Five Minutes Longer: A World War II Story

PROLOGUE

REMEMBRANCE

The waiting’s the worst. The waiting for the good or bad. For the sun during a bone-chilling night. The waiting for the storm you know is coming. The storm you know you can do nothing about. And the only thing you know you can do is prepare.

Awise man once said, ‘Peace hath higher tests of manhood than war ever knew’. The words ran like an unbroken chant through Major Jimmy McKay’s brain as he stood over the grave of the best man to have ever served under his command.

The war was long over, yet even now, in 1969, more than two decades later, the past continued to haunt him. But his frequent and solemn visits to the cemetery outside Edinburgh brought him no solace. Though a wealthy man now, he still had nightmares about being cold and hungry, of fierce firefights. Every night, as he lay in bed beside his wife, with his eyes closed, he could see the destruction he had caused, the death and dying he had borne witness to. Jimmy could still hear the gunshot that had killed his best friend. It was the last thing he heard before he slept and the first thing when he woke. He remembered the thud of Martin’s lifeless body as it hit the war-torn earth.

1942 had been a fateful year for Jimmy. He remembered it vividly, as if it was yesterday. The pain it had brought; the vengeance he had taken. He clearly recalled why there was blood on his hands; blood he could never wipe off; blood that was part of his identity, his mind, his life, his soul.

What was the reason for it all? A savage war fought on the whims of fate, at the mercy of destiny, to feed the ambitions of one man.

As Jimmy stood looking down at his friend’s grave, he pulled out a gun; the gun he had carried throughout the war. It was a painful reminder of how cruel life could be. A reminder he didn’t need. He removed the magazine and cocked the pistol. He squeezed the trigger, as he had done so many times before in the solitary confines of his study. Tears filled his eyes as he knelt and put the Colt down in front of the gravestone, standing the last bullet next to it – a final salute from soldier to soldier, friend to friend, brother to brother.

The morning dew glistened on the grass like tears, braving the sun. Jimmy rose and gazed down at the gravestone one last time.

You didn’t deserve it, Martin.

He bid a final farewell to his friend and turned away.

In the distance a black Rolls Royce waited, adding insult to injury. Others would perhaps have termed his visit to his friend’s grave an act of regret or loss, but Jimmy knew it for what it was.

Remembrance.

PART I

WHEN THE CROW FALLS

1

OPERATION BLACK BRIAR

1 SEPTEMBER 1942

The cold wind slapped me in the face as I descended over southern England, my parachute open, the Whitley bomber from night squadron pulling away, the roar of its engines fading in my ears. I gazed down on the other four parachutes sailing gracefully beneath me, maneuvering towards the green smoke flare that marked our landing spot. This was not my first drop but I still felt queasy as my chute slowed my fall. I scanned the ground again for the green smoke in the bleak outlandish landscape. I spotted it bellowing from a field where a few men stood around a bonfire. Three trucks stood idle, waiting for us to land.

I maneuvered my parachute towards the smoke and scanned the grey horizon for signs of the sun breaking through the fog that had settled further east, towards the coast. It had been there for a few days, refusing to budge. I judged I was about twenty-five feet off the ground; I could see the faces of the men gathered around the fire, cigarettes in their mouths, rifles slung over their shoulders, huddled in thick coats against the morning chill.

I flared my chute at fifteen feet. It collapsed in on itself as I landed. One of the men walked up to me and grunted, vapour wafting from his mouth, ‘Hop into that truck. Eric and Victor have already arrived.’

‘What about the others – Brian and Martin?’ I asked, detaching the parachute and gathering it up.

‘Landed further to the south; missed the mark,’ he said turning away.

I walked over to the truck the man had vaguely gestured to, and climbed in. Nodding to Eric and Victor, I took my place between them on the bench.

‘How was your drop?’ Victor asked as Eric smacked the cab glass to let the driver know it was good to go.

‘Not bad; perfect I would say. Yours?’ I opened my flask for a swig of water.

He laughed. We all knew he was by far the most experienced parachutist amongst us.

‘Where are Brian and Martin?’ Eric asked, sitting back down.

‘They landed south of the drop zone, missed the flare by a bit,’ I replied, looking out from the truck as it bumped along the gravel road, heading towards a small special operations airfield in the east.

‘How does one do that?’ Eric chuckled at our colleagues’ incompetence.

‘I’ve always told you,’ Victor popped a cigarette between his lips and fished the lighter out of his pocket, ‘they are special.’

I looked down at the dark gravel road behind us, at the shadow the truck cast as it bumped along. I had nothing else to do except wonder how these chaps, who I had known for such a short time, felt like family. I knew so much about them. That PFC Eric Fleming, with his grey eyes and slight stoop, never touched a drop of liquor, sang Irish ballads off key and looked at his young son’s picture when he thought no one could see him.

I knew PFC Victor McGregor with his Scottish lilt, could make even the most profane words sound like music. Not to mention he loved his whiskey. He had four dogs back home. We all secretly prayed he would get out of the war alive for Lanie, Scot, Fet and Harding.

Then there was Captain Peterson. We called him by his first name, Brian, though he was the oldest, and outranked us. He held the firm belief that rank is overcome by camaraderie and friendship and did not like being called Sir. He spoke little of his family, though his mother wrote him every week, and he had a stack of the letters he had kept with him since September 1939.

And then there was my best friend, Martin Hoode. He was a Corporal, though I never referred to him as that, and he never considered the fact that I was merely a Lieutenant. I asked him about his family once, back when we were in Scotland, training. He had a brother in the RAF, who died in the Battle of Britain. He had no other surviving family, other than an estranged aunt, who lived in India – a woman he hated. He had no blood family, but he had us.

‘Here we are chaps!’ The driver’s voice caught my wandering attention.

We heard the sentry’s voice asking the driver for papers. The gates swung open, their hinges creaking slightly. The truck roared to life and we went on.

It was not a large military base but it was adequate for the operations carried out from there. When the truck finally ground to a halt, we got off. Grabbing our kit, we made for the barracks. It was dawn now and there were three C-47s waiting on the tarmac, ready to go on their separate missions, their engines roaring as the pilots warmed them up.

Eric took the lead through the maze of parked trucks and military cars towards the barracks. ‘Good to be back, innit?’ he said, shouldering his kit and loping forward.

***

The barracks were located at the far end of the base, next to the fence. It was a bare grey building on two levels, with a brown tiled roof. The stairs were on the outside, made of steel. Eric started climbing them, his shoes making a tap-tap sound against the cold metal. We followed him up. Martin’s cigarette smoke wafting back, reaching my nostrils.

‘Those are bad for you,’ I said, shoving my hands into my pockets.

Ignoring my words as if they had never been spoken, Martin asked, ‘When are we getting our final briefing?’

‘I don’t know,’ Eric said, brooding. ‘They’ve delayed it as much as possible.’

‘What could they possibly gain from that, Eric?’ I asked. ‘Remember the Colonel said it was a matter of the highest importance and needed to be completed immediately?’

I was right. Colonel Black had informed us during our mission training that Operation Black Briar was top priority. He had said, ‘This operation is of vital importance, but the mission time will be relatively short, therefore it is not worth bothering…others over.’

‘What the hell do you think he meant by ‘not worth bothering others over’?’ Victor asked, discarding his wasted cigarette as we reached the door to the barracks.

‘Who the hell do you think he meant by others?’ Eric added, stuffing his kit under his cot.

‘Who the hell is willing to go on a mission as suicidal as this?’ I asked,

A rhetorical question, of course but Victor replied nonetheless, saying with emphasis as he flopped down on his cot, ‘Us Jimmy, us Commandos.’

I sat down on one of the other cots and stared out the window, gazing at the sun rising over the sea. ‘Yeah,’ I mused, ‘we are suicidal.’

‘Damn right we are!’ Eric said sitting up. ‘That’s why we’re Commandos.’ We laughed, our voices echoing in the empty room.

A young Private appeared in the door, sweating and grinning like a madman. ‘It’s time!’ he panted.

‘Finally! I was getting irritated.’ Victor nodded and got up, following Martin out of the door.

I looked at Eric. ‘Looks like you might get an answer to your question.’

Martin led us to the truck where Brian was already talking to another man who looked like an officer. When he saw us, he nodded in our direction, cigarette in mouth. ‘This is Major Harington. He is the Colonel’s new aide,’ he said, introducing the officer.