Up to that moment, only Frost and his officers knew details of the assignment they were tasked with; now it was time to tell the men who would carry it out.

  ‘Thank you for your patience this week. I know how difficult it has been, especially having trained so hard.’ Frost checked his watch. ‘But in two hours from now we will have embarked upon a mission of great importance. Its code name is Operation Biting, and its aim is to seize a radar facility belonging to the enemy. This facility sits on a cliff on the coast of Normandy; our job is to secure it and the area around it, so that our RAF radio technician, Sergeant Cox here, can dismantle it and bring key components back home for analysis.’ A hundred pairs of eyes turned on Cox who forced a wan grin. ‘Now, we need not trouble ourselves with the technicalities, our role is to deal with the enemy, but let me assure you that success will save thousands of Allied lives. Also may I remind you this is the first operation ever assigned to our battalion, and therefore a great honour and responsibility.’

  Theo glanced at the men around him, listening to their leader in rapt silence. Almost all were Scotsmen, many still wearing their Highland insignia, in defiance of regulation: bobble hats, Glengarry caps, tam-o’-shanters, some displaying the coloured ‘hackles’ of their regiment – he saw Black Watch, Seaforths, Camerons, Argylls, Gordons, and was reminded of an insane attack against tanks in France, four boys charging down a lane to their deaths, and an entire division desperately fighting for its life. At home in Scotland these men would squabble like feral cats, but in battle he’d seen them die gladly for one another. It’s what made them so special.

  ‘... we go in by RAF and we come out by Royal Navy,’ Frost was saying. ‘We operate in four groups, exactly as trained, and deploy according to known enemy disposition.’ He stepped off the chair to pull a sheet from a blackboard, revealing a chalk-drawn map. ‘This is our target, the radar unit, close to the cliff edge here. It’s manned by Luftwaffe technicians who may be armed. Lieutenant Vernon’s team, which includes Sergeant Cox and our German speaker Trickey, will take it. Oh, and there’s a three-hundred-foot drop over the edge so watch your step! A quarter-mile north is the radar-receiving building and guardhouse, which is where the main enemy concentration is expected, so Lieutenant Timothy and his group will deploy there to stop anyone approaching. Leading south from the radar unit is our exit route, which is a steep footpath down to the beach area. Intelligence suggests this is guarded by a second enemy detachment located in this blockhouse down on the shore, with more enemy garrisoned in the village of Bruneval just inland from the blockhouse. So Captain Ross and Lieutenant Charteris will bring their teams there and secure the beach for the navy landing craft to pick us up. Meanwhile, my team will oversee operations, help with the radar unit and mop up as required. The DZ is a quarter-mile inland from the radar station, here behind these trees. After the drop we all assemble there, then take up our positions as stealthily as possi
ble. The signal to commence attack will be four blasts on my whistle. We must be off the beach by oh three hundred hours latest, our drop time is midnight, so we emplane at twenty-one hundred.’

  Frost concluded with a goodwill message from their divisional commander, General Browning; then everyone was told to disperse to their groups for more detailed instructions. Theo waited with Cox until they were summoned forward.

  ‘All set, Sergeant?’ Frost asked Cox.

  ‘Yes, sir, I… I think so.’

  ‘Trolley ready, tool kit packed?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Checked everything myself.’

  ‘Good man.’ Frost glanced at Cox’s uniform, a lone patch of blue amid a sea of khaki. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t fix you up as a temporary Para, Cox. I tried, you know, but it’s RAF regulations apparently.’

  ‘It’s all right, sir, I don’t mind.’

  Frost dismissed him and then turned to Theo. ‘Will he be all right, Trickey? He looks like a rabbit caught in headlights.’

  ‘It’s just nerves, sir. I think he’ll be fine.’

  ‘He’d better. Everything depends on him.’

  ‘It’s the jump. That and the responsibility. He’ll be better once he lands and starts work.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Now listen. Stick to him like glue. Your interpreting services will be needed at the radar unit, sorting out the Jerry technicians and so on – ideally we’d like to nab a couple if possible. But I can’t emphasize enough the importance of speed, for we must get off that cliff before they call up reinforcements. Boffin types like Cox get bogged down at the slightest thing, so just make sure he gets the guts out of the blasted apparatus quickly, then get it and him down to the beach, you got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Frost passed a hand over his face. His eyes were bloodshot, his face fatigued; he looked weary and old beyond his twenty-nine years. Five consecutive days and nights this ordeal had been going on. And many weeks of training before that. To cap it all the final dress rehearsal, which had involved scrambling over a Dorset cliff in pitch darkness to be picked up by navy landing craft, had been absolute chaos, with men getting lost in the dark, several falling and injuring themselves, and the navy landing at the wrong beach. Now this. Five times the mission had been set and then cancelled, five days of careful preparation and nail-biting anticipation, only to receive the ‘cancelled-due-weather’ phone call at the last moment. Then today he’d been told the window had finally closed, that the February tides were now wrong and the moon too weak to mount the operation. After all the effort it was heartbreaking, and yet secretly a relief, and he’d begun preparing to stand everyone down, even allowing himself the notion of a weekend’s quiet leave to recover. Then suddenly a higher authority intervened, possibly Churchill himself; the telephone rang and he was told one final go might be attempted, if the weather cleared. All afternoon he had waited, and slowly, impossibly, the winter clouds parted, the mist melted and the wind dropped to a zephyr. ‘Fancy a crack at it, Johnny?’ General Browning had quipped over the phone at teatime. ‘Good luck, and make sure you’re home for breakfast!’

  ‘The RAF uniform, Theo,’ Frost was saying, ‘I wanted Cox added as an extra, you know, with false name and Para uniform and everything. In case it all went wrong and we got captured. At least he’d have a chance if he looked like one of us.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But the point is, if it does all go wrong, the War Office is adamant.’

  ‘About what, sir?’

  ‘He has too much technical knowledge. About our radar, our countermeasures, our research and development.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘So he can’t be taken alive, Theo. Under any circumstances. Do you understand?’

  *

  As part of HQ section, he and Cox rode in Frost’s Whitley. Cumbersome and heavy in their jumping gear, they queued to board while C Company’s bagpipe player, Piper Ewing, strode back and forth playing Highland marches for the Scotsmen; then they struggled inside and settled themselves near the front, sprawling on to the freezing metal of the fuselage floor. There they waited with the rest of the stick, while their leader fussed between aircraft making last-minute checks. Finally all was ready and Frost boarded, the door was sealed shut, and a minute later the engines thundered to life.

  ‘Everybody OK?’ Frost called cheerfully. Nods and thumbs up were exchanged as, bulky in his jumping smock and harness, Frost clambered forward and took his position behind the pilot. Now that the mission was actually under way he, like everyone, felt immeasurably better.

  He had first learned of Operation Biting eight weeks earlier, shortly after Christmas 1941. First Parachute Brigade was barely formed, he was a lowly captain and hadn’t even completed his jump training, when suddenly he was promoted to Major and given command of 2nd Battalion’s C Company – a post he greatly coveted. The only problem was his friend Philip Teichman was commanding C Company, but got moved to B Company, which put a strain on their friendship. Then came rumours of a mission. Everyone assumed 1st Battalion would be assigned – after all, 1st Battalion had formed first, it held the original paratroops from 2 Commando, it had mounted Operation Colossus, it was proven, ready and able. But for some reason the mission went to 2nd Battalion and Frost’s Scottish C Company. Frost was astonished, 1st Battalion insulted, and Philip so angry that he demanded they see the brigadier. He should command the Jocks, he insisted to Brigadier Gale, he knew them, had worked and trained with them, and brought them to readiness.

  ‘Yes,’ Frost conceded, ‘but I formed C Company, I interviewed and chose them, and in the short time I’ve led them have earned their trust and loyalty. In any case,’ he added carefully, ‘like it or not, I am now their commander.’

  ‘But, Johnny’ – Philip then played his ace – ‘you’re not even qualified to jump.’

  Gale compromised. C Company would go to Wiltshire to start training for the mission. Philip would go with it. Frost, still not fully recovered from his balloon-jumping injury, was given one week to complete his training. If he succeeded the mission was his, if not it would go to Teichman. Frost packed his bags and headed for Ringway. It was midwinter, the weather foul, and for four days he sat around seething with impatience, praying for it to clear. On the fifth day it did clear, but a backlog of jumpers filled the queue ahead of him. Mysteriously he was pulled out and sent to the front, and over the next twenty-four hours he threw himself from the Whitley five times, qualified, grabbed his parachute wings and caught the train to Wiltshire. Teichman handed him command of C Company with barely a word.

  The flight from Thruxton was noisy, smooth but cold. Having formed up, the twelve aircraft set course over the black waters of the Channel, Theo’s stick huddling down in the fuselage wrapped in blankets for warmth. Some had brought flasks or newspapers, a few dozed, most lay in contemplative silence. Cox, wide-eyed, sat nervously hugging his knees.

  ‘Why do they call you tricky?’ he asked Theo.

  ‘Well, it’s my name, Charlie.’

  ‘Oh. Where are you from?’

  ‘It’s um, it’s called South Tyrol. In the Alps. And you?’

  ‘Stevenage.’

  An hour passed. Frost busied himself checking his maps and consulting the pilots. After a while he came back to sit beside Theo and grinned. ‘Was it like this on Colossus?’

  Theo thought back. The long climb out from Malta, the sea crossing to Sicily, then up Italy’s west coast, the icy Apennines glinting white in the moonlight. Exactly a year ago. ‘Colder, sir. And longer.’

  ‘Let’s hope we have better luck getting away.’

  Another thirty minutes passed, then came a shout from the pilot: ‘Coast ahead!’ At the same moment bright flashes burst outside as flak started up, light and inaccurate, but enough to jostle the Whitley and rouse the men. They unbolted the hatch from the floor; the icy gale whirled, below slid white surf, a strip of pale beach, a chalky cliff, then fields and heathland dusted with sn
ow. The red light came on; they shuffled down the fuselage, clipping on static lines, fastening helmets, checking weapons. Frost was to go first, Theo last, immediately behind Cox, who turned to him wide-eyed with apprehension.

  ‘Theo?’

  ‘Arms tucked, Charlie. Knees bent like we practised. Everything’ll be fine.’

  Suddenly the green light flashed and they were going, vanishing from sight like dropped toys. Frost went, then seven more in quick succession, Cox and Theo shuffling down the fuselage after them. Cox reached the hole, swung his legs over, stared into the abyss and froze.

  ‘Go, Charlie!’ Theo shoved him, two-handed, over the edge, then leaped after, catching his shoulder a glancing blow and tumbling badly, gasping in the cold, until the familiar jerk righted him and he was floating serenely earthwards. Overhead more Whitleys rumbled, pouring jumpers. He looked down for his stick: Charlie was below and to his left, the others beyond in a neat receding line. Beneath lay the snowy cliff top, the line of trees, the DZ, the guardhouse, and the little circle marking the radar itself, all exactly as on the blackboard at Thruxton. The black shadow of the trees slid by, then the ground was rushing up; he braced, tucked and rolled. The impact winded him but swiftly he was up, the parachute released and he was hurrying to help Cox.

  ‘We made it!’ Charlie was struggling with his harness.

  ‘Yes, come on, let’s find your tools.’

  They helped gather the weapons and equipment, then Sergeant Major Strachan formed them up, his voice unusually muted in the moonlight. Incredibly, now the Whitleys were gone, there was no sound, no sirens or alarms, no shouts or barking dogs, and no gunfire. But there was a problem.

  ‘Charteris’s stick didn’t make it,’ Frost told them. ‘Missed the drop or something. They were to neutralize the village and help Ross secure the beach, but we’ll just have to manage without them. You all know what to do. Keep quiet until you hear my signal. Let’s get on with it.’