Taking a 955i Tiger from Triumph Engineers to Vintage Ownership

 I’m bound and determined to keep the old Tiger in motion. Triumph has abandoned me in
terms of parts support, but there is another way and Classic Bike Magazine shows you how to find it. I used to depend on Practical Sports Bikes for keeping these pre-classics in motion, but they killed it.


Rick Parkington writes a lot about the transition from standard manufacturer supported bike ownership to vintage bike ownership, but what he’s really on about is keeping a bike in motion when the plug-and-play relationship with modern bike parts isn’t an option any more. For a modern Triumph that happens about 20 years after they build it (I’ve had older Kawasakis and Hondas that kept providing parts, but I digress).

The biggest thing to get your head around is being ready to find alternatives that meet the needs you’re facing rather than following the manual and hoping for parts to arrive that you can swap in. One of my issues on a 90k+ bike is slack in the machine. The throttle stop has worn down over the many miles so I’ve been playing with putting a spacer nut on there.

When I had it apart today I used the grinder to try two different cuts of nut to get my idle back to where it should be. The middle one gives me perhaps a mm of recovered space on the pin that catches the throttle when it returns to idle at a point that doesn’t make the engine struggle.


Another one of those vintage approaches is around battling fasteners. You can never assume something will come off as it should. In this case the fastener on the throttle casing on the handlebar creates swear words.


While I had it apart today I put in two new cables (throttle and clutch). Thanks to Rogx in Germany (who are still producing new cables for the 955i Tiger which was popular in Germany), I got two new cables with hardware and it arrived early and with no headache (love dealing with Germans!).

The clutch cable was fraying by the transmission so it was well past time. My thought is that if this one lasts as long as the first one (over 90k), then I’ll be happy. I ran both cables next to the existing ones to get the runs right and then removed the old ones afterwards. It was a satisfying Sunday afternoon in the garage.

No complaints (other than Triumph not supporting its own machines when they are less than 20 years old). These cables both did over 90k in brutal Canadian temperature changes.

A satisfying Sunday afternoon getting the Tiger sorted. I think another couple of hours and I’ll have it back in motion for the end of the riding season here.

I wrote this as I was catching up on the Indonesian Grand Prix in MotoGP after a crazy (but awesome) week at work. I lost Marc after the Valentino incident back in 2015, but I’m starting to find my Marquez fandom again…

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Under Dark Skies Chapter 4

Chapter 4. Previous chapters can be found in previous posts. 

British Expeditionary Force
Monday, May 13th, 1940
Reims Aerodrome – Northern France

 

As was so often the case, Bill was
back in Scotland in the Trials. He was exhausted and the bike was hanging
together by a thread, but neither of them were going to stop. The smell of the
ancient mud and heather from highland moors filled his nose, then suddenly he
was in the pub in Fort William, and everyone was cheering as they hung his
medal above the bar. The backslapping turned to slaps. In an instance he was
back home in Norfolk, fired for taking the week off to compete and looking at
an RAF poster.

“All I’ve got to give you is blood,
toil, sweat and tears,” it said, and then he was laying in his bunk, grey
morning light filling the room. Bill was the only one in the NCO bunky, but
next door in the common room the radio was turned up. Through the static came a
familiar voice.

“We have before us an ordeal of the
most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of
suffering,” static surrounded Churchill’s familiar voice.

Bill swung his legs over the edge of
the bunk and slipped on his boots. In the common room half a dozen junior NCOs
were sitting at the table listening to the radio.

“…what is our policy? I can say: It
is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the
strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never
surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime,” Churchill
continued. He sounded like he was warming to his subject and the words were
rolling out of him like thunder.

The men in the room were motionless,
hanging on every word.

“…what is our aim? I can answer in
one word: It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror,
victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is
no survival.”

“Quite,” Sergeant Michaels said,
taking a sip of his tea.

Bill walked over to the pot and poured
himself a cup and leaned back against the wall to listen.

“… I feel sure that our cause will
not be suffered to fail among men. At this time, I feel entitled to claim the
aid of all, and I say, ‘come then, let us go forward together with our united
strength.’” There was a silence at the end of the speech before the announcer
cut in explaining that this had been recorded this morning in an emergency
meeting of Parliament.

Bill looked around the room.
Everyone was stony faced. The radio announcer suggested that Churchill had
forced Parliament to open for that speech.

“Is Churchill Prime Minister now?”
Bill asked.

“He got the job last Friday, mate,”
Michaels laughed. “Where have you been?”

“In Belgium,” Bill replied absently,
sipping his tea.

The junior NCOs exchanged glances.

“Why on earth would you want to go
there?” Michaels asked.

“Someone asked me to give them a
hand blowing up a bridge,” Bill replied. He was still a bit foggy after the
long sleep.

“Did you manage it?” Michaels asked,
sharing an incredulous look with the other NCOs.

“One less bridge for Gerry to supply
petrol over,” Bill repeated what he’d said to Grimes the evening before.

“Meet any Germans?”

“A few too many, actually.”

“Right, give us the details!”

“I was the rabbit; I made a
distraction and drew them away so the demolition boys could finish the job.”

“Jolly good, Corporal,” Michaels
raised his mug.

“How are things here?” Bill asked.

“Lost three Hurricanes over the
weekend. Another two are on fire outside this morning, but the weather’s closed
in so hopefully we’ll have a day or two to get ourselves sorted.”

“Are we winning?” Bill asked,
looking at the white faces.

“If we’re not, we’re making them pay
for each step,” Corporal Allings said. The other men in the room murmured in
agreement.

“Bloody right,” Bill replied,
raising his cup to the room of tired men. “Want to see the latest in Nazi
fashion?”

Everyone’s eyes lit up, so Bill put
down his mug and dug the SS uniform out of his barracks box. Laying it out on
the table it was a grand looking thing, though a bit grotty from the long ride.
Say what you will about Nazis, but they design smashing uniforms.

“This is SS, isn’t it?” Allings
asked, running a finger over the shoulder badges.

“It is,” Bill replied, “it’s a
Scharführer SS uniform. They told me the equivalent of a sergeant.”

The men looked over the uniform with
interest. After months in country this was the first time any of them had seen
an enemy uniform up close.

“Got the hat with it?” Rawlings
asked.

“Just the big stormtrooper helmet,
but I left it with the bike.”

“BMW R12?” Corporal Smith asked.
He’d been one of the first to take the two-wheel training and had gotten into
motorcycling magazines since.

“Yep, boxer twin, telescopic forks.
It handled better than it should have and flatters the rider. If you’re ever
being chased by one you want to get a move on, or they’ll catch you up.”

“Did they let you hang on to it?”

“No,” Bill said with some regret. “I
had to leave it on the grounds of a Belgian castle.”

“It happens,” Michaels laughed.

Someone had gotten a tray of bread
and bacon from the mess and were putting together sandwiches with the tea. Bill
fell in with them for breakfast. After such a mad weekend it was nice to see
familiar faces and chat.

 

Even
with the weather closing in the airfield was a constant buzz of activity. So
many planes weren’t returning or were landing in pieces that it was becoming
obvious to everyone at Champagne-Reims that things weren’t going well. Being
centralized with bomber squadrons made the members of Seventy-Three aware of
just how badly things were getting as the bomber crews were constantly being
swapped for fresh faces.

Bill sorted out the bikes and then
lent a hand moving fuel bowser around. Midafternoon, under low cloud and heavy
drizzle, he was filling up a bowser when the drone of German bombers sent
everyone into a frenzy. Bombs started dropping across the airfield, concussing
the air, and flattening the wet grass with each explosion. Bill kept the spigot
on. If one landed on the trench you were in you were done anyway, and
Hurricanes couldn’t intercept if they were empty. The raid had been well timed
as most of the squadron had just returned from patrol after the morning rain
had lifted.

No buildings were hit but two of the
runways were damaged. Ten minutes later they were being filled. Bombing was an
inexact science. It did more damage to morale than the apparatus of war,
perhaps that was reason enough to do it.

Bill finished the refill and
navigated the heavy lorry over the rutted earth, staying clear of where the
planes taxied and took off. Pulling up to the squadron’s line of Hurricanes,
pilots were either jumping out of their planes to take a comfort break before
going up again or were necking a sandwich and a mug of tea, often both. The
ground crews swarmed around the bowser, running lines out to the nearest plane
and began refueling. Bill climbed out of the cab and stepped aside. Nothing
worse than a bystander in the way.

“Corporal Morris,” Flight Sergeant
Grimes was striding across the wet grass towards him. “Got a minute?”

“Yes, Flight,” Bill replied, wiping
his hands on a rag, and walking over to meet him.

Grimes glanced around to make sure
they were out of earshot, but everyone was too busy to listen in any case.

“Bit of bad news,” Grimes began
quietly. “We’ve lost an entire squadron of Battles in one go. They went down at
the Belgian border just northeast of Sedan in the Ardennes.”

“The Germans hold Sedan, don’t
they?”

Grimes nodded, “They’re well behind
enemy lines. At least two of the planes landed with full crews. They managed to
radio in before going down.”

Grimes was poker faced which left
Bill wondering what the ask was.  Grimes
seemed to be struggling with it himself.

“The squadron senior NCO is an old
friend,” Grimes finally continued. “He’s taking this badly. They’ve already
lost their entire squadron once before and this one will break them. They need
a win. I thought you might be able to think of something.”

“How many crews are we talking
about?” Bill asked.

“Two-Two-Six had all six of their
Fairies on a bombing raid near Les Mazures on the Meuse River. If they all
survived it would be eighteen men, but that’s an optimistic estimate.”

As ridiculous as the question was,
Bill was already trying to work out how to do it.

“In a pinch, that Citroën TUB could
hold that much weight. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but it’d hold them,” he
finally replied.

“It’s not an order,” Grimes said,
“but if you’re willing to try and get them, we have coordinates that’ll get you
close.”

“I don’t want to see that many
airmen left behind,” Bill replied. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you, Corporal. Good luck,”
Grimes turned and walked briskly back to the temporary HQ.

 

With the rest of the squadron doing
double duty to keep planes in the air, Bill was able to run around behind the
scenes putting together a plan with notes heavily cribbed from Biffy’s bridge
adventure. He fueled up the Citroën and the Tiger and took everything else out
of the nondescript civilian van. It would make him invisible, but the real
trick was to avoid any German entanglements, he knew a man who might help with
that.

Bill rode the Tiger around the
perimeter of the massive aerodrome to the main French HQ. It was lunch time so
hopefully he’d be able to find Pierre in the officer’s mess. Stepping in from
the rain, he brushed himself off and looked around. Several French officers had
stopped eating and were looking at the damp RAF corporal standing in the door.
From the back of the room by the window a familiar voice rang out.

“Corporal Morris!” Pierre stood up
smiling with a wave. “Join me!”

Bill smiled back in relief. He’d
gotten the distinct feeling that he was about to be yelled at in French.
Walking past the annoyed stares, he took the empty seat across from Pierre.

“You look worried,” Pierre noted
over a meal that put the RAF mess to shame. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes please,” Bill replied,
shivering from the damp.

Pierre filled a porcelain cup with
spectacular smelling coffee. Fighting a war in your own country had its perks.

“What can I do for you, damp
Corporal?” Pierre asked, handing him the cup.

Bill took a sip and then looked
Pierre in the eye.

“We lost an entire squadron of
Fairey Battles this morning. They’ve gone down in the Ardennes northeast of
Sedan.  My Flight Sergeant is wondering
if I can go get them.”

“That’s thirty kilometres the wrong
side of the German line,” Pierre said, “and a lot of people to try and fit on
the back of a motorbike.”

“I’ve got a civilian Citroën TUB
that should hold them,” Bill replied.

“Of course you do.”

“What I’d really like to do is avoid
any enemy entanglements. Do you have any idea where they’re concentrated up
there?”

Pierre took a sip of coffee and gave
it some thought.

“I can find you some of the latest
reconnaissance from the area, but they won’t be happy to see an RAF enlisted
man in there. Wait in the Quartier General front office. Tell them Captain
Clostermann has asked for you and they should leave you alone.”

“Thanks, Pierre.”

Both men drained their coffees and
stood up. Bill followed Pierre out of the officer’s mess as many eyes followed
them.

The Quartier General was a permanent
building with heat, which Bill found magical after a winter living in various
forms of temporary shelter. The officious git at the front desk could speak
English but was determined not to. Bill finally got a dismissive gesture
towards chairs in the lobby and went and sat in one. Pierre appeared a few
minutes later with a notebook full of scribbled details. He sat down next to
Bill in the waiting area and started a rapid fire debrief.

“Most of the German activity is on
the east side of the Meuse. That river, eh? They have a major supply line
running down the road from Hargnies that we’ve been trying to hit for the past
week, but they provide strong air cover over it. Maybe head north to Vervins
and then come in from that way, you’re only likely to meet light patrols. Their
main push is into Sedan and then south.”

Pierre hesitated, closing the
notebook, “Just because they are looking the other way doesn’t mean this will
work William. Are you sure you have to do this?”

Bill smiled tightly, “I don’t have
to do anything, but I don’t want people feeling hopeless and that’s how things
are starting to get over our way. If I can nip in and get a few boys back home,
it’ll help.”

Pierre nodded, “Bonne chance, mon
ami.”

They stood together and shook hands.

“I’ll pop by later in the week and
tell you how it went,” Bill smiled.

“I’m sure you will,” Pierre replied,
though the worried look in his eyes didn’t go away.



 

With everyone running about putting
their planes back together again, the barracks and mess were empty. Bill ate
alone before dinner was scheduled. The ceiling had dropped to only a few
hundred feet making visibility poor and grounding the planes, it was going to
be a cold, damp evening. After getting food into him, Bill filled a thermos
with tea and put together a sandwich to bring along. As everyone else was
coming in for dinner, Bill headed out into the rain. The Citroën had
non-descript grey paint that faded into the wet landscape. It was going to be
such a handful unloaded that driving it in the wet made Bill distinctly
uncomfortable. That’s when inspiration struck. Why not put a bike in it and
ride back? If he vacated the van and let the aircrew drive it back, more of
them would fit in the van.

The obvious choice was the only
non-RAF bike he had: Louis Jeanin’s Tiger. The brace of Nortons and the lone
Triumph were all sitting under a dripping tarpaulin. The Tiger was still
cooling from the ride over to Pierre. Bill eased it out from under the tarp and
rolled it over to the van. Dragging a plank from the bike shed and setting it
as a ramp, he pushed the Tiger up into the van and tied it to the side with
bits of rope. If the Citroën stopped bouncing about so much, he might not end
up in a ditch.

With another couple of hours until
dark, Bill shut the doors and double checked that the radiator was full, and
that the engine had oil. He also went over everything with an oil can and
checked and filled the tyres. The strange layout of the TUB made this a bit of
an adventure but knowing where everything was seemed prudent, though doing it
half under a tarp in pouring rain wasn’t fun. 
Watching Biffy check the details and put his bridge demolition plan
together had given Bill some idea of how to ensure success when a job had so
many potential surprises.

As everyone else went back to
putting their planes back into service, Bill hit his bunk and tried to sleep.
He must have had a kip because the next thing he remembered was the sound of
the other junior NCOs coming in after a long day on the field. He sat up and
began putting his civilian clothes on. When he came through out of uniform the
conversation around the card table stopped.

“That looks like trouble,” Michaels
observed, putting his cards down.

“Off to see if I can bring some
Fairey Battle crews back,” Bill replied, snagging a mug, and filling it from
the ever-present tea pot.

“Long way to go?” Michaels asked.

“Ardennes,” Bill said, sipping his
tea.

“Isn’t it full of Nazis?” Allings
asked with a look of concern.

“That’s the tricky bit,” Bill
replied, draining the tea.

“What’s the plan?” Michaels’
curiosity mirrored the room’s.

“Drive the Citroën van up there.
Pretend I’m French and hope any Germans I ran into aren’t because my French
won’t take it, find the crews, hand them the van and then ride back providing
cover.”

“Think it’ll work?” Michaels asked.

“I’m about to find out,” Bill
smiled, pulling on his dark blue fishing gansey and stepping out into the rainy
night.

The hand knitted fisherman’s gansey
was a gift given to him the day before he enlisted. It was a reminder of
someone special at home, and it was remarkably good at repelling water, which
would be handy tonight. She’d made it in her family pattern, and it was a
unique thing. In the uniformed world of war, he had little chance to wear it.

The TUB fired up even though it had
been sitting in the wet. As weird as the van was, you had to admire the
engineering. Bill looked over his shoulder. The Tiger crouched in the back of
the van staring back intently with its slotted black out headlamp. The chance
to ride it again, this time possibly in anger, sent a thrill up Bill’s spine.

He put the van in gear and bounced
over the rutted, wet field toward the gate. If they gave him any stick, he’d
have them contact Grimes, but the bored French MP at the gate gave him a wave
when he pulled up and he was through into the kind of darkness you only find in
the countryside at night in the rain.

With
the Tiger in the back the Citroën was manageable. Bill made good time north
through the weather which was more tedious than terrifying. He pulled into
Signy-l’Abbaye, on the edge of the Ardennes Forest just before midnight and
turned off the lights. Sedan was east of him, and Pierre’s notes had suggested
that this was where all the German attention was. He hadn’t seen another
vehicle on the road having stuck to small back roads all the way up.

Using a torch, he scanned the map.
Les Mazures was a village deep in the forest just west of the Meuse River, the
same waterway they’d crossed in Belgium, but down here it was a much smaller
river. With the rain and now a forest, Bill couldn’t have asked for better
cover, but good cover also meant poor sight lines. He could easily round a
corner to discover a hundred Nazis having dinner.

He
turned the headlamps on and put the TUB into gear before rolling under the
deeper shadows of the trees. The road followed a tributary that would
eventually feed the Meuse. The running water was producing its own mist,
cutting visibility even further. He passed through Villaine, another forested
village where all the cottages and shops were dark, but on the outskirts, he
saw a light ahead and pulled off the road onto a dirt path and turned
everything off.

Looking at his map again by
torchlight, he was less than ten miles from where the Fairey crews had gone
down. As he double checked the map a heavy-duty vehicle rumbled past on the
road behind him. The lightless TUB sitting in the shadows hadn’t drawn any
attention. That had been a big, military lorry, possibly a troop carrier. A
familiar sound followed as a pair of sidecar outfits passed by, and then Bill’s
heart jumped in his chest, the mechanical groan of a treaded tank was getting
louder.

Staring at the rear-view mirror,
Bill sat motionless in the shadows. He’d seen tanks but never up close, he was
in the wrong branch of the service for that sort of thing. A Panzer heaved into
view behind him, making quick progress down the country road. It had a bright
spotlight on it that was scanning the forest. Bill could make out the manned
heavy machine gun mount on top next to the spotlight. That gun would turn his
van into Swiss cheese in seconds. The light swept across the Citroën as the
Panzer rolled down the road, but it didn’t hesitate; a nondescript French
delivery van was the best possible camouflage.

Behind the Panzer another large
lorry passed and finally something smaller, maybe one of those little square
Kübelwagens he’d seen at the Luxembourg border last week. Was that only last
week? As the convoy of mechanized soldiers thundered into France unimpeded,
Bill’s heart started to slow down. The dirt road continued into the forest
ahead. He’d intended to fire up the TUB and drive hard into the woods had they
stopped, but his civilian camouflage and going to ground had done the trick.

He gave it a minute more and then
started up the van and backed it out onto the road. The pavement was in rougher
shape after being churned up by the Panzer, so slow and steady it was. Knowing
that mechanized unit was blocking their way out was something to keep in mind.
Along with the heavy machinery, there must have been dozens of men in those
vehicles.

Chapter 5 can be found here.

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Under Dark Skies Chapter 3

Chapter 3 (earlier chapters can be found in previous posts)

British Expeditionary Force
Sunday, May 12th, 1940
Operation Chokepoint: Infiltration into Belgium

 

Biffy wasn’t joking about moving
quickly. Just past midnight they crossed the border into Belgium. A civilian
police car and a military staff car were waiting for them there and they
crossed in moments. Shortly after they were flying north again in the darkness.
The crescent moon was growing and shed a bit of light, but Bill was depending
on the slitted headlamp and the lights of the car to show him what the roads
were doing. Several times they had to slow due to bomb damage and work their
way around some rough bits, but they were often doing better than sixty miles
per hour nearly blind.

The Mercedes was making quick time on
empty, Belgian roads. The man at the wheel knew how to handle a car and was
winding it out whenever he could, sometimes pulling right up behind the
civilian police car which then redoubled its efforts to stay in front.

Bill trailed along at the back on
the BMW which had long legs for this kind of work. Those telescopic forks were
so good, they felt like the future, and the engine and gearing were such that
the bike could easily roll along at sixty miles an hour. Bill wondered if it
had been breathed on since the R12s he’d read about topped out at sixty. This
one was happy looking at the other side of it.

The Belgian countryside flew by in
the shadows. By 2am the fast-moving group found themselves east of Liège and
within striking distance of their target. Castle Selys-Longchamps was a Belgian
operational centre for the front, so they pulled into the grounds. Several
Belgian military vehicles were packed under the trees. A young man in full
field kit carrying a rifle waved them into the area and silence swept over them
as ignitions were cut.

Bill swung a stiff leg off the BMW
and stretched in the damp grass. The men in the staff car were also getting out
and stretching after an intense blast through the dark. Whether Biffy was any
good at planning was put to rest as one of the military lorries revealed
another carafe of steaming black coffee. Biffy waved everyone over, and they
stood in a circle around the warm metal container with camp mugs in hand.

“We’ve made good time, gentlemen,”
he began, a voice in the dark. “The main rail line crosses the river that
divides Belgium and The Netherlands just northeast of here. Latest Belgian
intelligence shows multiple German units on this side of the river, the Dutch
side doesn’t seem to have any special attention. We’ll do this as under the
guise of a rabbit hunt. The staff car will park under the cover of the bridge
and you two will wire it to blow. Bill, you get off the road a hundred yards
back. If we draw any attention, we’ll explain we’re looking for a saboteur on a
motorbike. If things look like escalating, you pop out, fire a couple of shots
over our heads and then make for back here with all possible speed. We’ll do a
bad job of following you with the Germans. Questions?”

Bill liked the bit where he never
had to try and have a conversation with anyone because he didn’t speak any of
it. If riding quickly was his main job, he had a handle that. He nodded curtly
along with everyone else.

“The Belgians are supplying us with
a crate of dynamite, so we need to load that into the trunk of the Mercedes and
then avoid big bumps,” Biffy continued. “It’s half past three now. If we can be
ready to go by four, we can be at the target before dawn. We can have it wired
on a timer and be out of enemy territory before the sun comes up. Check your
kit and get yourself sorted. We move in thirty.”

The two younger, dangerous looking
fellows in lieutenants’ uniforms immediately went over to a Belgian vehicle
that was parked a distance from everything else and began removing a wooden
crate carefully. Bill finished his coffee and then took a nature break.
Returning to the BMW he looked it over, but it seemed perfectly happy after its
prolonged, high speed night flight through Belgium. The German uniform he was
wearing included a service revolver, a newer model of the same Luger he’d found
in the crashed Dornier. It was amazing to think that happened only yesterday,
and he still hadn’t slept yet. The coffee must be what’s keeping him on his
toes, but eventually he’d have to put his head down somewhere and have a kip.

He unclipped the Luger and removed
it from the holster. They’d done basic firearms training when he joined the
RAF, but guns weren’t his focus. Biffy was watching them load the crate into
the back of the Mercedes and pack straw around so it wouldn’t shift.

“Um, sir,” Bill began, holding up
the Luger.

“Ah, not so familiar with German
handguns, eh?”

“Haven’t had much opportunity.”

Biffy took the pistol and
demonstrated how to turn off the safety and open the chamber.

“Testing firearm!” he shouted.

No one stopped what they were doing.
Biffy turned to face one of the large trees in the area, aimed the Luger at it
and pulled the trigger. The concussion from the shot was stunning in the quiet
night.

“This
one shoots straight, they don’t always. You’ve still got six more bullets in
it. If things go cock-up, pull out on the bike, fire your shots then toss the
gun and go.”

“Yes, sir,” Bill replied, taking the
smoking Luger back and turning on the safety.

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that.
Is the bike alright?”

“Yes, sir. Once I’m moving, I can
get it to dance.”

“Perfect!” Biffy’s eyes glinted in
the dark. “Part of me is hoping you have the opportunity to dance!”

Biffy turned and walked over to a
senior officer. They began talking in German. He was the one who would be doing
the majority of the talking if they ran into the enemy.

Preparations were wordless and
quick; these men had done this before, which made Bill feel even further out of
his depth. The Belgian soldiers supplied more petrol for the vehicles and Bill
took the panniers off the bike, which included a heavy jerrycan full of fuel,
and left them under a tree. Given more time he would have stripped it down
further. The fenders on it looked like they were made from cast iron and
weighed a ton. Biffy called them all together one final time.

“Gentlemen, this is a quick in and
out. Our captain here will do the talking if we run into any German military.
You two look unapproachable,” he nodded to the two-man demolition crew. “Since
he doesn’t ‘
sprakenzee
Deuch’
[1] , our sergeant will be down the road
out of sight on the bike. If things look tense, he’ll pop out and provide a
distraction. When we get to the bridge, we’ll park under the arch the road
passes through. Demolitions will rig the girders where they leave the
foundation over the river. Ten minutes to set up a basic circuit?”

The taller of the two young men
nodded.

“Once we’ve got the bridge wired, we
make haste back here. If you get separated, you’re on your own. Get back over
the river. There’s an intact bridge five miles south of the target we’re going
to cross to get in. Eleven miles north is another bridge, but there is a lot of
activity up that way so I wouldn’t suggest it. If you’re on foot, an
alternative might be seeing if you can find a rowboat to get back into Belgium.
Off we go!”

Bill returned to the bike and kicked
it to life. The men folded themselves into the Benz and carefully made their
way back to the dirt road that led to the castle, going out of their way to
avoid bumps. Bill fell in behind them, a bit further back than before.

The road bridge into Lise in the
Netherlands was the first goal. Even in the bottom of the night the Belgian
military were active, and a number of vehicles were in motion on their way to
the bridge. The Belgian army staff car leading them got them waved through two
roadblocks when they finally crested a ridge and saw the river wreathed in fog.

The Belgian car led them down to a
fortified placement on the west side of the bridge. Another military vehicle
that had seen better days was waiting there. Biffy jumped out of the Mercedes
when they pulled up and everyone killed engines and lights. After a brief chat
with the front-line officer, they shook hands and Biffy returned to the Benz.
The beaten-up army vehicle moved aside and let them onto the bridge, lights
out.

They crossed through the thickening
river fog and stopped again. The Belgian officer handed Biffy a map through the
window. Bill kept an eye out but there wasn’t much to be seen in the grey wall
of fog. Bill hunkered down on the BMW, feeling the heat from the engine rising
up around him. After another brief discussion and a handshake. The German staff
car started up and took a right up the road next to the river. Bill kicked the
BMW over and followed. As he passed the front-line officer the man gave him a salute
and Bill nodded awkwardly in return.

This was one of those strange parts
of Europe where the borders followed a tortured history of conquest and take
back. This pocket of Belgium bulged over to Germany, but The Netherlands was
now north of them. Because of this it was a nightmare to defend and had been
quickly conceded, but the rapid advance meant things were still chaotic,
especially in the countryside where they were headed. German paratroopers had
taken Eben-Emael so quickly it had made a mess of any plans.

The
Mercedes’ taillights shone red through the thick fog, providing the only source
of direction as they followed the river. The road was paved and clung to the
edge of the Meuse. They crept north moving slower than they’d planned, but the
fog also provided excellent cover. Finally, the massive rail bridge appeared as
a monolithic shadow in the mist. The staff car pulled into the even darker
shadow of the arch and went dark. Bill pulled up at the entrance. The plan was
going to have to change if visibility was this poor.

“Go through to the north side of the
bridge and keep an eye out,” Biffy said quietly as Bill pulled up.

He kicked the BMW into gear and
pulled through to the other side. When he killed the engine, his blood froze.
German voices could clearly be heard through the fog. Still sitting on the
bike, he shifted it into neutral and made a three-point turn, so he was facing
south, and then, leaving the bike there, crept back through the bridge tunnel
to the Mercedes.

“German voices, north of the
bridge,” he whispered to Biffy.

The two young men were lifting the
crate out of the back of the car and paused after hearing that, waiting for the
next order.

“We proceed,” Biffy said quietly and
calmly. “Hauptsturmführer Müller and I will stay up that way. If we run into
anyone, we’ll delay them as long as possible. Take the bike just south of us.
If you hear voices being raised, take your shots, and then get south back to
the bridge as planned.”

The two demolition boys took the
crate between them and carefully made their way down the south side of the
muddy riverbank into a darkness so absolute Bill couldn’t understand how they
could work in it, but it didn’t seem to bother them. The German speaking French
soldier dressed as an SS Captain and Biffy in his SS Major uniform both
followed Bill back to the north end of the tunnel where the German voices
echoed hollowly through the fog. It sounded like they’d made a camp by the
river.

Bill rolled the BMW quietly back
through the tunnel and past the Benz. He stopped when he could just make out
the bridge in the darkness. Minutes passed by. He eventually stepped off the
bike, pulled it up onto its stand and went for a stretch and a pee by the
river. If anything, the fog was even thicker now, with rolls of it blowing
through.

The bridge and river along with the
dense fog made for strange sound distortion. The end of this long night was
wearing on Bill as he alternately sat against the warm BMW and occasionally got
up to stretch. At one point he nodded off for a moment and was woken up by
unfamiliar voices. The tunnel amplified the voices of the people standing in
it. The French officer’s upper-class accent was clear even though Bill couldn’t
understand the words. Standing up, Bill threw a leg over the bike and waited
tensely. The mist was a lighter tinge of grey; sunrise wasn’t far off.

The two figures of the French
officer and Biffy loomed in the shadows under the bridge, followed by way too
many silhouettes. Bill’s adrenaline surged. The French officer was speaking
with one of the figures and gesturing around the area. This was it, time to do
his bit. Bill pulled out the German handgun and turned off the safety as he’d
been shown. Aiming at the top of the arch with a shaking hand, he was about to
pull the trigger when he remembered the bike wasn’t running. Getting caught
trying to start it wasn’t the way. Holding the Luger awkwardly, he stepped down
on the kick starter and the BMW thudded to life. Bill pulled it off the stand.
The figures in the mist had frozen at the sound.

Bill held up his shaking hand and
began pulling the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand and the figures in the
mist scattered for cover. When he stopped firing, Bill threw the gun into the
mud and spun the heavy bike on the wet road before roaring away with a handful
of throttle. Behind him shouts of “achtung” and “halt” and then sporadic gun
fire erupted. One bullet sizzled through the mist nearby but by then Bill was
thundering through the fog as fast as he dared.

The small town of Vise lay ahead
where the road bridge back over the Meuse lay. It had been stone silent when
they passed through earlier but now in the predawn there were people out and
about. The fog was patchier a couple of miles south of the bridge and when Bill
could see better, he urged the BMW forward. The bridge back to free Belgium
loomed in the grey morning light and Bill aimed for it. Skidding to a stop at
the intersection, he turned right to cross the river. Several locals looked
wearily at the madman in the SS uniform on a Nazi bike.

Behind him vehicles roared in the
fog and a moment later a sidecar outfit and Biffy’s Mercedes staff car burst
out of it. The two German army types in the sidecar looked grim. The French
officer in his SS uniform was yelling at them and pointing at Bill while
hanging out of the back window of the Benz.

Bill gunned the motor and tore off
over the bridge. The outfit gave chase with the Mercedes right behind. As Bill
got onto the bridge, he looked back up the riverside where two panzerwagens
were catching up with them. Ahead of him the Belgian military was on full
alert, watching the pale motorcyclist thunder towards them. A bullet whizzed by
from the Belgian side.

“Marvelous,” Bill thought. “If I slow down, I get shot by
Nazis and if I keep going, I’ll get shot by Belgians.”

He could see the officer who’d
wished him luck waving his arms and yelling to the Belgian soldiers on the
bridge, so he kept going, hoping for the best. Approaching the roadblock, he
held up a hand and the officer pointed him through a gap in the vehicles and
Bill took it.

By this point the Germans on the
sidecar outfit had slowed, but the Benz surged past them onto the bridge and
drove right at the Belgians. The sidecar seemed to think better of it and
turned around back to the east side where many German vehicles were now parked
with troops swarming around. As the Mercedes filtered through the gap in the
Belgian line the Germans on the east bank began to fire and everyone ducked for
cover. The Benz pulled up next to Bill behind one of the heavy Belgian military
lorries.

“That went well,” Biffy laughed,
sticking his head out of the window of the car. “When you fired your shots the
demo boys had just returned. There was a whole regular army regiment north of
the bridge! We told them to aid us in capturing the deserter when the bridge
lit up. We didn’t take it down, but it’s severely damaged. Follow us back,
Corporal, good job!”

Bullets were being exchanged across
the river behind them. Both sides were bolstering their forces and it looked
like it was going to turn into a pitched battle, but there was little they
could do dressed as SS, so they made their way back east to Selys-Longchamps.

The ride back was the hardest bit.
Bill kept dozing off as the early morning sun hit his face. They pulled back
into the castle grounds they’d left only hours before to find the officer’s
mess was in full production and breakfast waiting for them. Bill got off the
bike feeling a hundred years old, but the smell of eggs and bacon were calling.

 

Biffy thanked them for their work
over breakfast, eaten off metal trays and drunk from steel camp cups; it was
one of the best breakfasts Bill had ever had.

“The main structure of the bridge
got damaged when the demolitions went off. Can you confirm that, Pierre?” Biffy
asked around a mouthful of eggs.

“Oui,” the German speaking French
officer replied with a quirky grin. “They won’t be running trains over that any
time soon.”

Biffy nodded vigorously and turned
to the two demolitions men, “Are you two headed to Achnacarry?”

They glanced at each other before
the taller blond one replied, “nothing confirmed, but it looks a good site.”

“Achnacarry in Scotland?” Bill
interrupted, surprising himself.

“And how would a Norfolk lad like
you know where a remote castle in Scotland is?” asked the younger dark-haired
demolition man.

“I did the Scottish Six Days out of
Fort William in ’38. Achnacarry’s just up the loch from there. We spent a day
bouncing across the grounds,” Bill replied, sipping his coffee.

“Did you finish it?

“Silver medal.”

“Impressive! I watched a day of it
last spring while on leave. It’s a ferocious thing.”

“What the corporal is not telling
you is that he also rode from Norfolk to the Trials, competed on his bike, and
then rode it back again,” Biffy interjected.

The hard men at their make-shift
table were appraising Bill now in a different light. Things had relaxed at
mission’s end, and everyone seemed more comfortable with each other. This
latest revelation had Bill’s stock rising.

“We’ll have to stay in touch,
Corporal,” the taller blond man said. “We’re aiming to bring in bike training.”

Biffy smiled and raised his mug,
“that was a good night’s work, gentlemen. I’m off to Antwerp for some things
and Pierre and Bill must get back to the war. I’ve arranged with the Belgian
Army to run you both back to France after you’ve finished breakfast.”

Biffy was an efficient eater and had
already cleared his plate. Leaving it on the hood of the staff car they stood
around he gave them all a nod and turned to go, “Get yourself some sleep
gentlemen, you’ve earned it.”

The remaining four quickly finished
their breakfasts and necked their coffee. A Belgian NCO appeared and directed
Pierre and Bill into the car they were eating breakfast on.

“Sirs, I’m to take you south to the
French border at Cendron where the French military will take you back to your
units,” he paused for a moment looking a bit emotional. “Thank you for your
service today, for Belgium.”

Pierre and Bill glanced at each
other, both taken aback by the emotionality in his voice.

“It has been our pleasure,” Pierre
said, stepping forward and taking the man’s hand in a firm shake. “We are all
in this together, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied, almost
in tears.

Their little action in the night had
evidently buoyed up the troops. It hadn’t occurred to Bill that what they did
might help these exhausted soldiers keep up their fight. The sergeant ushered
them into the back of the staff car and then ran around and jumped into the
driver’s seat before driving them through the camp and out to the road.
Exhausted, grotty tough-as-nails Belgian regular army types smiled and waved as
they passed by.

“It’s a relief to be out of the
wind?” Pierre asked as the car bounced across the wet lawn and onto the gravel
driveway.

“Usually, it’s all I want to do,”
Bill replied with a tired smile, “But this morning all I want to do is sleep.”

“Oui, moi aussi!” Pierre laughed.

They drove south on winding roads
through the morning sunrise, but soon both were sound asleep. The sun was high
when the driver shook them awake.

“Sirs, we have arrived at the
border,” he said, opening the car door to let warm morning air in.

Bill and Pierre rubbed their eyes
and stretched while getting out of the car. At the border crossing a French
military Citroën was idling and its driver was standing by. They changed cars
quickly and were soon moving through the French countryside back to Reims.

Bill asked after a moment, “Sir, are
you a translator?”

Pierre’s easy smile returned, “Ah,
non. I fly bombers pour l’Armée de l’Air. We have been flying over eastern
Belgium for the past two weeks, so I knew the area.”

“Ah,” Bill replied. “I’d assumed you
were a translator because your German is so fluent.”

“I’m not sure how Biffy knew about
that. My mother is German.”

Bill hesitated for a moment before
asking, “Is it difficult fighting your own people?”

Pierre looked him in the eye, “Nazis
are not my people. My mother is Jewish. If we don’t stop them, I doubt there
will be many of ‘my people’ left in Europe.”

There were a couple of Jewish
fellows in Seventy-Three. Nice chaps. Bill couldn’t understand what the problem
was with them, but Nazis seemed to talk about little else given a chance. Bill
pressed on.

“Why do Nazis hate Jews so much?”

Pierre seemed taken aback by the
question and paused to consider his answer.

“I think Hitler had bad experiences
when he was younger and now it has become one of Nazi Germany’s main
distinctions. A common enemy has a way of making people blind to other things.”

“Sorry if I offended…” Bill began,
but Pierre waved off his apology.

“My friend, it’s people not asking
these questions that caused the problem to begin with.”

They drove in silence for several
minutes. The Citroën was much newer than the old Belgian car and silently
glided over the pavement. It occurred to Bill that they were driving for hours
away from the war to get back to the war. This wasn’t his father’s war of
trenches and mud. Pierre seemed to read his mind.

“This war is like no other. I worry
that we aren’t fighting it the way the Nazis are. Have you read about what
happened in Poland?”

“Only that is was over before it
began,” Bill replied.

“Blitzkrieg is what the Germans call
it, ‘lightning war’. They use mechanical support to move much faster than their
opponents. Poland had a good army, but it was swept aside in only a few weeks.
I fear the same may happen with us.”

“But the allied countries have so
much man-power,” Bill replied.

“Oui, but we respond slowly to this
Nazi lightning.”

Bill was surprised to hear this from
a French officer, not that he spent a lot of time talking to French officers.

“Isn’t the Maginot Line
impregnable?” Bill asked.

“It may be, but I’ve flown over it
many times and it has never slowed me down,” Pierre hesitated again, but Bill
was starting to realize it was his way of thinking through a difficult topic in
a foreign language. “It would have been invaluable during The Great War, but
this isn’t that war.”

Any time an officer had talked to
the squadron they had been absolutely certain of victory, but maybe that was
just for show. It had never occurred to Bill that the people running things
doubted what they were all doing. They drove on in silence into an overcast
afternoon.

 

Reims-Champagne was running at full
chat as their car pulled up to the gate. Pierre rapid-fired French to the guard
and in seconds they were bouncing over the grass towards the main French
buildings.

“My squadron has been scrambled and
I missed it,” Pierre said, worry in his voice. “I’ll have the driver drop you
off at the RAF north field.”

He collected the Belgian overcoat
they’d given him and pulled it on over the rumpled SS uniform.

“What should we do with these?” Bill
asked, gesturing at his own German outfit.

“Souvenir, I suppose?” Pierre
smiled. “I’m going to fold mine up, keep it in my barracks box and hope I never
have to use it again.”

He opened the door of the car as it
rolled to a stop in front of French HQ.

“Bon chance, William, it has been a
pleasure meeting you,” Pierre said, offering his hand.

The two men shook, and Pierre turned
to face the busy airfield. As he walked away a bomber limped in trailing smoke
and hit the ground hard beyond the control tower. The car jumped into gear and
bounced over the field to the north end of the sprawling air base where the
RAF’s temporary buildings had been growing like mushrooms in Bill’s absence.

He thanked the driver and made sure
to get his Belgian overcoat on before getting out of the car. Things looked
hectic. Two of the squadron’s Hurricanes were refueling and another was a burnt
husk beyond the busy hangars. Men were running to and fro rearming and
refueling. A squadron of Fairey Battle light bombers were lining up for takeoff
while a group of Hurricanes, two of them trailing smoke, were landing behind
them on the rutted field.

Bill pushed through the busy
entrance to the operations hangar and found Flight Sergeant Grimes orchestrating
field maintenance under the heavy clouds. Bill waited while he directed
mechanics and support staff with questions. When the last left, Grimes looked
over at Bill.

“What have you been up to,
Corporal?”

Bill undid the top button of his
Belgian great coat showing the SS uniform underneath. Grimes’ eyebrows shot up.

“Belgian coat, SS uniform
underneath… did it go well?”

“One less bridge for the enemy to
supply petrol with,” Bill smiled through a grotty face.

“Jolly good,” Grimes replied, eying
Bill’s grey face. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I might have had forty minutes in
the car ride back.”

“We’re busy but we have a lot of new
bodies, and everything is where it needs to be. Drop by the mess and then hit
your bunk. The war will still be here for you tomorrow.”

Bill stood to attention and then
went to look for a place to lay down.

Chapter 4 can be found here.

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Under Dark Skies Chapter 2



Part 2 (Part 1 can be found here)


British Expeditionary Force
Saturday, May 11th, 1940
Rouvres, Thionville

             Bill lay on his bunk for the better
part of an hour. He should have fallen back asleep, but his mind was racing. He
finally got up quietly, dressed and went by the mess which had breakfast
underway. One of the cooks made him a quick plate of eggs and bacon and he ate
it alone in the dark tent with a hot cup of tea.

The bike shed loomed grey out of the
pre-sunrise mist. A quick wipe down of the dew and the Norton he’d been on
yesterday cleaned up well. The military blue paint was in good shape, only the
stenciled registration and British Expeditionary Force markings gave it away as
a military bike. Bill spent a few minutes with a brush and painted over the
white stenciled paint. It wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny, but from a distance it
was just another old Norton.

By the time the sun rose, the
squadron was in top gear. Temporary structures where being broken down and
packed into a convoy of lorries that had shown up from Reims. The squadron had
passed through there on their way to Rouvres and were currently the most
easterly operational allied airfield closest to the German border. Behind the
incredible fortifications the French had built along the Maginot Line, they
were safe from ground attack, but Seventy-Three’s forward location had already
taken a hammering as the wrecks of two German bombers and three Hurricanes in
the surrounding fields attested. With their location known, today was likely to
see a never-ending stream of German bombers, it was time to move.

Still early morning air was broken
by the bellow of a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine as a Hurricane readied for
takeoff. They used to wait and take off as a wing, but things had become
frantic in the past two days and getting planes up now happened on a case-by-case
basis. They formed up once airborne. This Hurricane looked in good shape. The
twin bladed prop spun up, sending a wash of air rippling across the wet grass.
The plane spun to its right with surprising agility and began picking up speed.
In moments it pulled cleanly into the morning air, its wheels folding up
neatly. Another of the massive V-12 aero-engines barked to life, ready to
follow their flight leader into another day of uncertainty in the sky.

The orders for the Reims move come
in at 5am, but by then Bill had the van loaded with four Nortons along with his
spares and tools. That left another six to get to Reims. A waved down MP
returned with a list of six men who were available to pick up the remaining
bikes and ride them to their new home. Bill fueled everything and looked them
over, but they were ready for action.

“Corporal, I’m here to ride one of
the motorbikes to Reims,” Jenkins, the new fellow from the guard hut appeared.

“Do you know the way?” Bill asked.

“I was told to follow the convoy,”
Jenkins replied.

“They’ll be taking the main road,
but there are some nice back roads that’ll get you there faster. I’ll make you
a map,” which he did on the workbench.

“All the heavy gear will be on the
A4 heading west,” Bill began, pointing to the map. “There are some good country
roads north and it would be handy for me to hear if there is any traffic on
them. We’re on the edge of the Ardennes here, so you get forested hills and
valleys the further north you go. If you get lost just cut south until you hit
the A4 and head west.”

Jenkins nodded and took the map.

“Do you have something for your
head?” Bill asked. Most of the riders went out bare headed, but Bill found he
could ride longer if he wore one of the leather aviator caps and goggles.

Jenkins shook his head.

“Look in the bucket over there.”

Jenkins peered in and saw several
well-worn pilot hats. Trying a couple on he found one that fit.

“Hang on to that, they do a good job
of keeping your head warm.”

Jenkins took one last look at the
map and then kicked a 16H over. It started after he tickled the carbs and gave
it a second kick.

By 9am all the working planes were
airborne and would land at the big base in Reims rather than return to their
farmer’s field in Rouvres. The burnt hulk of one Hurricane was left behind, and
another salvageable one was placed on a flatbed transport. Seventy-Three had
spent their time in northern France moving about and had become dab hands at
picking up and moving. This wasn’t even their first trip to Reims; the squadron
had been based out of there twice already.

The experienced members of the
squadron had the fresh faces working hard to remove any traces of their time in
Rouvres. As the last heavy vehicles began to move into convoy, Bill started the
Citroën TUB van and followed them to the now empty gate.

Loaded down with bikes and spares,
the Citroën TUB was much more manageable, though it
still felt odd sitting in a vehicle with no engine in front of you. Bill drove
it off the field and onto the road, following the last of the convoy west. It
was a partially overcast morning and cooler than the day before. He wound the
window down to let some air through. He’d miss Rouvres, it was a lovely bit of
France.

As the convoy moved through Étain, Bill took a right turn east
toward the German border. The partial overcast meant a less clear view from
people on high who might want to kill him, though being in a French civilian
vehicle was the best protection of all. The road to Louis Jeannin’s shop on Rue
de la République in Knutange was empty until he got closer to Thionville.
French military vehicles were out in force, and the roads to the Maginot fort
were busy. Bill took the less travelled country roads north and came into
Knutange from the northeast. Rue de la République was the main thoroughfares
and was easily found. The shop was also evident as there were a number of
motorbikes parked out front, including a new Triumph Speed Twin.

Bill pulled the TUB up
in front of the shop and stepped out. He was wearing regulation turtleneck and
fatigue trousers, which were uniform but looked less like it as they had no
insignia on them. His black hair was combed back and oiled. The shop was closed
but the big door to their service area was ajar, and the sound of mechanical
work emanated from within. Bill stuck his head in the open door and saw a
middle-aged man disassembling the back end of what looked like a grand prix
motorcycle.

“Excuse me,” Bill began.
“Do you speak English?”

The man looked up. Bill
recognized him from magazine articles, this was Louis Jeanin, the 1932 Grand
Prix champion.

“I speak English,” he
replied warily.

“I’ve been given orders
to meet you today,” Bill replied.

“Ah, you are Corporal
Morris?” he brightened.

Bill nodded and stepped
through the door.

“I know of you. I read
an article about you on the Scottish Six Days Trial. It was impressive that you
medalled on such an old machine, and after riding it the length of Bretagne.”

“Thank you!” Bill
blurted, feeling his colour rise. He’d caught all sorts of stick at home for
taking a week off work to ride up to Scotland and attempt the event but having
a grand prix racer compliment you on it made it all go away.

“Your Miss Downey is a
very convincing woman. She is also well funded,” Jeanin stood up and wiped his
hands on a rag.

“I’m sorry Monsieur
Jeanin, well funded?”

“She said you’d be along
today and that I should provide you with a civilian moto. They wired cash. I
think we have just what you need.”

“I’m getting a
motorbike?” Bill asked, struggling to catch up.

“Oui!” Jeanin smiled.
“Downey said for you to leave whatever you can’t fit behind. We’ll find a use
for it.”

Jeanin was getting on in age but was still fit.  He stepped to the back of the shop floor and
rolled a new Triumph Tiger out from behind a storage rack, it had obviously
been fettled. The stock fenders had been cut short and the bike looked like it
had been prepared for a trial with all the heavy stock bits either gone or
replaced by something simpler and lighter. The gleaming silver paint Bill had
seen on these new models in magazines was gone, replaced by a dull grey, though
even that minimalist paint couldn’t hide the purposeful stance of the thing. It
was called a T100 because it could do 100mph. All Bill could think of was how
jealous his sister would be when he sent her a photograph.

“You’ve prepared this
for racing?” Bill asked, excitement slipping into his voice.

“Oui!” Louis laughed.
“These Tigres are quick, but now it is plus rapide, eh? We have taken cinq
kilos of weight from it, and the engine has higher compression pistons. Do you
use the essence d’aviation?”

Bill gave him a
quizzical look.

“The, um, petrol for the
aeroplanes?”

“Ah, oui!”

“Tres bien! This will
use it well. I had it well beyond cent huit kilomètres par heure, um,
one-hundred and eighty K.P.H.”

Bill’s eyebrows shot up.
He’d never been that fast on a bike before.

“You should take it out
for a ride,” Louis had a gleam in his eye as he gestured for Bill to take the
Tiger in hand.

The bike was shockingly
lighter than the old Norton, which itself was based on a twenty-year-old
design. This Tiger was new in every way and it managed to look both simpler and
more complex all at once; it was like looking into the future.

Bill rolled it to the
entrance as Louis pushed the door wider.

“It has racing fuel in
it, but that will be similar to your aviation petrol, yes?”

“I think so, yes,” Bill
replied, throwing a leg over the machine. “Any trick to starting it?”

“Non, it is a unité
fiable, um, dependable moto. Tickle the carb, choke, and kick.”

The Tiger barked to life
immediately. These were not stock pipes and while it was quiet at idle, when he
cracked the throttle, the big twin blew dust back into the shop.

“Fantastique!” Bill
shouted over the engine. Louis gave him a thumbs up and ushered him out onto
the road.

“The road to Fontoy and
back is a bien, return and we shall have café!”

Bill kicked the bike
into gear and let the clutch out slowly. The Tiger was remarkably tractable
considering how high strung it sounded. He rolled through town keeping the revs
low. The road northwest out of the village followed a small river as it twisted
and turned through the valley it had cut. Once clear of the houses, Bill opened
it up and in a blur of curves suddenly found himself four miles up the road in
Fontoy, grinning like an idiot. Standing up on the pegs he turned across the
empty road and thundered back to Knutange, crouched low behind a smaller custom
headlamp with a blackout grill over it. The grey Tiger rolled to a stop in
front of the shop.

“What a thing!” Bill
exclaimed breathlessly as he cut the ignition.

“I am happy to help the
cause,” Louis said, handing Bill a mug of strong coffee.

Bill glanced up and down
the empty main street.

“Is it usually this
quiet on a Saturday?”

“Ah, non, the people are
worried and staying in their homes. Something wicked this way comes, eh?”

Bill nodded through the steam of the
hot coffee. Both men sipped their coffee quietly on the empty street, wondering
about what was to come. The Tiger ticking and popping as it cooled down.

Louis finally broke the silence, “I
have some équipement pour vous.”

“Right,” Bill replied, pulling the
bike up onto its stand and finally stepping off it. “Lead on!”

Louis had collected oil, a tire
patch kit, inner tubes, tires and a toolbox together in a pile inside the door.
It was all new and still packaged. Bill gave him a questioning look.

“Dans la prix… in the price, I
thought you might need some spares.”

“Thank you, Louis,” Bill replied,
grinning. It all looked like stuff he sold out of the shop anyway, but it’d be
handy to have.

Bill opened the back of the TUB and
Louis saw the old Nortons packed in there.

“Ah, bien! The 16H, spécification
militaire! A dependable old hack,” he looked them over. “Considering current
events, perhaps the one without RAF markings would be the one to leave behind?”

Bill’s go-to all-blue Norton was the
last one he’d wheeled in, so getting it out was easy. He had a pang of regret,
but the lusty Tiger sitting on the pavement made it easy to get over. With a
bit of wiggling, the nameless Norton was rolled out of the back of the van and
into the shop.

“This has been a dependable bike,”
he said, giving it a pat.

“I imagine one of my mechanics will
be happy to have it,” Louis smiled, looking it over. “Do you maintain them toi
même, um, yourself?”

“Always have,” Bill replied.

“Oui,” Louis replied, “the Scottish
Six Day story Downey shares tells the story of your riding over two thousand
kilometres in ten days and medalling too! 
In French we say, indomptable.”

Bill smiled, “indomitable! I like
that!”

They wheeled the Tiger into the van
and Louis invited Bill back to the office. Rows of trophies lined the wall. The
1932 grand prix championship had a place of honour. Bill looked closely at it.

“That was an indomptable year for
me,” Louis smiled, tapping the trophy.

“I read about it in Motorcycling,
the British magazine. Your Jonghi was a French bike, wasn’t it?”

“Oui,” Louis smiled wistfully. “We
were not a big factory, but it was a tres belle machine.”

A young mechanic’s apprentice
appeared in the doorway with a basket.

“Please eat with me,” Louis gestured
to the office desk.

Bill sat down and talked bikes with
the former grand prix champion. Working for Downey had its perks. He got a few
questions in about riding the grand prix circuit on the continent, but Jeanine
had a fixation about the Scottish Six Days and wanted all the details from
Bill’s brief time in the highlands.

 

By early afternoon Bill was heading
east towards Reims amongst a lot of military traffic. It was then that he
discovered just how useful his new identification card was. Driving a civilian
vehicle, it didn’t take long for an angry MP to wave him over. He was British
Expeditionary Force army and surprisingly officious for an Australian. When he
demanded to know why Bill wasn’t giving right of way to the military traffic
Bill was tempted to pretend to be French but thought better of it when he
couldn’t think of any French words. Instead, he handed the irate, red-faced
Aussie his ID without saying anything.

The MP’s face drained as he looked
the card.

“Right, Corporal. Sorry to bother,
the unmarked civi-vehicle and all…” he trailed off, handing back the card.
Suddenly Bill was on his way again.

The BEF shared the Reims Aerodrome
with the French Air Force, and it wasn’t really in Reims, but north of the
ancient cathedral city in Bétheny. The roads south into Reims were a zoo. Bill
knew the logistics types would have everyone on the shortest route on the
biggest roads, so he turned north at Sainte-Menehould onto empty country
tracks. His farm van was invisible in this environment, the perfect camouflage.
French farming villages came and went until he got to Savigny-sur-Aisne where a
just crashed Dornier 17 was burning in a field. Bill pulled the van to the
verge and shut it off.

He’d seen his share of crashes in
the on again off again aerial battles of the early spring. There were seldom
survivors, but if the plane wasn’t engulfed in flames, it might provide some
valuable information. This Do17 had its wings shot off. Dorniers had wing fuel
tanks that seldom let them down, and this one’s missing wings meant the fuel
wasn’t where the fuselage came down.

Bill approached the wreck
cautiously. It had a long, thin fuselage designed for speed more than raw
carrying capacity and was remarkably intact considering how it had come down.
The glass nose was cracked and broken open, so Bill had a look inside. It was a
horrific mess, with blood everywhere. The impact must have meant instantaneous
death for the crew.

Moving the forward gunner’s torso to
the side, Bill climbed into the smoking ruin. The pilot was above, still
strapped into his seat, though his head hung at a terrible angle. Bill moved
quickly, trying to breathe through his mouth. The cockpit reeked of charred
flesh and blood, and thin smoke filled the cabin. Climbing up to the pilot he
rummaged through his flight suit and found a notepad with handwritten scrawl in
German. Pocketing that, Bill moved over to the FuG radio set, which had come
clear of the fuselage where it was mounted. He was able to lift it, so he
heaved it up to the broken nose and dropped it out into the farm field.

While down in the nose he had a look
around the bombardier’s station and found another notepad along with a
targeting map on it. That would be useful – Grimes always sparked up when he
was able to bring them evidence of how the Germans were seeing allied troop
movements.

The bombardier also had a strange
bit of personal kit on him. Most of the bomber crews didn’t carry personal
firearms, but he had a Luger in a holster. It wasn’t a new model though, and it
had German naval insignia on it. Bill unclipped the holster and took the gun.
Smoke was starting to fill the cabin, so he clambered back out of the wreck and
picked up the radio laying in the mud, it was heavy but manageable. One of the
benefits of working in coal delivery before the war was that Bill had physical
strength most people couldn’t imagine.

With the radio on the passenger seat
and the documents stuffed underneath so they wouldn’t blow away, Bill fired up
the Citroën and made a note of the Dornier’s location before pressing on. It
was another twenty miles going the north route, but as he pulled into the
Reim’s-Champagne Aerodrome in late afternoon he discovered that even with his
side trip to see Louis, he’d still arrived ahead of most of Seventy-Three’s
heavy gear.

Showing his papers at the gate to a
jumpy French MP, Bill was told to park at the north end of the airfield where
the RAF Advanced Striking Force squadrons were operating. Seventy-Three was
joining One squadron and Bill noticed Hurricanes from the Five-Oh-One as well.
Having lost several planes the day before, seventy-three was re-kitting its
remaining planes and bringing new ones up to operation in the late afternoon
sun, though they were having to rely on other squadron’s ground crews to help
them get sorted.

The Advanced Air Striking Force was
spread across northern France, but they had a big station in Reims.
Seventy-three had passed through here before moving out to Rouvres, so Bill was
familiar with the place, though last time he was here he was driving fuel
bowsers rather than a Citroën full of motorbikes.

Flight Sergeant Grimes would have
set up a temporary office in one of the storage hangars, and Bill found him in
the middle of doing exactly that.

“Beat the slow movers back, eh
Morris?” he said, eying the beaten-up radio at Bill’s feet. “Bag yourself some
German electronics, did you?”

“Yes Flight, there is a Dornier down
southeast of the D21/31 intersection in Sainte-Marie, visible from the road. I
got there right after it came down and was able to get some useful bits out of
it.”

Bill put the radio down on a chair,
removing the maps and notepads from his trouser pockets before handing them to
Grimes who opened them up and began reading the German.

“Very good corporal! This isn’t just
information on their last mission, but everything they’ve flown in the past
week. These’ll find their way up to command right quick,” Grimes then unfolded
the maps and looked them over. “They were targeting the main roads between
forts on the Maginot Line, that’s interesting. I know people who will want to
see these too. What do you think about the radio?”

Bill looked at the unit. Considering
the shock of the impact it was in surprisingly intact, “If we can get it going
it might be handy to listen to what German bombers are saying to each other.”

“Indeed. Run that over to the repair
bench and see if they can sort it out,” Grimes turned back to the maps, so Bill
picked up the radio and walked it over to a workbench in the same hangar where
a couple of airmen in overalls were working on a machine gun assembly.

“Hey boys,” Bill said, putting the
radio on the bench. “Fancy a change in work for a bit?”

“’Ello,” the older man replied,
looking at the radio with interest. “Where’d you get that?”

“Out of a Dornier that came down
about 20 miles west of here. I’m Corporal Morris,” Bill offered a hand, and
both men quickly wiped theirs before shaking.

“’Oim Riggles ‘n ‘ees Dumfry,” the
older fellow said, but both only had eyes for the radio.

“Nice to meet you Riggles and
Dumfry, think you can get this thing chattering again? Might be interesting to
hear what the Germans were saying.”

Both men’s eyes lit up and they
immediately went to work. The radio was steel framed in an aluminum box. The
cover was dented but intact. Riggles flipped the unit on its side revealing
flat bolts on the bottom. In seconds, the cover was off revealing neat wiring.

“There’s the power in,” Riggles
muttered, nudging a bunch of cords that came out of an opening at the back of
the unit. He quickly traced the wiring and discovered one of the grounds had
been broken where it bolted to the unit frame. “Let’s try and hook it up to a
battery and see what happens. They’re direct current, like ours.”

Dumfry left and returned wheeling a
cart with a big lead acid battery on it, the top still wet from being refilled.
He sparked the two ends together and then handed Riggles the positive before
clipping the ground to the large black wire. A similarly thick white wire was
separated and clipped to the power, the moment it did the radio lit up and all
three men grinned.

“We’ve got a loudspeaker, hang on!”
Dumfry turned and darted out of view, returning with a gutted RCA radio with
wires hanging out of it.

“Wish we ‘ad the headset,” Riggles
said, eying the input jack.

“I might!” Bill replied, turning on
his heel and running out of the hangar. He returned moments later with the
bloody headset. “It was smashed in the crash but was still attached to the
radio, so I just grabbed it all.”

Dumfry looked at the mangled headset
with a green face.

“You just need the plug, though,
right?” Bill asked, holding up the end.

Dumfry nodded and removed the end by
cutting the wire with a knife. He split the insulation and separated the wires
inside. In moments he had them connected to the speaker in the civilian radio.
The sound of static filled the room.

“We’re in business!” Bill laughed,
patting Dumfry on the back.

“Let’s see who’s chatting,” Riggles
began moving the knobs.

German voices emerged through the
crackling static.

“Keep listening, boys. If you hear
any place names make a note!” Bill turned and pelted across the hanger to find
Grimes.

“Flight! You’re going to want to
hear this,” Bill said, interrupting a phone call.

Grimes signed off immediately and
followed him back. Dumfry held up a scrawled and oily piece of paper with
‘Verdun and Metz’ written on it. The staticky, distant German voices had been
cleared up a bit as Riggles continued to fiddle with the unit. Bill didn’t say
anything but turned to look at Grimes. 
After listening for a moment, the Flight Sergeant nodded abruptly.

“Outstanding work, gentlemen!” He
paused to listen for a moment. “These are Dorniers currently over northwestern
France. They’re not being very coy; they believe their radios to be secure.
I’ve got to get people in on this right quick, we don’t know how long this will
work.”

Within ten minutes half a dozen
people had arrived in the hangar, bringing with them folding camp seats and
clipboards, pencils and paper. Two of them were in French uniform. They quickly
set up, taking the greasy note from Dumfry and began making notes of their own.
Grimes waved the three over to the entrance away from the hive of activity.

“I imagine they’ll change their
frequencies when these missions are over, but perhaps not. In the meantime, we
need to keep that radio chattering. What do you need to do that?”

Bill looked to Riggles, who was
already working it out.

“If I kept the battery charged from
the mains, it would it all running, Flight,” he replied. “Other than that, we
just need to make sure it isn’t leaking too much and stays topped up with
water.”

“Right, see to it airman!” Grimes
replied. “And excellent work. Let me know your immediate superior and I’ll put
in a good word for you.”

Bill followed Grimes out of the
hangar where the shadows were growing long. The airfield was buzzing with
returning allied planes, some of them trailing smoke. Seventy-three’s crews
were finally arriving and had started pitching up in the empty fields behind
the permanent buildings.

“I’m not sure how you keep managing
to bring this sort of information in, but keep doing it, Corporal,” Grimes
said. “Get yourself squared away in one of the temporary hangars and then hit
the canteen, you’ve had a busy day.”

 

Returning to Reims meant access to
the standing mess hall which was always in full production. The room wasn’t
busy as most of the RAF crews were working into the evening getting their
planes sorted out and food had been run out to them. Bill was sitting at a
table alone, working his way through a pile of mash with a tiny pork chop on
the side when he was surprised to see a dashing, middle aged man walk into the
mess wearing an SS uniform. The man had a bemused look on his face as he looked
at the half empty room of exhausted airmen staring at him in enemy uniform.

“Hello gentlemen!” he said loudly
with a Scottish brogue. “Sorry for the attire, my uniform got blood on it.”

A few of the men smiled, but most
still looked confused.

“Go back to your pork chops,
gentlemen. I’m with the DMI. I was never here.”

With a gallic shrug, everyone went
back to eating their dinner. A Scottish SS officer walking into the mess wasn’t
the strangest thing many of them had seen in the past couple of days. He
collected a tray from the empty counter and made a beeline for Bill.

“Corporal Morris?” the man asked as
he approached. “Mind if I join you?”

“Certainly,
Gruppenführer,” Bill said, pointing to the seat across from him with his fork.

“How does an RAF lorry driver know
SS ranks?” the man asked, sitting across from Bill and placing his peaked SS
cap on the table before tucking in.

“Probably the same way you’re
wearing an SS uniform,” Bill replied.

“How’s that?”

“I ran into some SS fellows
yesterday, so I made a point of looking up who’s what. The fellow running
things yesterday at the Luxembourg border was a Hauptsturmführer, but I didn’t
know the badges then.”

“That’s why I’m here, actually.”

Bill put his fork of pork down and
sat back. His intuition was prickling. Fellows like this were good at getting
other people killed. The man took a mouthful of mashed potatoes and made a
face.

“We’re not going to win a war
feeding people this!”

Bill waited, watching the man with
mounting suspicion.

“We have a little job to do and I’m
hoping you can help.”

“Is it voluntary?”

“What
is these days, eh?” the man smiled, cutting off a piece of stringy pork.

“What’s the little job?”

“Ah, that’s the trick. I can’t tell
you unless you’re in. I was having lunch with Miss Downey in Paris when your
name came up, so here I am.”

“It’s starting to sound more like a
command,” Bill said, finally shovelling the pork into his face.

“Right, that’s the spirit!” The man
grinned, sitting back, and pushing the tray away.

“We’ve gotten our hands on a German
communique. It has the schedule of a major fuel shipment by train into Belgium.
Do you know Fort Eben-Emael?”

“Isn’t that up near the Dutch?”

“Indeed, it is. The Nazis have taken
it with paratroopers, so their mechanized ground troops are moving quickly into
Belgium. They need fuel to do this. The rail line from Cologne to Maastricht in
the Netherlands is how they’re going to, and tonight is when it happens. There
is only one operating rail bridge over the Meusse River into Belgium from The
Netherlands. I intend to blow it up.”

“It’s a long way into Belgium.”

“I’ve got Belgians at the border
ready to assist. If we left by ten and take a northern route through Namur, we
could be in Bassenge well before sunrise. We then pop over to the river, blow
the bridge and get out before anyone knows we were there.”

“Couldn’t we just bomb it?”

“Germans have piled up anti-aircraft
defences around it, but they’ll be looking up instead of sideways. In any case,
our bombs don’t find their targets very often.”

Bill considered the energy this man
was putting into convincing him. His crazy idea was sounding plausible, which
made it even more crazy.

“Why do you need an RAF lorry
driver? Bill asked.

“Ah, but you’re not just a lorry
driver, are you?” the man had an infectious smile. “It’s your other talents
that might come in handy. Have you ever ridden a BMW?”

“They don’t come my way very often,”
Bill said, an involuntary grin creeping onto his face.

“We’ve gotten our hands on some Nazi
kit. I’ve selected a driver for our staff car, along with another couple of
handy fellows who are fluent in German to sit in it with me, but the motorbike
is sitting empty. We were going to leave it behind, but Miss Downey suggested
you might be up for it. I can’t honestly order you to do something like this.
It works better with volunteers in any case. Are you up for it, corporal?”

“Yes, sir.  I am.” Bill paused, the man still hadn’t
given his name or rank. “Are you a sir?”

“Let’s not worry about all that rank
malarkey,” he smiled. “Just call me Biffy for now. Once we’ve gotten everyone
assembled and dressed up, we’ll work out German names on our way north. Do you
Sprichst du Deutsch?”

“Only enough to get shot at,” Bill
replied.

“If you’re an enlisted escort you
won’t be doing much talking. I’ll have one of the fellows teach you some basic
phrases. Are you about done with that lovely dinner?”

Bill nodded, and both men stood up.
Every eye in the place was on them.

“You’re making lots of friends with
that uniform,” Bill noted.

“Thought it might pique your
interest,” Biffy replied, putting on his officers’ hat. “Never hurts for the
men to know we’re playing every angle to win this thing though.”

Bill shrugged and followed the SS
officer out of the mess. A Rolls Royce was parked out front and the driver,
seeing them appear, ran around to open the door for them to get in.

“Do I need to get any kit?” Bill
asked, hesitating before stepping into the car.

“All will be provided! You’ll not
need any RAF issue on this trip.”

The inside of the car was opulent.
Bill felt a bit filthy sitting in it but tried to lean back and relax. The
driver ran around to the driver’s door and jumped in. He handed Biffy some
scrawled notes on office paper. The bottom paper was typed and had ‘eyes only’
stamped on it in red ink.

Biffy glanced up from the papers,
“do you know MI6?”

“Military intelligence?” Bill
guessed.

“Indeed,”
Biffy replied. “We usually focus on gathering intelligence, but we sometimes
act on it. You boys are busy dealing with Hitler’s blitzkrieg, so we thought
we’d hop in and give you a hand. If we can stop this fuel shipment it means our
pilots see a lot less of their pilots in the sky for the next few days.”

“How do we get from France to the
Dutch border in German vehicles?” Bill asked when Biffy finally put down the
notes. The Rolls Royce was making quick time on dark French country roads
heading due north toward the Belgian border.

“The French and Belgians are helping
with that. Here’s our stop.”

The
Rolls pulled up into a field on the side of the road. In the shadow of the
trees that lined the side a heavy lorry was parked. A big Mercedes Benz staff
car with German military markings was parked behind the lorry, and next to that
the motorbike.

“Get familiar with that R12. Once
everyone gets here, I’ll do introductions,” Biffy said before walking off to
the front of the lorry.

The BMW was a big old thing.
Throwing a leg over it, Bill was reminded of the Norton, but this machine was
modern in ways the Norton couldn’t imagine. The first thing that struck Bill
was the telescopic front forks. This thing would handle on rough ground, even
though it did weigh a ton. Bill hopped off it and had a look at the back end.
Heavy duty framing held panniers over the massive rear wheel. Compared to the
kinds of motorcycles Bill was familiar with, this was more a bomber than a
fighter.

The final bit of technical wizardry
was to be found on the back wheel. The bike had no chain or belt drive, only an
industrial looking closed unit, a shaft drive. Bill had read about them in
trade publications but had never ridden one. They were sturdy things that made
a bike heavier but more dependable. On the upside, the BMW was comfortable to
sit on and looked like it would ride forever. He could see why the German
military was full of them. He could also see why he would be able to stay well
ahead of them, especially on that Tiger.

Bill threw a leg back over and
pulled the bike forward off its stand. For something as heavy as it was it held
its weight low making it easy to manage. The bizarre boxer engine layout meant
a piston was poking out of each side of the bike in front of his shins. It
really did feel like foreign technology unlike any he was familiar with.

“Can you manage it?” Biffy asked,
appearing out of the dark.

“It’s bulky but it feels lighter
than it should,” Bill replied.

“Take it for a spin around the
field. Radio says we have about twenty minutes until our team gets here.”

Bill located the kickstart on the
wrong side of the bike and stepped on it awkwardly with the wrong foot. The big
motor fired immediately before dropping into a rocking idle where you could
feel each cylinder pumping. He kicked it into gear and let out the clutch. The
bike pulled away with ease. In moments Bill was standing on the pegs and
weaving around the trees. Pulling it out onto the road he goosed it, causing a
spray of gravel, and started kicking it up through the gears. The big twin
handled astonishingly well, especially once it got going. He did a hundred- and
eighty-degree turn, noting how much steering lock it offered, and then thumped
back down the road to the lorry parked in the shadows.

“That’s managed,” Biffy laughed, as
Bill slid to a stop in front of him. “I was worried the German technology would
make it difficult to operate.”

“It’s not my kind of motorbike,”
Bill said, killing the ignition. “But it’s interesting.”

At that moment, the dim, slitted
lights of a military vehicle came into view.

“Here are our compatriots, time to
get dressed!” Biffy waved Bill back to the lorry.

The approaching vehicle was a French
officers’ saloon. It was painted grey with black military markings. Four men
got out of it once it came to a stop in the field next to the lorry. One was in
British army fatigues, the other three were wearing French uniforms. Biffy
walked over and shook hands with all four. Bill put the BMW on its stand and
joined them.

“… on our way shortly,” Biffy finish
as he approached the group. “Gentlemen, this is Corporal Morris, but for the
duration of the evening he is Scharführer Wilhelm Meyer. He’s handy on two
wheels and will be operating our borrowed BMW. Bill, these gentlemen will all
be wearing officer ranks and will do the talking. We’re pressed for time, so
we’re going to get kitted up and make some miles.”

A red light was switched on in the
back of the lorry and a variety of German uniforms could be seen hanging
inside. Biffy jumped up into the vehicle and handed Bill an enlisted man’s SS
uniform.

“Congratulations on the promotion,”
he laughed.

Scharführer Meyer was a bigger man
than Bill and the clothes were too large, but it was a cool night and Bill
elected to put on the German kit over top of his RAF fatigues, which made the
uniform a closer fit. The other men were busy changing into officer uniforms
like Biffy’s.

“We want to make sure we’re up that
way well before dawn, so have a coffee,” Biffy pointed to a carafe that had
materialized next to the lorry in the dark. Mugs were passed around and
everyone filled up. It was scalding and black, but bracing, though Bill found
his adrenaline was doing an excellent job on its own. What was he doing here
with these men?

“Gentlemen,
we’ll make proper introductions later. As of now I’m Gruppenführer Schmidt.
Pierre here speaks the best German, so he’s Hauptsturmführer Müller and will do
most of the talking. You other two are more likely to kill people than start a
conversation with them, so you’re both junior officers Wagner and Becker in the
front of the car. The key to this is to look like we’re supposed to be doing
what we’re doing, so look confident and do what you’re told. With any luck,
we’ll be in and out without needing to chat with anyone.”

The German staff car had a
retractable roof so the two killers, who certainly looked the part, were
pulling it up against the cool night air. Bill had no such luck on the BMW, but
with goggles, the big German helmet, and a scarf, he was well muffled for the
long, dark ride ahead.

“Stay close, we’ll be moving
quickly,” Biffy said, taking a last hit of coffee. “We have an escort to the
border and then the Belgians will escort us north quickly and quietly. After
we’ve done the business, we’ll be on our way back here for a late breakfast.

Part 3 can be found here.

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Under Dark Skies Chapter 1

During COVID I wrote a novel to keep myself sane as the education system in Ontario unravelled. I’d wake up every morning at 4am and put a couple of hours in before getting the hope beaten out of me at school.

My escape was to imagine my granddad’s time in France in 1940 as Nazis swept through all of the allied defences. He was still supporting his RAF squadron when Dunkirk happened and found himself still on the wrong side of the channel in the collapsing French republic six weeks later, looking for a way out.

This is a fictionalized account based on Bill’s war record, with some Steve McQueen-esque motorcycling in there. Inglorious Basterds was another inspiration.

Author’s Note:

In 1939 and 1940 Britain and the Commonwealth sent hundreds
of thousands of troops to France to help defend against an impending invasion.
The Phoney War was what they called that first winter as Hitler and Nazi
Germany looked east and north, invading Poland and Scandinavia, but on May 10th,
1940 the Blitzkrieg tactics they’d honed over the winter were turned on
Belgium, The Netherlands and France. All of allied mainland Europe was under
Nazi control by the end of May.

The battles of the Low Countries and France are often seen
as a national embarrassment and ignored historically. Under Dark Skies is a
fictionalized account of these forgotten soldiers and civilians under the
looming threat of Nazi control.

British Expeditionary Force
Friday, May 10th, 1940
France-Luxembourg Border

 

Bill kicked the too-blue RAF Norton
into neutral and let his momentum carry him to the top of the hill, where he
killed the engine and glided to a stop.

“You could do worse than France in
the springtime,” he thought as he looked out over the recently turned fields,
the odd tree poking through the golden morning mist.

He still felt like he was getting
away with something every time he left the busy airfield to go on these rides,
but the higher ups found value in them or wouldn’t have encouraged it. The new
uniform with its stiff new corporal stripes still felt too big and Bill wasn’t
comfortable with the boys he’d come over with, most of them newly minted
adults, having to come to attention for him now.

He felt the need to squirm in the
uniform again, but instead kicked the Norton over, grinning to himself as it
started on the first kick. A handful of throttle and they were gone in a shower
of gravel, following the winding road right up to the border. There were a
couple of bottles of British beer in the saddlebags, the Luxembourg border
guards at this post had a soft spot for English stouts. Intelligence gathering
often looked a lot like hospitality.

Bill pulled the Norton up onto its
stand in the clearing at the border and took the bottles carefully out of the
saddle bag. The sun had broken the mist and it promised to be a beautiful
spring day. Thomas and Gabriel stepped out of their guard hut, their crisp
uniforms a bit crumpled after a cold night in the hut.

“Morning gentlemen,” Bill said,
holding up the bag, “I bring gifts!”

“Is it stout?” Gabe asked excitedly,
reaching for the bottles. His face broke into a wide smile as he held up one of
the bottles for Thomas to see.

“Thank you, my friend!” Thomas
grinned, shaking Bill’s hand enthusiastically.

Bill didn’t have much of an ear for
languages, and both men’s accented English sounded French to him, but others
had told him there is a distinctness to Luxembourg French that Bill’s Norfolk
County ears couldn’t hear. He shook off his dewy topcoat and lay it over the
saddle. Thomas had turned back to the hut carrying the clinking bottles. The
smell of eggs and bacon wafted out of the doorway.

“Come, William! We have fresh eggs
this morning!”

Twenty minutes later the three of
them were standing around the motorcycle with mostly empty plates. Bill had
been explaining parts on the bike to them. Tom and Gabe, both of whom spoke a
baffling number of languages compared to unilingual Bill, were focused on
building their technical English vocabulary.

“Carburetor is similar to French
carburateur and the Dutch is the same as English, but German and Luxembourgian
use vergaser,” Thomas explained.

Bill liked their breakfasts. Tom was
nineteen, same age as he was, and Gabe was the ‘old man’ at twenty-three.
They’d managed to meet up at least once a week since he’d first met them on a
ride in March. Bill was encouraged to document these meetings and collect
intelligence on what was going on in Luxembourg, who were neutral in this war
that wasn’t really happening. Bill, with his country accent and lack of guile,
was the perfect intelligence operative. The fact that he enjoyed the job, and
it got him out of a lot of heavy lifting while refueling Hurricanes was besides
the point.

“Do you ride bikes as part of your
job?” Bill asked around the last of his eggs.

“Yah,” Gabe replied around his
bacon, “but we always seem to get the car. Probably because we’re furthest from
the depot.”

“I prefer motorbikes to cars,” Bill
said, patting the Norton’s tank, “much more exciting!”

Gabe laughed as he collected the
metal camp plates and returned them to the hut. Thomas was crouching down
looking at the Norton’s single cylinder engine.

“Zis is a four-hundred, um,
verplaatsing?”

“Don’t know verplaatsing, mate.”
Bill laughed.

Thomas’s face screwed up in
concentration, “zee engine size is verplaatsing. Um, zee space in zee engine?”

“Displacement!” Bill laughed,
“that’s what you call the space inside an engine, the displacement.”

“Dis-place-ment,” Thomas tried it
out, “like the French, déplacement.”
“Right,” Bill grinned, this is almost thirty cubic inches in displacement.”
Thomas looked at him blankly, “cubic inches?”

“Ah, right, you’re metric. It’s four
hundred and ninety cubic centimeters.”

“Is it fast?”

“Not as fast as it should be.”
“Why is that so?”

“It’s an old engine– side valve, and
it’s a heavy old thing. My last bike at home was one hundred CCs smaller, made
more power and weighed much less. This’ll still do sixty mile-an-hour though –
that’s one hundred kilometres per hour… if you duck down.”

“Wat ass e Side Ventil?” Thomas
asked Gabe who had returned from cleaning up.

“In English, it is side-valve. The
valves are mounted on the side rather than the top. William is correct, this is
an old engine design,” Gabe replied, looking at the motor with interest.

Bill leaned down and tickled the
carb, and a bit of fuel dripped down, “Want to give it a go?”

Thomas glanced at Gabe, his eyes
widening, “Yah!”

“Hop on,” Bill laughed, pulling the
bike forward off its stand.

Thomas threw a leg over the Norton.
“My first English bike ride!” he grinned.

Tom looked like he knew what he was
doing and had already pulled the kick start out with his foot, he had obviously
ridden before.

“What do you usually ride?” Bill
asked, stepping back as Thomas prepared to kick it over.

“There are Motobécane, um, side-car?
That we ride.” Gabe replied, eying Thomas with some jealousy as he stepped on
the kick starter. The Norton thumped to life first kick.

Thomas kicked it into gear before
easing away. He rode past the guard hut into Luxembourg, which Bill supposed
might have caused problems had he been the one riding it. In a moment he
disappeared around a bend up the road.

“He knows how to ride a bike,” Bill
said to Gabe.

“I hope he doesn’t go far,” Gabe
replied with a wrinkled brow. “Riding around Luxembourg on a Royal Air Force
motorbike will get him in trouble.”

“As long as he brings it back, no
worries!” Bill laughed.

Thomas came back about ten minutes
later. As he pulled the bike up onto its stand, he tried to straighten his
unruly blond hair.

“That is an interesting motorbike!”

“Back home they call it ‘the poor
man’s Norton’,” Bill replied, “it’s old but easy to work on and dependable, but
not very exciting.”

“What is the exciting English
motorbike?” Thomas asked.

“My sister got a Triumph Speed Twin
last year,” Bill replied, seeing the shiny silver bike in his mind’s eye.
“That’s an exciting motorbike! Much lighter, twice the power.”

“My cousin in Germany has a BMW
R17,” Thomas replied, “a very exciting motorcycle!”

“Flat twin engine?” Bill asked?

“Yah, very fast. We did one hundred
kilometres per hour with two!”

“That’s amazing!” Bill replied.
“I’ve never heard of a bike that can do that!”

“Yah, but he won’t let me drive it,”
Thomas’s face fell, then brightened. “This one is better because you did!”

A deep hum began to fill the air,
seeming to come up through the grass they were standing on. Instinctively, the
three looked up.

Bill’s skin was prickling. He knew
from briefings that things had been heating up. In the past couple of weeks,
the hangar had been kept busy repairing several hit and runs. This hum felt
different though, bigger. The three men kept scanning the broken clouds above
until Gabe yelped and pointed. From the still rising sun in the east, glimmers
from a large formation, very high up.

“That’s not good,” Bill muttered,
reaching for his long coat.

“They are flying over Luxembourg!”
Gabe said under his breath. “They never fly over Luxembourg…”

“You boys look after yourself,” Bill
said, pulling on the leather gloves he’d been given by one of the pilots. “It
looks like things are about to get messy.”

“Yah, messy,” Thomas said absently,
the colour draining from his face.

Bill kicked the bike over and gunned
the motor before spinning the bike in a perfect arc on the damp grass. Thomas’s
eyebrows shot up.

“I hope we get a chance to meet
again,” Bill gave them both a tight-lipped smile before he shot off down the
road, past the unmanned French border station. Someone might want to look into
that.

“Rufft dëst un,” Gabriel said to
Thomas, bringing the barrier down across the road. Thomas stepped into the
guard hut and reached for the telephone.

The ride back to Rouvres was the
opposite of the cool, calm ride to the border. Bill didn’t hang about and had
the Norton doing things that would have given its designers hysterics. He kept
half an eye on the bomber formation, now well south and west of him. Best guess
was they were headed to the big aerodrome in Reims. Seventy-Three Squadron was
supposed to be moving back there to shorten supply lines, but they had been
delayed by a lack of lorries to move the heavy equipment. Perhaps this was
their lucky day, being a small Hurricane fighter squadron parked in a farmer’s
field meant they weren’t on anyone’s to-do list.

The Norton didn’t miss a beat all
the way back which Bill found very satisfying as it had been a right pain in
the ass before he rebuilt the carb. He normally waved to the guard as he pulled
in, but had to stop because the gate was down.

“Corporal,” Sergeant Mills said,
checking his name off a list. “Flight Grimes wants to see you in the tower.”

“Right-oh sergeant,” Bill nodded,
kicking the bike into gear and ducking under the gate as it was being lifted.

He leaned the Norton up against the
side of the tower and walked hurriedly around to the door. The Flight Sergeant
frowned on running, he said it looked panicky rather than efficient, so Bill
walked quickly, as did everyone else within sight of the senior NCO. The office
was in chaos. Radios were chirping and the telephone was ringing, and while no
one was running, it was clear that panic was setting in. Grimes saw Bill’s
sweaty face in the doorway and waved him over.

“What do you know, Corporal?”

“I was at the Luxembourg border on
the D59 talking to my contacts when we noted a large bomber formation at high
altitude. Couldn’t determine plane type, but I counted over forty in the
formation. First visual contact was at oh-eight-ten, coming from the east over
Luxembourg, which the guard said hasn’t happened before. The formation made a
turn south, I think they’re aiming at Reims, Flight.”

“They’ve hit Reims. Everything we
have is scrambled and we’re mobilizing. Find a local farmer with something you
can load up your bike kit into and commandeer it. Get back here and be ready to
move. I have a feeling we aren’t staying in Rouves. Any other news?”

“Luxembourg has closed their border;
I didn’t see any of the unusual traffic on the roads.”

“Carry on,” Grimes turned away to
deal with three others waiting to speak to him.

Bill stepped back out into the
morning sun, a bead of sweat hanging from the tip of his nose. In the back of
his mind, he was already working through a list of vehicles he’d seen that
might work for carrying their little motorcycle collection. Going to French
authorities was pointless and would only result in an argument and insults, but
many of the local farmers had recently moved away from horses, and he knew of
at least two who spoke English and might be willing to make a swap.

Jean Audun rode a beautiful Peugeot
P515 that Bill had stopped to admire on more than one occasion, and his farm
was only twenty minutes away. Bill jumped back onto the still hot Norton and
bounced over the empty airfield towards the main gate; all the Hurricanes were
up, the only planes left on the ground were unairworthy.

Sergeant
Mills waggled the phone he was talking on at Bill and waved him through. The
roads remained strangely empty as Bill quickly made his way into the village of
Étain just south of the base. A hive of activity on most weekday mornings,
Étain was a ghost town this morning. Bill quietly thumped past shuttered
windows and turned south toward La Vignette before taking a right onto the dirt
track that led to Jean’s farm. Down the hill with the Orne River in the
background, Bill thought the farm looked like a postcard, even more so today
with the last of the fog lifting from the river.

Jean stepped out of his doorway as
Bill pulled up and killed the ignition, he looked tense. The two men had first
met when Jean had ridden by the base on his lovely Peugeot, which had prompted
Bill, who had been chatting with the guard on duty, to give chase. Jean had
retired into farming, but in a previous life he’d worked in the French Foreign
Service and could speak English fluently.

“Bonjour, Jean,” Bill said, stepping
off the bike. “Have you heard?”

“Oui, Bill, Reims is burning from
German bombs. It has begun, no?”

“The whole squadron’s up in the air.
Never seen that before. I think you’re right; it’s kicked off.”

Jean nodded tersely and lifted his
pipe. He was usually a mellow fellow, but this morning he looked like he’d
slept on nails.

“What do you think will happen,”
Jean finally asked through the cloud he’d just exhaled.

Bill had been told to be cautious
when talking to civilians, but Jean was the kind of man you found yourself
trusting. Maybe a trick from the diplomatic corps. In any case, things were
about to become obvious to everyone and in the absence of direct orders Bill
always preferred to tell the truth.

“I was up at the border this morning
when I saw the bomber formations. They came in over Luxembourg, which they
haven’t done before. You’re just behind the Maginot Line so you’ll be
protected… but not from bombs, I suppose.”

Jean gave Bill a cynical look over
his pipe. “Do you think the Maginot Line will hold?”

“I can’t see how the Germans could
just walk through it, but it can’t do much about the aerial attacks.”

Jean nodded in resignation, “What
can I help you with?”

“I’ve been tasked with finding
civilian transportation, and I was hoping we might be able to come to an
arrangement for one of your vehicles.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Jean
laughed, tapping out his pipe on the doorframe.

Bill smiled back tightly. “It isn’t
for me either.”

Jean considered the request. “I
don’t have enough petrol for the vehicles I do have. Could we arrange a trade?
You fill up my tank, and I’ll give you my old TUB.”

            Jean
had three of the Citroën utility vans for delivering produce locally. The TUB
was a very strange bit of French engineering, like a cube on wheels, but Bill
had seen them all over the area and knew them to be dependable.

“I’ll be back with a bowser if they
give me the say so,” Bill held out his hand and Jean shook it.

Bill jumped back on the Norton and
kicked it over.

“Thanks, Jean. I hope I can return
the van when things settle down again.”

Jean smiled grimly and turned back
into his house.

 

Bill was back at the airfield gate
in less than twenty minutes. It was easy to make time on empty roads. Mills
waved him through, and Bill left the Norton ticking hot against the side of the
tower and went to find Grimes. Things hadn’t settled down since Bill’s last
visit and everyone was moving in three directions at once.

“Morris?” Grimes waved him over.
“What do you know?”

“Jean Audun in La Vignette has a French utility van he’s
willing to trade for petrol. Do we have any, Flight?”

Grimes nodded. “We topped everything
up from Reims last night. We can’t expect more fuel any time soon, but we’re
brimmed and if we end up moving, we can’t take it all with us. Find a driver
and get a bowser over to the big tank and fill up, how much do you need?”

“It’s a big tank, Flight, maybe a
thousand gallons?”

“Fill a bowser and make the trade on
my authority, off you go.” Grimes turned away.

Bill found Sheckles sitting in the
mess drinking tea. He’d worked with Sheck on a number of fueling assignments
before the motorbiking happened.

“Want to go for a drive?” Bill sat
down across from him with his own brew.

“Are we driving back home?” Sheck
asked hopefully, his youthful freckled face showing mock hope, the only kind
available.

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Bill
replied, sipping the hot tea. “Grimes asked me to do a fuel run to Jean Audun’s
farm in La Vignette. It’s not far and I’ve got to drive one of those mad French
cube vans he’s got back in exchange.”

Sheck gave him a shrewd look over
the tea. “Why you picking up civilian vehicles?”

“Not enough room for the bikes on
what we’ve got here, and everyone will be busying driving something else?
Grimes doesn’t want to leave them behind? I dunno, why you asking me? I don’t
make the decisions.”

“Fair enough. Finish the tea and
go?”

“I’m not leaving the tea
unfinished.”

 

It was getting on for lunch but they
both grabbed a sandwich when they left the mess and were now munching on them
as the fuel bowser filled up from the holding tank. The pump was loud, but
returning Hurricanes made it impossible to talk, so the two kicked a deflated
football back and forth and juggled lunch as the tank filled. They stopped to
watch Hurricanes in various states of disrepair bounce down the grass runway.
As the last of the squadron pulled up a hundred yards away and killed its
Merlin engine, bird song returned to the field.

“I wonder how many we got,” Sheck
said, eying the smoke rising from several of the planes.

Ground crews were on the wounded fighters,
putting out fires. The undamaged planes were already refueling and rearming for
an immediate return to murderous skies.

“More of them than us, I hope,” Bill
replied around his sandwich. “Cobber ‘n Fanny’ll get their share.”

 “Cobber” Kain and “Fanny” Orton had both made
ace already and had been featured in papers back home. The squadron was proud
of both, and many of the enlisted men liked them because they weren’t career
types with airs and graces; each had joined to fly. Both aces had picked up
Bill’s motorbike training at Lieutenant Scoular’s urging and Cobber in
particular had taken to it. He’d often sign out a Norton when given leave
rather than taking a car.

            The fuel bowser’s wheels were
pressing into the grass, a sure sign it was near full. Sheck hit the lever and
stopped the pump. When he pulled the connector off both men could see petrol
just below the filler.

“That’ll make Farmer Audun happy,”
Bill said, peering into the tank.

“Let’s get it over to him,” Sheck
replied, doing the cap up tight and stuffing his terrible football under the
tank.

Sheck navigated the bowser across
the still dewy grass toward the gate. The surviving Hurricanes were refueled
and spinning up again, filling the air with Merlin thunder. There were gaps in
the formation though. One wouldn’t start and another had bullet damage to its
flight controls, making Bill wonder how the pilot had managed to land it in the
first place.

Sheck pulled the lorry up to the
gate and Mills gave him the eye.

“Where do ya think you’re going with
that?”

“Wherever he tells me to go,” Sheck
jerked a thumb at Bill.

“Sergeant, I’m bringing back a
civilian utility vehicle as per Flight’s orders,” Bill leaned over to speak
over Sheck. “Is there anything needs doing to it before I bring it on base?”

“Best we look it over to make sure
it’s not got anything bomb-like on it,” Mills replied. “Off you go. Keep an eye
on Sheck, he tends to wander.”

“Sar-junt!” Sheck replied with mock
formality as he shifted the heavy bowser into gear and eased it into motion.
Mills stepped back into the guard hut shaking his head.

Sheck made driving the heavily
loaded bowser easy, but Bill knew otherwise. Improperly timed gear changes
would shred the gearbox with a load like this, but Sheck got them moving
through Étain and on to Jean’s farm without incident. The roads remained deserted
and there was little farm activity happening, neither of which was typical.

“Pull up to the gate and let’s walk
in to see how best to do this,” Bill said, opening the door.

Both men jumped out of the bowser
and opened the gate. Jean was already walking up the pathway.

“Gentlemen,” he said, poker faced.
“My tank is next to the barn, this way.”

Jean’s meticulously run farm had a
dirt track that looped around his barn, allowing him to fill vehicles from
raised fuel tank. It was an older but well-maintained system, and there was
nothing about the road up to it that would pose a problem for the bowser, so
Sheck went back to get it.

Jean pushed back one of the sliding
doors on his barn, revealing his three parked utility vehicles.

“The Traction Utilitaire Basse is
what I will trade for a full tank,” Jean said, pointing to the older of the
three. You should be able to carry four bikes with spares in that.”

Bill eyed the thing with curiosity.
It was bizarrely minimalist with no engine that he could see on the front. It
looked like an upturned bathtub on wheels, which is where it got its nickname.

“Where’s the motor?” Bill asked
looking around the van.

“At the front, under the floor.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Be careful driving it empty, it’s a
handful, but loaded it drives normally – and save some of your petrol for it,
all three of these are empty. It has been sitting in here for a while so we
might have to bump it. I’ll steer, you push it out to the front.”

Jean stepped up into the driver’s
seat, leaving the door open, shifted into neutral and gave Bill a wave. It was
remarkably light for its size and Bill was easily able to roll it down the
incline out of the barn and into the late morning sun. The van was covered in a
fine layer of dust from lack of fuel.

Sheck parked uphill from the tank
and made quick work of running the hose into it. Fuel was rapidly filling the
tank, filling the air with the tangy smell of petrol. While that was going on
Bill and Jean looked over the TUB, Jean pointing out how to get to the motor
and checking that it still cranked, which it did.

Within minutes the bowser had filled
the ground tank but still had fuel in it.

“This has a vehicle filler on it,”
Sheck shouted from the side of the barn. “Want to fill up the other vehicles?
No point in taking it back half full.”

Jean looked at Bill and nodded
vigorously. They pushed the TUB to the side of the barn as Sheck let the bowser
roll backwards down the road until it poked into the courtyard. He then undid a
smaller coiled hose and began filling the TUB. Bill helped Jean roll the other
two empty vans out of the barn. After filling all three, Sheck tied the hoses
up for the drive back.

“If I’m able, I’ll return this to
you when we don’t need it anymore,” Bill said, patting the van.

“I hope so, but I fear I won’t be
seeing you again any time soon,” Jean replied with gallic shrug.

Bill stepped into the bizarre French
van and fired it up. Compared to the big diesel motors he’d been driving, the
tiny petrol engine in the TUB barely made any noise and the transmission was
silent. Bill followed Sheck up the hill but could only hear the heavy gears and
motor of the bowser groaning up the incline. The TUB bounced about alarmingly,
at one point feeling like it would tip over on the uneven ground, but once on
the road it felt a bit more manageable. It was strange looking out the front and
seeing no bonnet.

Up the road into Étain, Bill was
starting to get a feel for driving the van but at the first corner he started
to doubt the wisdom of the trade as the little van went up on two wheels and
scared the daylights out of him.

“A handful when empty?” Bill
muttered, “that’s some French understatement.”

By the time the two arrived back at
the airfield gate Bill was sweaty and mildly terrified of the TUB. Mills waved
Sheck through and then stepped up to the little van as Bill pulled up.

“What on earth is that?” he asked,
eyeing the alien looking thing.

“The most terrifying thing I’ve ever
driven, Sergeant,” Bill replied, peeling his fingers from the steering wheel.
“It better drive straight when it’s loaded or I’m parking it up!”

“Where’s the motor?” Mills asked,
opening doors, and doing a routine inspection.

“Under my feet,” Bill stamped on the
vibrating floor, “it makes it quite tippy.”

“What will they think of next, eh?”

“Not more like this, I hope.”

“Flight’s calling a meeting for all
staff at fourteen hundred. Grab a bite and make sure you’re there on time.”

“Yes, sergeant.”

Bill put the TUB in gear and drove
it around back of the hangar where he kept the brace of Nortons under a
home-made metal roof. A crude workbench had been knocked up for him by a couple
of the mechanics so that he could do maintenance on them, but the Nortons
hadn’t required much. The bike shed was where everyone on the base came to sign
out a bike, and, thanks to a stormy winter with many flightless days, the
majority of the squadron had had a go on them.

Opening the van, Bill eyed the cargo
hold. He might be able to squeeze four bikes into the thing if he was cunning
about it. With three in it’d have space for spares and tools. The row of bikes
was parked with military precision. If they had to move, the majority of them
could be ridden to the next location.

Just then the air raid claxon
chirped letting everyone know it was two o’clock and meeting time. Bill headed
toward the parade grounds but hesitated when he saw no one moving in that
direction. One of the mechanics was cleaning up by the hangar.

“It’s in here, Bill,” he shouted
with a familiar East Anglian accent, jerking an oily thumb back into the
hangar, “Flight doesn’t want us offering ourselves up as a target from above.”

The hangar wasn’t a proper one, just
a metal frame with canvas pulled over it. It kept the rain off but little else;
it was still bloody cold in there in the winter when the openings at either end
let a steady wind through it. Bill walked in to see most of the squadron
forming a knot around the Flight Sergeant. Sheck was at the back leaning
against a crate, his unruly hair sticking up now that he’d taken his cap off.

“Manage to get that parked without
tipping it over,” he laughed as Bill joined him.

“It’s mad!” Bill replied. “Jean said
it’d feel better loaded. It’d better be!”

“Drives the front wheels, eh?” Sheck
noted.

“You can’t tell from driving. It
feels normal when it isn’t trying to roll over.”

A few other stragglers were making
their way into the hangar but pretty much everyone who wasn’t up in a plane was
there so the Flight Sergeant held up his hand for quiet.

“If you’ve been wondering when this
was going to kick off, you don’t need to wonder anymore. Hitler has crossed the
border into the low countries. As of now Seventy-Three Squadron is on high
alert which means two things: no one is off duty as of now, and everyone’s
first job is to ensure the fighting readiness of our aircraft. If you’re on
flight crew you’re going to be very busy, so others are going to have to step
up. The fuel depots at Reims have been hit. Alternatives will be set up on a
day-to-day basis. If you’re driving petrol, keep an eye on these changes.”

Grimes paused for a moment, eying
the group of worried young faces.  Grimes
himself was only in his late twenties, but he was the old man here. He had
their full attention, he just needed to focus their anxiety on the job at hand.

“Expect to see rotating sorties all
day every day. There will also be a lot of traffic passing through as we are
one of the few forward airfields that didn’t get bombed. Let’s keep it that
way. Any time you’ve got gear on the ground that might give us away, stow it or
throw a tarp over it.”

“We also need to tighten up
security. All military police meet with me after dismissal for a briefing,”
Grimes paused and took a deep breath. “Look lads, we’ve been dicing with Jerry
since the weather improved and we knew this was coming. France has their
Maginot Line and we’re behind it. What we can do is help them keep the air
threat from unhinging things, and we can do that by giving our boys up in the
sky the best Hurricanes we can. Do your duty. If you have any problems, see me
and I’ll clear the way for you. Off you go, dismissed.”

The large group around the Flight
Sergeant surged off in many directions at once. They’d been in France all
winter, and everyone knew what they were doing and proceeded to do it. Bill
hung back with the other security types. Sergeant Mills kept glancing out the
front of the hangar toward the guard hut with a worried look on his face.

“Base security, gentlemen. It has
been lax, we need to tighten it up,” Grimes began, looking down a list on a
clipboard. “We need details walking the fence line and checking for any gaps
and closing them. Sergeant Mills?”

“Flight!” Mills replied, snapping
to.

“Select your details and give me
names. I expect to see signed off inspections by sunset,” Grimes flipped a page
on his clipboard. “We have a pair of anti-aircraft guns coming. Should be here
tomorrow. We need to find bunks for their crews. We’re also getting other new
personnel in. A senior man will always be on duty with a novice until we’ve
established that they know what they’re doing. We don’t have time for breaking
them in with the usual nonsense so stow the hazing. If any of them are
incompetent come have a word with me. Expect to see them arrive in the next day
or two. We run a tight ship here, let’s tighten it up a bit more.”

The men around the flight sergeant
stiffed perceptibly. It wasn’t a proper parade on the drill square but the
reflex to snap to attention was still there.

“Communicate your needs clearly. If
you see anything that could be improved, tell your superior. Dismissed!”

Everyone leapt to it, dispersing
quickly. Bill was about to head back to the bike shed when Grimes caught his
eye and waved him over.

“Corporal Morris, I’ve been given
some specific instructions for you,” Grimes began, his moustache bristling.
“Your ground intelligence this morning caught the eye of the Major. He asked if
I could spare you to head back out and see what you can see, but that doesn’t
mean taking unnecessary risks. Collect what information you can and return with
it by sunset. Don’t be chatting with strangers, only known locals. Clear?”

“Clear, Flight Sergeant,” Bill
replied, his mind already racing with ideas about where he might go.

“Lock up the motorbikes,” Grimes
added. “If anyone needs access to them, they need permission from me.”

 

Bill found a lock and chain in the
hanger and ran it through the front wheels of the line of bikes before looping
it to the padlock. He left the Norton he’d been riding that morning out as it
had just been serviced and was working a treat. With the bikes locked, he
fueled up the free Norton and put a can of oil and the smallest can of petrol
he had in the saddlebags, and then cleaned up. His heavy coat was left behind
as the sun was beating down on a warm, May day. The Norton fired at first kick.
He stood on the pegs as he navigated the rutted field on the fuel heavy bike
back to the guard hut where Sergeant Mills was arranging fence duties.

“On yer bike, Corporal Morris!” he
called, swinging the gate up and waving Bill through.

Bill waved back and pulled down his
googles before powering off down the dirt track that led to the airfield.
Rouvres was up in the top right ‘corner’ of France. About 25 miles to the north
was the Luxembourg border, and to the west the Moselle River flowed north
across the border into Germany itself. If he was crafty and stayed on back
roads, he’d avoid the Maginot Line’s fortifications and the officious French
military that took great pleasure in stopping him there.

Pulling up to the main road that ran
north across the top of the airfield, Bill paused for a moment to adjust his
googles. With the Norton quietly idling he could hear an approaching drone he’d
missed while in motion. Over the treeline in front of him two Hurricanes
blasted overhead, no landing gear out and their engines howling; they weren’t
about to
land[1] ! A moment later Bill got his first
close up look at a Messerschmidt BF109 as the smaller, square winged killer
screamed overhead at full throttle. It got hair-raisingly louder as it opened
up its machine guns on the retreating Hurricanes, one of which was trailing
smoke.

Shell casings from the 109 rained
down along the dirt road behind where Bill was gawping. The Hurricanes broke in
opposite directions over the airfield where sporadic ground fire had erupted.
The Messerschmidt immediately went after the smoking Hurricane, sensing an
easier kill.

Bill watched the smoking Hurricane
climb as the Messerschmidt fell in behind it, both of them losing speed as they
shot into the sky. The other Hurricane had looped back hard and was falling in
behind the invader. This violent ballet had stopped Bill dead, but his orders
floated back up into his mind and he suddenly felt guilty for stopping.
Reluctantly, he kicked the Norton into gear and headed northeast towards
Audun-le-Tiche near the Luxembourg border. After having a look around there
he’d pass close enough to Gabriel and Thomas on the D59 that he might drop in
again, depending on who was on the French side. The real trick was going to be
avoiding French authorities on a bright blue bike with RAF stencils all over
it. Maybe some camouflage paint was in order.

The ride north was strangely quiet
with few vehicles on the road that weren’t military. As Bill approached the
border, he had to stop to record aerial activity on his notepad. By the time he
turned east toward the tiny village of Ottange on the road that led to
G&T’s border crossing, he had three pages of notes; the skies were busy.

 

The French side of the border
crossing, often unmanned, had three military vehicles parked at it, so Bill
pulled over under a large oak tree and shut down the Norton to ponder the
situation. From his vantage point up a slight hill and from under the shade of
the tree, Bill was all but invisible. Barriers were down which meant he’d have
to stop and talk to the French, who were unlikely to wave him through. A
hundred yards down the little country road, Gabriel and Thomas’s guard hut sat
in the sun in front of a corpse of pine trees. Their barrier was
uncharacteristically down too.

The border area had few farms and
was mostly unspoilt woodlands which kept two-tracked vehicles to the roads, but
not so much a motorbike. Bill pushed the Norton around and rolled back down the
incline away from the eyes of the French border station. He soon found what he
was looking for: a game path snaking into the woods to the west. He quietly
rolled onto the dirt path and then kicked the Norton over. Stepping up on the
pegs he motored quietly into the woods.

The path wasn’t anything he hadn’t
done before in hare scrambles back home in Norfolk, but doing it on the heavy,
underpowered Norton made it interesting. He stopped when the trail got rough
and removed his panniers to keep the bike as light as possible. He then
followed the path down into a valley where it crossed a stream. By this point
Bill guessed he was about parallel to the French border station, so he kept
following the trail as it followed the little stream through the woods.
Estimating he was past G&T’s hut, he looked for smaller branches of the
trail that might lead him back to the road. When nothing obvious presented
itself, he picked a thin section of trees and started weaving his way through
them, keeping the throttle as light as he could.

His front wheel poked clear, and he
realized he’d found the road again. Killing the engine, he let the Norton roll
back into the foliage and leaned it against a tree. Quietly dismounting, Bill
ducked under the leaves and saw that he was about a hundred feet into
Luxembourg from G&T’s guard hut. Did that mean he’d technically just
invaded the place? Ensuring the road was clear, he crept across the road into
the pines behind the boarder station and made his way forward.

Thomas was sitting in the hut, his
face framed by the window. Bill waited at the edge of the pines behind the
guard hut and waved whenever Thomas looked up, finally catching his eye, which
caused his mouth to fall open. He said something and Gabriel quickly walked out
of the hut to where Bill was standing in the pines.

“William! What are you doing?”
Gabriel cried. “I did not expect to see you again so soon!”

Bill made frantic quieting gestures
and ushered Gabriel over.

“Things are serious, Gabe,” Bill
said urgently. “I wanted to make sure you were alright, but I also thought
maybe we could share information.”

Gabriel gave Bill a sharp glance. He
was no fool and knew Bill hadn’t been visiting them just to be neighbourly.
Gabriel himself had been relaying intelligence Bill had shared back to his
superiors who had encouraged more interaction with the RAF corporal.

“I don’t know how much longer
Luxembourg will be Luxembourg,” Gabriel replied after a moment of thought. “The
German army crossed our eastern border this morning.”

Bill’s eyebrows shot up. This was
the first he’d heard of that, there was nothing on the big map back at the
tower that suggested ground invasion, though their reconnaissance flights had
been replaced by more violent sorties so they were operating blind. Bill made a
quick decision and pulled out his aircraft listings gleaned on the ride over
and handed it to Gabriel.

“Want to copy this?”

“Yes!” Gabriel replied when he
realized what he was looking at. “Have a sit on the bench and I’ll bring a pen
and paper. Let me see if Thomas can make some coffee.”

Bill moved over to the wooden bench
attached to the back of the hut and sat down. Gabriel returned a few moments
later with a pad of paper and a pencil and started transcribing the listings of
number and type of aircraft, altitude, and time.

“Any chance of stopping their
advance?” Bill asked, as Gabriel continued to transcribe the notes.

“We don’t have a standing army, and
the militias aren’t mechanized,” Gabriel said, head down writing.

Bill nodded, that lined up with his
understanding of Luxembourg’s readiness.

“What will you do?”

Gabriel stopped writing for a moment
and looked up, “hold our post and see what happens.”

“You and me both,” Bill replied,
stretching his legs out and smelling the pines.

Thomas came around and sat next to
him, handing him one of three mugs of coffee.

“We had Stuka fly over very low this
morning,” Thomas began. “It was taking photos, but it had bombs also.”

“A Messerschmitt chased two of our
Hurricanes right over our airfield!” Bill replied.

“Were they firing guns?

“The 109 was,” Bill said,
remembering the mechanical howl of its machine guns and dust on the road
erupting as hot shell casings rained down from the sky.

“I wonder where all those bullets
go,” Thomas’s philosophical side was never far from the surface.

“I was surprised by all the shell
casings,” Bill said. “They covered the road behind me like hail.”

Thomas’s eyes widened, “was it
loud?”

“Incredibly loud. The engines and
then the guns even more so.”

Gabriel had finished transcribing
the notes.

“What will you do now?” he asked,
taking the last cup from the bench where Thomas had left it.

“Toward Thionville and the Maginot
fortifications there and see what the French are up to, then it’s back to my
airfield to report. You?”

“We’ve been told to hold this post
until relieved, so here’s where we’ll be. How did you get here, around the
French?”

“There is an animal path that
follows the stream to the west in that wooded valley. I followed it.”

“Good to know,” Thomas laughed, “but
you did this all on foot?”

“No,” Bill smiled, “on the bike.”

“You are a good rider!” Thomas
replied enthusiastically, thumping Bill on the shoulder.

Bill stretched his growing legs and
sipped the mug of coffee; it was just what he needed to keep him going. A light
breeze ruffled the pines. With all the trees around this wasn’t a great
location for aircraft spotting, but that might be its saving grace. The chance
of it being singled out from the air was remote.

“Did they give you any directions
for if the Germans come through,” Bill asked Gabriel.

“Hold our post.”

“You must feel frustrated.”

Gabriel paused, staring into his
mug, “It is upsetting to know our borders aren’t being recognized, but we are a
small country surrounded by giants. When they start throwing boulders, the best
we can do is duck, but to answer your question, yes, I am frustrated.”

Thomas nodded in agreement, “We will
still be here when they leave again.”

Bill smiled at them both, “I like
your optimism! I’m far from home and worried that I’ll never see it again.
Being buried in foreign soil is a fear many of us share, but I don’t think
Hitler will stop until he runs the whole show, so I’ll fight here if needs be.”

Gabriel gave Bill a speculative
look, “I never thought about what being one of those giants asks of its people.
I can’t imagine a situation where Luxembourg would ask me to go and die in a
foreign land.”

The three fell into silence. Birds
sang and trees rustled in the warm spring breeze. The hum of insects in the air
was slowly replaced by that of an engine approaching. All three men stood up at
once. Bill handed Thomas his mug and tucked his notebook back into his pocket.

“The mug and the notes you just
transcribed…” Bill began.

“Yah,” Gabriel replied, his English
slipping as panic set in.

Bill double checked and saw nothing
else left behind, then ducked back into the thick pines. Moments later a
strange, squared off vehicle pulled up next to the hut and four men stepped
out. Three in German uniform, one in border guard attire similar to G &
T’s, though with more finery on it. As the engine was cut, other motors could
be heard, motorbike motors. A BMW sidecar rig (Bill had seen photographs)
pulled up with two stormtroopers on it.

The older man in the Luxembourgian
uniform stepped up to G & T, both of whom saluted sharply. He proceeded to
speak rapidly in German, gesturing back to the German officers now standing by
the car. The two soldiers on the bike had stepped off and were pacing around
the front of the hut toward the French station down the road. They looked like
wolves on the hunt.

Bill’s heart was thumping in his
chest and his first instinct was to be elsewhere, but he checked himself and
controlled his breathing, hunkering down under the pines. From near ground
level and on his stomach, he watched the exchange from the shadows. If they
found the man in RAF gear with an RAF bike in the woods only a hundred feet
away, it wouldn’t end well.

The Luxembourg official was
introducing Gabriel to the German officers in a round of handshakes. Thomas,
the younger of the two, was standing back, pale faced and nodding awkwardly
when asked anything.  One of the German
soldiers pushed the sidecar rig over to the side of the hut and parked it next
to the wall, this wasn’t looking like a short visit.

They were now touring the hut and
the blocked road. The German officers were looking down the road at the French
border station through binoculars. Three French guards stood outside looking
back up the road at them. One turned and got into his Citroën, spun up the
wheels and turned quickly before disappearing down the road. The invaders
didn’t seem to care, that or they’d come here on purpose to be seen.

The officers gave the hut a cursory
glance but were much more interested in what lie to the south. Orders were
being given and salutes went around. Gabriel was walking the officers and
Luxembourg official back to the car while Thomas was shaking hands with the
German soldiers, who were pulling gear off the bike. Bill knew he’d be asking
them about the BMW’s top speed.

The officers stepped back into the
little square car painted camouflage green. A final round of salutes and they
disappeared back up the road into Luxembourg. As they left, Gabriel glanced
anxiously at the pine trees, and then turned and walked over to where Thomas
was pestering the Germans about their rig.

Bill got the hint. With the soldiers
just arrived and Thomas all over them, they’d be distracted, so he edged his
way back into the pines to where he’d initially crossed the road. With the
afternoon sun throwing longer shadows, he nipped across and disappeared into
the woods where the Norton lay in wait. His last view was of Thomas and Gabriel
chatting with the two machine-gun totting soldiers.

The Norton was leaning against a
tree where he’d left it. Seeing the blue white and red RAF roundel provided
strange relief after all of the red and black swastikas. Bill threw a leg over
set it into neutral, rolling quietly back down the hill. In a small clearing he
made a tight turn and got facing the right way, and then rolled the rest of the
way back to the stream in near silence. Now hundreds of yards away through
thick trees, he estimated it safe enough and tickled the carbs before kicking
over the bike, which settled into a steady throb. In gear, he eased his way
through the woods, keeping the revs as low as he could.

 

It had been about twenty minutes
since the Germans left and that French border guard had driven away in a panic.
Considering how far he had to go to report, and then how long they’d take
bringing military up there, Bill figured he had maybe an hour to get back down
the single road to the border and disappear into the French countryside. A
Royal Air Force airman riding away from a border where first ground contact
with the enemy had just happened would cause complications, so best be quick.

Bill followed his own tracks back up
from the stream and, after pausing to pick up his panniers, poked a wheel out
onto the road before leaning forward and looking each way. The French border
station was just over the hill to the north, all was quiet otherwise. Letting
out the clutch he eased the Norton south onto the road and back towards
Ottange, where he slipped through town like a shadow. There were so few people
about that he suspected the French authorities had ordered people to lay low.

Volmerange-les-Mines
was another French ghost town. His initial plan was to head up toward the
German border at Schengen, but things seemed to be moving a bit too quickly for
that overly optimistic plan. In Sœtrich he instead headed south, toward Thionville
where the French had a major fortification on the Maginot Line. As he
approached the small city he kept to the east and out of the properly
industrialized areas where there was still traffic.

Bill was thinking about how he might
do this reconnaissance lark without drawing so much attention. There was a time
to wave the flag, but it generally wasn’t when you were trying to quietly
gather intelligence. There were cans of paint in the hangar that he could apply
to this Norton. He’d see if the Flight Sergeant was willing to let him do it
when he returned.

On a hill just east of Thionville,
Bill leaned the bike up against a tree on the side of the road and got off to
stretch. He then pulled out his notepad and made notes on as many details as he
could remember. The fear enhanced images of Nazis standing around the border
post were startlingly clear in his mind’s eye, so many details, including the
markings on the military car were all committed to paper. He drew the car and
sidecar combination and any uniform insignia he could remember too.

To the east Thionville lay in its
river valley. The Mosselle River glinted in the late afternoon sun; French
military forces were surging around the fort. He’d seen a line of vehicles
heading northwest towards Sœtrich, likely on their way to the occupied border
crossing. He made a note of that too.

A cup of lukewarm tea from the
thermos and a top up of the Norton from the fuel can and he was ready for the
twenty-odd-mile ride back to Rouvres. The late afternoon sun cast his own
shadow out before him as he made quick time down the empty roads. It would have
been a lovely ride had his mind not been buzzing with anxiety so much.

 

Someone had swept up all the bullet
casings on the road into the base. Bill pulled up to an unfamiliar face at the
guard hut.

“Corporal Morris returning from
ground reconnaissance,” he said, eyeing the nervous young man holding his
clipboard upside down.

“Yeh-um, yes, Corporal,” the young
airman stammered, turning the clipboard around when he couldn’t make sense of
it. “You’re checked back in.”

“Thanks, Jenkins is it? Anything
else?” Bill had turned nineteen over the winter in France and was now a
weathered veteran. Jenkins looked a very inexperienced eighteen.  Most of the squadron were in their late teens
or early twenties.

“Oh! Yes, Corporal! Sergeant Mills
said that Flight Sergeant Grimes wants to see you when you get in.”

“I’ll head right over. Don’t
hesitate if you’ve got a question,” Bill grinned through his mud and road
spattered face.

“Um, that’s a Norton 16H?”

“It is.”

“I used to own one.”

“Are you handy with them? Riding and
mechanics?”

“Yes, Corporal.”

“When you’re off duty drop by the
Bike Shed, it’s behind the fuel depot beyond the hangar.”

“Yes, Corporal!”

Bill kicked the Norton into gear and
rolled around the edge of the airfield. Most of the Hurricanes were parked up
near the tree line where they’d be harder to spot from the air. Only two thirds
of the squadron was in the lineup though.

He
left the Norton leaning against the Citroën TUB and walked briskly over to the
tower. Everyone was in the mess except the Flight Sergeant, who ate at his desk
which is where Bill found him.

“Have a seat Morris, you must be
exhausted,” Grimes noted the sun and wind burn on Bill’s face. “Give me a quick
summary and I’ll pass it on tonight.”

Bill sat down causing the dust from
his clothes and hair to form a cloud around him. Grimes poured a second cup of
tea and pushed it across to him.

“Nazis are already at the Luxembourg
border,” Bill began as he accepted the tea. “I stopped at the post where I know
the guards and had to nip into the trees when a German staff car and motorbike
turned up.”

Grimes’ eyebrows shot up. He picked
up a pencil and started making notes.

“From the trees I watched a senior
Luxembourg official introduce three German soldiers. Two younger, lower ranked
officers and a senior officer who had more jewellery on. They walked up to the
border gate and had a good look at the French position down the road. They left
the two soldiers there with the Luxembourg guards I’ve been chatting with.
Neither of them told the Germans I was in the trees. When the officers left, I
got out of there.”

“So much for avoiding dangerous
situations,” Grimes glanced up at Bill. “Anything else?”

“Gabe, the senior man on duty there,
told me that the Germans had already moved into Luxembourg from the east and
that they had no way of stopping them. He was resigned to letting them in,
though no one looked happy about it.”

Grimes made more notes, nodding as
Bill talked.

“This is a list of air formations I
saw with type of aircraft, times, location and direction,” Bill continued,
passing his notepad over to Grimes who started transcribing it. “The French are
aware of the border situation at Ottange. One of them left in a staff car when
the Germans put on their display. Maybe it was an intentional, to draw them out
of their Maginot fortifications. When I later passed by the big fort in
Thionville, I saw half a dozen military vehicles, four armoured cars and two
motorbikes heading in the direction of the border. Thionville itself is very
busy with military traffic. Dozens of lorries and tracked vehicles are in
motion. That was about two hours ago.”

Grimes nodded as he finished taking
notes. The office was getting darker as the sun set so he turned on his desk
lamp. “Good work, Corporal. I’ll run this up the ladder and see what they want
to do. Anything else?”

“Flight, riding around isn’t a
problem, but advertising that I’m RAF isn’t ideal. Might it be possible for me
to paint one of the bikes? And perhaps use civilian clothing if I’m out and
about again?”

Grimes gave Bill a shrewd glance,
“you’ve attracted interested parties with your work. People higher up in
intelligence gathering. I suspect they’ll send someone down if what you’ve got
here is useful to them. That officer would be the one to decide if you can
modify military issued gear. In the meantime, grab something hot from the mess
and clean up. Again, good work, Corporal.”

 

Unsurprisingly after the day he’d
just had, Bill fell immediately asleep after cleaning up and feeding himself.
The room he shared with the other junior NCOs was smaller than the barracks
room for the airmen, but it still contained a dozen bunks, and everyone in them
had survived a harrowing day.

A touch on the shoulder brought Bill
up from a dream he had quite a lot from a moment on the Scottish Six Day Trial
where he was stuck in a bog, but instead of being angry or frustrated, he just
stood there taking in the highlands.

“Corporal,” the night duty NCO
whispered, trying not wake the others. “You’re needed in the tower.”

Ground fog wreathed the aerodrome as
Bill walked through the cold night air. Only the red nightlight was on,
otherwise all was dark. A civilian MGA was parked under the lone light. The
dream kept tugging at Bill making the scene feel even more surreal.

The tower’s main office was dark but
for the lamp on a Grimes’ desk. The Flight Sergeant waved Bill over and
gestured to the empty seat. Another figure had its back to him. Bill took the
seat and glanced over at the stranger and was surprised to see a middle-aged
woman with greying hair tied back in a bun, she was looking at him closely.

“Corporal Morris, this is Miss
Downey of the, um, Home Office,” Grimes said, gesturing to the woman. “She’d
like to have a word with you.”

Bill stared at them both blankly.
What the hell was going on?

“Corporal,” Downey had a posh
accent. “I’ve been reviewing your intelligence gathering. I think this is
something we could develop. I’ve been given permission to support your work
more directly.”

She pulled an envelope from her
handbag and passed it to Bill who took it wordlessly.

“Not very chatty, is he?” she said
to Grimes, who just leaned back in his chair watching.

Bill opened the sealed envelope. A
typed letter and a card with his name on it were inside. The letter was on RAF
letterhead and was signed by both Seventy-Three Squadron’s Flight Lieutenant
and the Major. It ordered Bill to report directly to Miss Downey while keeping
Bill attached to the squadron. The card was his designation kept on file with
the squadron. Where it had said, ‘Military Policing and Logistics’ before, it
now said, ‘special operations’.

“What does special operations mean,
ma’am?” Bill finally asked.

“He speaks!” Downey smiled for the
first time. “It means you’ll be tasked with specific intelligence requests, and
you’ll do your best, with your unique talents, to get the intelligence we need
to win this war.”

Grimes leaned in, “I know you’ve
been busy today, but do you have some sense of what’s been happening?”

“There are a lot more German planes
than ours in the sky,” Bill replied. “And from what I can see in the hangar,
we’ve lost a third of our fighting capacity.”

“We’re doing better than most,”
Grimes replied. “If we’re going to keep France French we need to come at this
problem from many sides. That’s Miss Downey’s specialty.”

“Yes, Flight. Hard to believe I’m
your best choice though,” Bill said sheepishly.

“You’re the closest any of our
people have been to German ground troops, Corporal,” Downey said. “Everyone is
doing their best, no doubt, but you seem to find ways to make things happen
that shouldn’t. That’s worth cultivating.”

“Thank-you, Ma’am.” Bill still felt
like he might be in a dream but decided to go with it.

“Flight Sergeant Grimes will be my
liaison with you here in at the squadron. You’ll be getting orders to pull back
to Reims in the morning. You’re too isolated out here and we need your
Hurricanes in support of bombing missions,” Downey began. Grimes’ eyebrows
raised at this; it was news to him. “While the squadron is mobilizing, I’d like
you to sort out your machinery. That civilian van you commandeered is a
credible and subtle transport choice. The next step is to get you out uniform
and off an RAF liveried motorbike. Do you know who Louis Jeannin is?”

Bill thought for a moment, “the
French motorbike racer?”

“The very same. He lives near
Thionville and does not like Hitler’s politics. He’s also well connected in
French industry. We reached out to him yesterday; he’ll be looking for you at
noon today. 18 Rue de la République in Knutange, southwest of Thionville. Do
you know it?”

“I’ve ridden through there.”

“Of course you have. I think this is
going to work out well, Flight Sergeant,” Downey smiled, collecting her gloves
and bag, and picking up a leather aviator helmet with goggles Bill hadn’t seen
previously from the desk. “Regular reports gentlemen, with prompt resolution of
mission objectives and all will be well.”

Bill hadn’t realized how tall she
was until she stood up. Both men quickly stood with her. Bill saluted, not
entirely sure why but feeling like it was the right move, Grimes did also. With
that Downey turned on her heel and walked out into the foggy night. A moment
later the MG started up and the sound of the motor receded into the fog.

Grimes looked at Bill with a
resigned expression and gestured for him to sit again.

“I can’t imagine what you’re
thinking,” Grimes began. “That was the strangest meeting I’ve had in twenty
years in the service.”

“Flight, why is this happening?”
Bill asked.

“Your reports were getting regular
uptake and our new Flight Lieutenant didn’t sit on them like the previous CO.
People in London were using your reports as actionable intelligence. At some
point your reports must have been corroborated by other intelligence types and
you were marked a dependable source. That’s when I started getting phone calls
asking about you.”

The look of astonishment on Bill’s
face made the Flight Sergeant smile.

“What does this mean? I mean in
terms of tomorrow, what should I be doing?”

“You’ve got latitude to move now.
You don’t have to wait for RAF orders, and you’ll be operating directly with
BEF intelligence, though still out of 73. You’d asked about painting the bike
and moving about in civilian clothes. You just got that kind of agency. I want
to go back to sleep, so if there is nothing else…”


Chapter 2 can be found here.

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Haliburton School of Art & Design: Blacksmithing

 I’ve been wanting to refamiliarize myself with metal work for some time.  I don’t like farming out work that I’m capable of doing myself and there was a point early in my working life when I was welding weekly as part of my millwright apprenticeship, but I haven’t joined metal in over three decades. It’s amazing how the time flies when quantum cyber research gets in the way.

Finding opportunities to develop these DIY technical skills in Canada where people don’t like to DIY is a challenge. The only welding courses I could find were \full-bore certificate courses for professionals, but then my wife found the Haliburton School of Art & Design. HSAD takes place in Haliburton, which you’ll have heard about on TMD before because it’s one of my favourite places to go for a ride in Ontario. It’s also only about three hours from home.

HSAD offers piles of course options ranging from visual arts to technical crafts. If you’re reading this you’ll probably be interested in the blacksmithing course, not necessarily for the smithing but because it offers you access to expert metal workers in a fully tooled shop that will make you hands-on familiar with not only the hot forging metal but also various other related technologies such as welding, grinding, polishing and plasma cutting. The three of us went up for the week with me doing the smithing, my son glass blowing and my wife water colour painting.

We were asked to bring a project, but what you really need to do for this is to start amassing ideas so when you’re in the forge you’ve got a list to go after, that way you’re not wasting time wondering what to do next. I showed up with my copy of the Rudge Book of the Road and an idea to build a metal sculpture of the line art in the front of the book.

My blacksmithing experience consists of an afternoon of forging, so I thought this would take me the week, but by the end of day one I’d already worked out the rider in the forge and started worrying that I’d run out of project.

I figured getting handy with welding would take a some time, but I forgot to take into account technological progression. Back in the day (in the late 1980s) when I was learning how to weld it was all stick (and no MIG carrot). It took about 15 minutes for Amie to talk me through the MIG process and ten minutes later I was tacking pieces together to get my layout right. Early efforts at joining pieces were messy but by Thursday I was knocking together pieces at will with pretty clean welds. It’s now just a  matter of practice to get back to a point where my welds are a point of pride.
Monday was a real hot-box with temps in the mid-thirties. In the forge it was well into the forties and I was drenched when I left. I should have shown up with better heat management methods and was very dehydrated when I left. I recovered as best I could in the hotel room. The next morning I was still not feeling well but got myself in, got a handle on welding, and put the rest of the design together.

I woke up Wednesday properly sick with the mother of all summer colds, but the only thing I needed to do to finish was the rider’s scarf. With a bit more hot forming of steel and welding I had my 1920s art deco styled Rudge metalwork.

On a side note – the propane forges aren’t very big and don’t work for long, complicated pieces, but the shop had a dual coal forge with four working sides in the back room that let you heat longer pieces. The only trick with the coal forge is that it can get so hot it’ll burn the steel (which looks like sparklers when it goes). The propane forges are set to not get that hot, but the coal forge can, so it in addition to feeding the beast you also have to be careful it doesn’t burn your steel. I ended up leaving the scarf in too long and it burned through at the back, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing as I wasn’t able to create the creases I was looking for in the ends. After burning it in half I was able to make the creases and weld the bits, making it better than it would have been.

  

Old school, but it does offer some advantages with the challenges…

I then got a primer on how the grinding room worked. The temperatures were dropping from Monday but when you’re wearing face protection, a leather apron, long trousers, steel toe boots, leather gloves and a respirator, it’s hot anyway. Even with all that and feeling right rotten I enjoyed getting a feel for the grinding and cleaning up finished pieces. I get the sense that grinding is another one of those hands-on skills that can get surprisingly deep.

The end result was hung outside and I got given a spray on chemical that would prevent it from rusting while showing off the ground metal finish.

The finished piece looked so nice I got a clean image of it and then updated the logo on the site with it, and began the process of moving away from TMD logos focused on what I’m riding at the moment.

Amie Botelho was our instructor and she is all about hands-on learning. Most mornings we
did a 15-20 minute demo of tools and techniques that you could immediately find a use for. Any time you needed other equipment you’d do one on one safety and how-to training and be let at it. On the forge (and everywhere else in the shop)  Amie is incredibly efficient and that teaches you all sorts of lessons if you watch closely.

It isn’t about how hard you hit, it’s about how efficiently you get get hot steel out of the forge and under the hammer. It’s also about turning your project over and looking at it closely as you work it. Smithing isn’t about brute force, it’s about attention and precision, but watching a master smith do it is infinitely better than reading about it in a book or hearing someone drone on about it in in a lecture.

Every demo was immediately followed by the suggestion to ‘just do it’, complete with lots of support in a class of 16 from Amie and shop-tech John. But the best part is that most of the ‘students’ are actually experienced smiths themselves. The ones around me had all done the four month certificate program at Fleming, so you’re also surrounded with experienced metal workers who are very free with support and advice (if you want it – you’re left to your own devices if that’s your jam).

If you’re looking to hone your metalworking skills, or want to jumpstart them from scratch, this is a great place to start. Just make sure you show up with lots of ideas if you don’t want to be cranking out spoons and bottle openers all week (unless that’s your jam) – they’re totally open to whatever you want to tackle. We had students working on everything from building a barrel forge of their own involving big industrial pieces, to yard art metal work using the small stuff.  Those experienced smiths in many cases were churning out all the smithing they needed for the year. One told me he’d make the $700 fee for attending for the week every day in what he was producing, making it well worth the cost.

Why come at it like this? Canada being Canada makes it impossible for you to do things like forging or doing metal work on your own property without hanging you out to dry with insurance and infinite municipal, provincial and federal rules. Coming at it this way gives you access to a full service metal shop with all the tech and consumables, and with the safety and insurance challenges all take care of. The bonus is you also get to hang with an interesting group of like-minded DIYers for the week, which is worth the price of admission alone.


The bandsaws looked like they were older than I am, and I’m feeling old this week!





Once I had the Rudge line art metalwork done I had a go at plasma cutting. I was originally thinking of making a variation on the Isle of Man TT trophy, but symmetrical wings are well out of my wheelhouse without more practice, so I turned it into an absurd door stop with a vaguely Honda theme.

 

Not bad for my first go with a plasma cutter!

Spoons are properly hard work. I found the edge of my forging techniques there quickly!


True that.


The forge at work.


He was early for lunch… this takes place in Haliburton, there are (lots of) deer.


Yep, I did a bottle opener too.


The propane forge at work.

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Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: Patience with C14 Forks

 When I was younger I tended to struggle against time, but as I get older I’m finding that if I slow down and let go of that youthful mania I can see things that get missed and this makes me a better mechanic. Taking on the leaky forks on my 2010 Kawasaki Concours 14/1400GTR also seemed like something too complicated to get into in the garage after the much simpler right-way-up forks on the Tiger (which I get in and out of easily).

Like everything else on the Concours, the front forks are complicated. These would be the first USD (upside down) forks I’ve done after many right way up forks on dirt bikes and the Tiger, so I went looking for how-tos and was met with a wall of incompetence, both in video making and mechanical ineptitude. So bad were some of them that it made the job seem impossible, but it really isn’t.

I finally found Coulda Shoulad Woulda’s C14 Fork Seal video and it was just the thing. Yes, I’m starting you 25 seconds in because that’s one hell of an intro:


Nicely edited and concise (other than that intro), oh that all youtubers took heed. After watching I believed it possible, so out to the garage I went… and was promptly beaten by the bolts on top of the forks which would not move despite a trip to Canadian Tire to buy the long 24mm socket needed to get on them properly. That socket promptly started rounding them. I suspect whoever was in there last didn’t believe in torque wrenches.



Everything I needed for the job was $200 taxes
in on Amazon. The tools seem well made and
worked. The fork seal driver also came in
handy when clamping the fork on the bench.

I applied heat and kept at it, but they would not move, so after lots of sweating and swearing I
stepped away and emailed the local Kawasaki dealer, who I tend to stay away from because whenever I contacted them they give the impression that I’ve interrupted and annoyed them. A terse reply the next morning that was not forthcoming with the details I needed showed that their service department remains firmly of the mindset that they are doing me a favour whenever I pay them exorbitant fees for service. I finally got out of them that it’s $375 to service forks out of the bike and they would only use Kawasaki parts so the seals I’d bought for the job I’d have to buy over again at their markup. A conservative estimate for the job would be $500 in service, parts and taxes, but probably more.


That took me back to the garage where, to my astonishment, the tops came off easily after a few sharp taps with a big socket and some more heat applied. If at first you don’t succeed, step away and perhaps after cooling down you’ve already won. As Classic Bike says, ‘heat and patience.’

With the tops loose I was off to the races. I applied some
intentionality to my process and decided to do a fork each day after work rather than trying to do them all at once. This paid dividends because the first fork was a learning process, and when I left it for the night I thought it over and the second one went twice as quickly with fewer problems. Taking your time and moving intentionally is an underappreciated skill in our manic, modern world.


The process of dismantling the forks is fairly straightforward, but requires some jiggery pokery around compressing the spring to get to the internals. Here are the order of operations assuming you’ve already removed the front fender and wheel:
  • Loosen the fork tops while they’re on the bike! This isn’t easy as the handlebars are in the way. I removed them for access. I also found the metal quite soft. I went out and got a long 24mm socket but it made a mess of them. A well placed vice grip while clamped on the bench did the job better.
  • Remove the fairing plastic cover over the front wheel
  • Undo the plastic cover at the top of the fork tree (three 10mm bolts) and remove the horn as well which is attached to it
  • Loosen the lower fork clamps
  • Loosen the upper fork clamps
  • Slide out the forks (this was also a pain in the ass – I ended up using a long screwdriver to gently open the clamps a bit to let the forks drop
That gets you to the point where you can start working on the forks themselves.
  • Undo the loosened fork tops (if you’re luckier than me and the cock womble who was in there last didn’t tighten them to death)
  • Install your fork compression tools. There are holes in the plastic spacer at the top for you to put a rod in and use the axle mount at the bottom for the other rod
It looks complicated but this is just the fork compressor clamp and a bottom rod provided in the Amazon kit being compressed with rachet straps. 



  •  With the spring compressed you will see the nut at the bottom that holds on that top piece
  • Pull up on the top piece and you should have just enough space to slip the spring holder piece (also in the Amazon kit) in place. This allows you to loosen the bottom nut and spin off the top

  • With that off you can release the rachet straps and remove the spring
  • Remove the tube from the centre of the unit. It’s fragile so put it somewhere safe and then don’t forget to reinstall it (don’t ask)
  • Empty the oil into a container that lets you see how much is in there. Be sure to work the internals to get everything out
The side with the leak (on the right) had less in it, but both were low. There is supposed to be 550ml of oil in each fork. The dark green stuff on the left looked to be completely different to the brown stuff on the left. I’d guess whoever tried to get into these last couldn’t get into one of them and just serviced the one they could – which is nuts!
  • Separate the outer fork from the inners
  • This lets you pop off the outer seal
  • The inner is held in by a retaining ring that’s easy to pop out
  • Ease the fork seal out of the tube (I applied some heat as the old ones were rock hard – this softened them up a bit and made removal easier


  • With everything cleaned up, slide the outer seal on the inner fork making sure it’s the right way around
  • Install the inner seal in the large (upper because these are USD) fork tube. Doing this while it’s separated is much easier than trying to hammer it in when they’re attached. I had no trouble getting the inner fork tube on once it was installed (the holes in the inner shaft are chamfered so sliding them on is straightforward
  • Don’t forget to install the retaining ring after you’ve got the inner seal in (letter side down because these are USD – the ‘open’ side should be facing the oil).
  • Install the inner fork in the outer with new seals
  • Put the spring back
  • Put the plastic bit on top and rebuild your spring compressor (don’t forget the metal cap)
  • loosen the nut on the threaded inner rod and use a matching bolt to give you something to pull it up with when you’ve got it back together
  • Compress it all down again with the ratchet straps
  • Pull the top using that bolt you put on and slip the metal piece to hold it in place
  • Remove the bolt you used to make it reachable and tighten the nut on the inner threaded piece that’s held by the tool you slid in to hold it compressed
  • Insert that inner rod you put aside earlier (no, really, remember to do that)
  • Screw on the fork top piece and tighten to the lower nut to it
  • Double check that you’ve put all the bits back (inner rod, metal cap on top of the plastic top piece)
  • Press down on the compressor that’s in the holes in the plastic and slip the retaining metal tool out
  • Release the rachet straps
  • Put 550ml of fork oil in each. I used 15 weight Maxima
  • Work the fork to get any bubbles out (I also let them sit overnight to let things settle)
  • Spin the outer fork onto the now attached fork top threaded piece
  • Reinstall the forks. The lower bolts said 30 Nm but they still gave me headaches when one sheered in the tube. I stepped away and sorted it out the next day when I wasn’t annoyed.
This seems like a handful but if you work your way through it one step at a time it all makes sense. The first fork took me a couple of hours to take my time going through. The second one took less than an hour. Once you’ve done this once you’ll feel able to do it again. Give Coulda Shoulda Woulda’s video a watch and you’ll have what you need to get it done… and be patient!

Yep, that’s a broken lower fork clamp bolt sheered off inside the housing. I ended up getting it out by getting needle nose pliers on the end sticking out and spinning it out that way. This job fought me at every step, but it’s all back together with matching (clean) oil in both forks and everything one tightened (to spec) not too tight. One tight, not too tight…



When things went wrong (and the did… often) on this job, I got myself to a reasonable stopping point and stepped away for the day. When I came back the seemingly insurmountable problems (stuck fork tops, broken bolt in the lower clamp) all seemed to have answers.


The old seals were rock hard. I’m curious to see how nice the forks feel with the new ones.






Vice grips did a better job on top fork removal than the specially purchased long 24mm socket did. Applying heat was easy in the vice and the seal driver tool was handy for clamping the fork off the bike.


Removing the handlebars didn’t help with loosening the tops of the forks. Hat and vice grips on the bench finally did the trick. I’m going to try the handlebards without the bar risers for a while and see if it feels ok.

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Eleven Years, Over a Million Page Views

I started writing this when I got my motorcycle license in my early forties. The first post was in March of 2013 when I decided to get my learner’s permit. From there I’ve tried to (as honestly as I can) describe my motorcycling experience. In that time I’ve gone through a bewildering array of bikes as I’ve figured out how I was going to enjoy this hobby. I noticed that the blog has just passed a million views (and messed up the odometer styled page counter), so thought it time for a review. Where have I wandered in the past 11 years of motorcycling? It all began with my Mum’s passing and an opportunity to ride without panicking those around me.


The First ’07 Ninja 650 seemed like a logical starting bike. From there I got my first fixer-upper in the form of a ’94 Kawasaki C10 Concours. Getting that out of a hedge, sorting it out and putting lots of miles on it felt like a big win, but I was still learning and when the carbs went on me, I lost the plot with it. That’s one of those ‘Costanza moments’ when I wish I could have a do-over – I’ve got the tools and knowhow now to sort them out!

The KLE dual sport was too small for me (couldn’t get me to 100kms/hr which is dangerous on our increasingly crowded and impatient local roads), so it came and went. I also dabbled with an old Yamaha XS1100, but never got it road worthy so it doesn’t make the list. Then there was the PW80 I got for Max which he wanted nothing to with, so it came and went. Neither of them cost me anything (I broke even on both) so, whatever.

With the Concours acting up and a dead Midnight Special in the garage, I was prompted into the ’03 Triumph Tiger, which has been my longest serving machine (currently at 8 years and over 40,000kms travelled). The Tiger filled the gap for a long time and let me drop both the Yamaha and the Kawasaki. While the Tiger performed regular riding duty I came across a Honda Fireblade that had been sidelined for several years, got it for a song, fixed it up, rode it for a season and then sold it on for a small profit, which felt like a win.

During the early days of COVID the Tiger started acting up and I came across a 2010 Kawasaki GTR1400/Concours 14 for sale with low miles that had also been sidelined in a shed. I sorted out this complex bike and once again felt like my mechanicking skills had levelled up. With some extra contract work I’d done and the money from the Fireblade this step up to something more expensive didn’t eat into savings.

The C14 and Tiger are both still currently in the garage. In 2021, as COVID lingered, I came across an opportunity to try a vintage restoration. I had a choice of several bikes and took one that was the furthest gone, which in retrospect was a mistake (don’t get cocky, right?). I cleaned up this ratty old chopped 1971 Bonneville and got to the point where it sat in the corner of the garage because I’m too stingy to throw money at it. Lesson learned: if you want to go vintage, be prepared to pay through the nose for it and wait a lot for parts availability.

I let the Bonneville go this spring for what I paid for it (minus the new parts). It was a loss but it gave me something to do while the world stopped and I learned a lot. It was fun doing an archeological inspection of a machine that was almost as old as I am.


What’s next? I’ve never owned a new bike before. Following my shear perversity in terms of motorcycling, I’m tempted by a Moto Guzzi V85 TT. Partly because of the character, partly because I think they’re stunning and partly because it’s so not everyone else.




If it’s a black Ninja it’s 13 years ago, but 
whatever, Facebook.

I noticed the other day that the blog has passed a million page views. It took since March of 2013 (when I started riding) to pull it off, so that’s just over 11 years, but a million is a bigger number than most people can conceive. Over the 4083 days this blog has been up it has averaged over 250 page views every day, which feels good. It provides information for people looking for details on some of the mechanics I’ve tackled, and it also gets good pickup on travel stories and bike tech. I’m hoping more travel stories are in the future.


Another story that popped up recently was the ride around Vancouver Island ten years ago. That would be the first time I rented a bike while away from home. It led to the Island Escape story in Motorcycle Mojo. What isn’t mentioned there is that prior to my wife’s conference we also rented scooters and went for an adventure to Butchart Gardens in Victoria.

More travel opportunities like that, or Max and I’s ride through the Superstition Mountains in Arizona, or down to the Indianapolis MotoGP race would be fantastic, it’s difficult to find the time though.


The other day I thought I’d get into the throttle controls on the Tiger and clean and lubricate all the bits (if you read this regularly you can guess where this is going). Everything plastic on this 21 year old bike is brittle and yep, the throttle cable adjuster broke. I’ve jury rigged a solution, but like everything else on this bike, finding parts is becoming ‘vintage difficult and expensive’, even though it’s anything but.

My biking decisions might be made for me if we decide to move. If we downsize into a condo or something without a garage I’d be tempted to clear the deck and get something new. At that point having something that someone else has to work on while it’s under warranty would make sense. I don’t know how long I’d be happy with no working space, but perhaps I’d end up getting in with a shop coop and having some space in a shared garage somewhere. My approach to motorcycling is quite isolating. A change in circumstances might be a good thing.
If every time I touch the Tiger to do maintenance (it needs regular TLC) the parts crumble in my hands, I don’t know how much longer I can keep it going. I’d really like to get it to six figures but beyond that I’m not sure – perhaps turn it into modern art?
I’m still also keen to pursue trials riding and perhaps long distance enduro with an eye for finishing rather than beating up machinery to attain top speeds. I’d do track days but I live in Ontario, which doesn’t make access to things like track days easy in a any way. Likewise with the off roading. It’s about, but it’s sporadic and they make it as difficult as possible. Living somewhere else might open up motorcycling opportunities that feel out reach here in the overcrowded and increasingly dark heart of Canada.

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Prioritizing Work and Saving My Patience for What Matters

I was talking to Alan Seeley on email who now writes for Classic Bike (UK) Magazine. I told him about the s*** show that was trying to order used parts from eBay to keep the old Tiger in motion. He put me in touch with Chris Jagger and also put my issue into the letters section of the magazine. Chris’s advice is that there are weak points on these bikes and as they age they get retired because of the lack of support. If you’re going to take on a Hinkley Triumph, even a relatively recent one, don’t expect the kind of support you’d get from other manufacturers.

I’ve sorted out ’90s Fireblades and Honda never blinked when I was looking for parts. Suzuki is legendary with how they look after their engineering history, and Kawasaki has also been nothing but solid when I was working on older machines. I actually found it easier to find parts for a 53 year old Meriden Triumph than I have with much newer Hinkley machines. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, for a company that markets on their history so heavily, Triumph vanishes when it comes to providing parts support, even for recent machines.

I took Chris’s advice and went looking for backup used parts. This time around I found a throttle body that looked like it has spent some time in an archeological dig, and it arrived in a beaten up box but this time the seller padded it well and the plastic bits were intact. I cleaned and dismantled the unit and now have spare throttle bodies, fuel injectors and a complete idle control housing along with all the other odds and ends.

When I put the Tiger back together I tried putting pins in the broken wires on the fuel sender but it didn’t work. I got a replacement fuel sender, but this time from a US eBay parts provider. I foolishly thought the shipping would be less but eBay surprised me with a surcharge on delivery that was 3x the shipping costs. Both the throttle body and the fuel sender came in on the same week. The throttle parts were much bigger and heavier and came from the UK with no surprise surcharge and the shipping cost was 30% lower. The moral here? Don’t buy used parts on eBay if it’s from an American based seller – you’ll get caned by US Post surcharges. No so with UK suppliers.

The good news is the new part works well, but not without other teething problems. That age of this bike is really starting to show. The wires had broken in the sender unit but unbeknownst to me they’d also broken on the other side of the connector, so when I first plugged the new unit in I got nothing. After taking the tape off I discovered the broken wire, cut off the connector, crimped on new plugs and it works a treat.


While I was waiting on parts I pulled the valve cover and checked the valves just to make sure they weren’t what might be causing the stalling and hesitation.


I’d last done this perhaps ten thousand miles and a couple of years ago – everything was still within spec. It’s an afternoon to do it but worth knowing that the valves aren’t the issue. That also gave me a chance to go over the seals on the airbox and pipes, clean and check the spark plugs, put a spacer on the throttle return to stop it stalling and wire in a bypass to the battery so it’s showing 13 volts when running now (the wiring for the battery is byzantine and loses voltage over time). I also rebalanced the throttle bodies while I was in there.


With the new fuel sender in, I’ve had the Tiger out multiple times over the past week. It doesn’t stall! It starts reasonably easily, Shows 12.8-13.2 volts when running (it used to hover around 12), and the throttle action is close to what it was before things went sideways.

How am I able to apply such patience to the Tiger? I sold the Bonneville!  Got what I paid for it and took a hit on some of the new parts I’d purchased, but with it gone I’ve got more room both in the garage and in me head to work on the Tiger.

The old Bonnie was interesting to work on during COVID but I’m still young enough to be motivated by riding rather than spending endless days in retirement hunting for expensive parts and installing them. Having two frustrating Triumphs was one too many, and since the Tiger’s going to start demanding engineering rather than just mechanics if I want to keep it in motion, it was time to let go of my first attempt at (the eye wateringly expensive world of) vintage restoration. I like my projects to be more recent sidelined bikes – the ’97 Fireblade remains a highlight (that I made money on!).

The Bonnie project had stalled out when I realized I was a grand in on new parts and nowhere close to being able to ride the thing. In retrospect I should have picked one of the other running options, but I went for the romantic Triumph option… and regretted it. An alternate reality Tim went for the BSA trials bitza and is deeply involved in vintage trials right now.


Links & Pics

Valve cover off on the Tiger. It’s pretty easy to get into – other than having to wiggle the cover out the right side under the frame – which actually caused problems on the reinstall when the gasket didn’t sit right and the bike barfed expensive synthetic oil all over the garage floor when I restarted it- but I’m not going to mention that in the blog.


With the Bonnie and bits gone, there is much room (both mentally and physically) to get on with keeping the Tiger in motion. The Kawasaki remains rock solid.


Used on Triumph models up until  four years ago – they don’t make these any more.


I’m taking the broken one to bits and measuring all the bits. I currently have two plans: 1) digitally 3d model the part and look into 3d printing options with fuel proof materials. Nylon filament printing seems to be the fuel-proof material of choice. Lots of services out there. 2) is to build my own copper/steampunk version of this plastic bit using copper piping and fittings.


My pins in the connectors attempt with the old fuel sender didn’t cut it.


I thought the C14 might have an oil leak, but it turned out to be the oil in the fairing after the spring oil change. After a thorough cleaning it’s running like a (oil tight) top.


Here are some details on the voltage fixes for 955i Tigers. Running the wire from the reg/rec to the battery was straightforward:


Sasquatch voltage fix:

https://tigertriple.com/forum/index.php?topic=3843.75  is lost to the internet (those Hinkley Triumph support forums are dying out).

https://www.advrider.com/f/threads/sasquatch-link-please.1267616/

https://www.advrider.com/f/threads/tiger-electrical-upgrades.496199/

Reg/Rec update:

https://www.triumphrat.net/threads/charging-system-diagnostics-rectifier-regulator-upgrade.104504/


This is the Fuel Level Sender: Part Number: T2400526 that needed a swap…


Thanks to the massive shipping surprise it would have been cheaper for me to buy this new from a dealer (assuming they haven’t discontinued it). Don’t buy used parts from U.S. based eBay parts providers! It’s not their fault, but eBay makes a mess of US/Canada shipping.


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Going Aftermarket with Kawasaki GTR1400/C14 Tire Pressure Sensors

I soldered a new battery into the rear temperature sensor on the Concours when I changed the back tire last year after picking up a puncture. The front was starting to get sluggish when connecting wirelessly, suggesting the battery was dying there and the front tire was due a change, so I did it in the fall. Unfortunately the sensor didn’t pick up signal again on that bodge. Rather than beat up that old sensor again I went looking for alternative options.

I love a good hack, and Big Red walks you through one here on how to take aftermarket tire pressure sensors, program them to your stock Kawasaki settings and then use them instead of expensive stock items. The coding unit is $230, but works on anything, meaning I’m not beholden to a dealer for tire pressure sensors on the cars either. A pack of 2 sensors is $95, so all together a full sensor replacement on the bike including the tool needed to program them is $325. The stock sensors are $258 each, so an eye watering $516 for the pair. $200 cheaper and I have the tool that’s usable across a wide range of vehicles. That’s my kind of hack!

How did it go? After all the frustrations with the Tiger and Triumph, the C14 reminded me how nice it is to work on a bike that’s supported by its manufacturer and the aftermarket.. When I compare the thriving online communities at COG and other online forums that support Kawasaki ownership, I can only think, ‘way to go team green.’ By comparison I read a post on one of the Triumph forums that said, ‘these forums are dead. Everyone is giving up on these old bikes…” Except the bikes in question are not that old.


When I walked into my local Kawasaki dealer and asked for parts for my mid-nineties C10 there was never an issue. If I hop into an online forum for the Kwak I see an active community full of ideas and support.  Most of the Hinckley Triumph forums for anything over 15 years old are derelict. The posts on them are from at least five years ago giving you some idea of what trying to keep an older Hinckley Triumph on the road is like (ie: impossible). It makes me question owning another one, which is a real shame because I wanted to believe in the brand, but they only market their history, they don’t honour it by supporting owners in keeping old machines in motion.



Back in the land of the living, Big Red’s walkthrough was spot on. I popped one side of the new front tire off the rim and removed the 14 year old sensor. I couldn’t see why it wasn’t getting power – my soldering looked good – maybe a bad battery? No matter, new parts are going in.




If you know that the Mazda 3 2004 sensors are a match for the Concours ones, then the rest is straightforward. I set the MaxiTPMS unit to the Mazda settings and then put in the ID number from the old C14 sensor in and the wireless upload only took a few seconds.



I could also check the sensor once it was programmed, which gave me some piece of mind before putting it back in the tire.

The whole process was straightforward, aided by a warm March day where I could leave the tire in the sun while I set the sensor. Warm tires are much easier to stretch over the rim!





I installed the new sensor which fits snugly in the rim. All the parts including the tool from Autel felt like quality pieces that will last. With the tire reinflated I put the wheel back in and torqued everything to spec while also making sure everything was grease free (especially the brake bits).

I took it up the street with the intention of riding around the block because that’s how long it
usually takes to get the dash reading the wheel pressures, but this new sensor had it showing in seconds – before I even got to the stop sign. I checked it against the digital tire pressure gauge and it’s right on the money.


It felt good to have a win in the garage after banging my head against the Tiger for so long. Speaking of which, I recently attempted to plastic weld the part they won’t supply any more and as I was putting it back together the wiring broke off on the fuel level unit (because I’ve had the tank off so many f***ing times!). As much as it pains me, I think I’m going to take Triumph’s hint and let the Tiger go… which is something I never thought I’d say. So much for my goal of hitting 100k with it.

It is actually nuclear powered – the plutonium goes in under than panel, like on Doc Brown’s DeLorean…

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