Triumph 955i fuel injector O-ring research

Tiger’s still not working (see previous post). Here’s my best guess: the new fuel pump has caused the old O-rings in the fuel line to leak causing a vacuum leak, so I’m digging for new O-rings, but of course Triumph doesn’t sell them anymore and seems to go out of their way to not tell you what size they are. Wouldn’t it be nice if a manufacture who don’t support their bikes after only 20 years at least open sourced the specs so the aftermarket could pick them up?

Anyway, off to the internet I go to research! Here are the notes:

https://www.thetriumphforum.com/threads/triumph-2003-955i-cutting-out-when-throttle-blipped.27324/page-3

“There is a O ring on the Tps (throttle position sensor) that gets worn and swells causing a voltage delay when closing the throttle causing the incorrect signal to the ECU.

Cure? Simply remove this O ring haha, So i did this last night and took her for a test ride this morning whilst picking up some essentials. BINGO!”

Part 23 = T3600053 | O ring
Part 4 = Throttle potentiometer Part Number: T1290500 – but it doesn’t look like it has an o-ring involved in it, so that advice is suspect.

12 = O ring. Rail, Part Number: T360005313 = O Ring, Injector, Upper Part Number: T1245016
14 = O Ring, Injector, Lower Part Number: T1240806

Store: The O-Ring Store https://www.theoringstore.com/store/

Parts: V3.00×008 V75 (upper), and V2.40×009.6 (lower) – those are the dimensions (upper = 3

Suggestions from forums on potential issues: “Don’t be surprised if you find that the end of your fuel line is actually cracking at the fitting. I chased O rings for a while and discovered that to be my source instead.”

“the union (which is plastic) was the culprit. It was cracked and just giving it a wee jiggle made it worse”https://www.triumphrat.net/threads/955-sprint-fuel-o-ring-rubber-sizes.163915/
Fuel Fitting O-Rings

* Triumph O RING, FUEL PIPE CONNECTOR – T1240181
* Buna-N O-Rings – #9452K19 McMaster-Carr https://www.mcmaster.com/

o SPECS

+ AS568A Dash Number: 010
+ Type: O-Ring
+ O-Ring Type: Standard
+ Width: 1/16″
+ Actual Width: .070″
+ Inside Diameter: 5/16″
+ Actual Inside Diameter: .301″
+ Outside Diameter: 7/16″
+ Actual Outside Diameter: .441″
+ Material: Buna-N
+ Durometer: Hard
+ Durometer Shore: Shore A: 70
+ Temperature Range: -35° to +250°F
+ Color: Black
* Viton O-Rings – #9464K16 McMaster-Carr

o SPECS

+ AS568A Dash Number: 011
+ Typ:e O-Ring
+ System of Measurement: Inch
+ Width: 1/16″ (1.5875mm)
+ Inside Diameter: 5/16″ (7.938mm)
+ Outside Diameter: 7/16″ (11.113mm)
+ Material: Viton
+ Durometer: Hard
+ Durometer Shore: Shore A: 75
+ Temperature Range: -15° to +400°F
+ Color: Black
https://www.theoringstore.com/store/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=38145

NAPA cross reference on this o-ring is:
Part Number: BK 7272011
Product Line: Balkamp
Dimensions : 5/16″ I.D. x 7/16″ O.D. x 1/16″ W ( 7.938mm I.D. x 11.113mm O.D. x 1.5875mm W )
Material Type : Buna-N-Nitrile
SAE or Metric : SAE

QUESTION: are the upper and lower O-rings different (I’m assuming so because Triumph gave them different part numbers). – they are different thicknesses.

The upper o-ring is approximately 15mm outer diameter with a 3.5mm cross-section, while the lower o-ring is about 15mm outer diameter with a 2mm cross-section

2mm wide lower: https://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B07GJK53QJ/
3.5mm wide upper: https://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B07JWCD86K/
I’ll give these a go and see how they do.

https://www.ebay.ca/itm/156327987779 – that’s high-larious! Forty bucks for an (as in ONE!) 20 year old O-ring! It ain’t just the stealerships who cane you for these parts (when they deign to sell them).

https://theinjectorshop.com/en-ca/products/fuel-injectors-rebuild-repair-o-ring-kit-for-triumph-sprint-st-tiger-1050-2007-2009?_pos=1&_sid=00ce905cd&_ss=r

Hmm, do 1050 tigers use the same O-rings/injectors?

2007 Tiger 1050 parts:
O Ring, Injector, Upper T1245016 (same as 955i part)
O Ring, Injector, Lower T1245006 not – damn it!

Hey, Tim. Try using AI to solve this problem! Here’s Perplexity.ai (on ‘pro’ mode!)

Adamantly and repeatedly incorrect. So much for HAL 9000 fixing the Tiger. I’ll give those Amazon parts a try and let you know the results.

NAPA details: https://www.napacanada.com/en/p/PSH71169 Part #: PSH 71169
.301 ID X .070 W (7.645mm ID X 1.778mm) why only show the inside diameter?

Deja vu: https://tkmotorcyclediaries.blogspot.com/2023/10/finding-your-way-around-oems-giving-up.html

Based on that the 15mm outside diameter 3.5 and 2mm thickness is a pretty close guess.
Why doesn’t NAPA provide dimensions: https://www.napacanada.com/en/p/ELR429060. I’m going to run over to our local with the two O-rings and see if they’ll help me match them up, but the site could be more helpful.

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Going for (yet another) fueling fix on the 955i Triumph Tiger


 It’s a tricky thing finding the parts you need on a bike no longer supported by its manufacturer, but I keep getting lucky with quality aftermarket providers, in this case Quantum Fuel Systems out of California.

Ordering was easy, transport was astonishingly quick and transparent and I had the kit on hand less than 48 hours after I ordered it. I haven’t had many better shipping experiences.

I went with Quantum because they had a full kit including hardware and a fuel filter (because none of that is available through the dealer). No instructions came with the kit but the pump, filter and strainer (all included in the kit) are an easy fit, especially when you’ve got the original sitting in front of you to work from. The whole thing took about half and hour from removing the plate it’s attached to on the tank through to having it back together again.


This is where the fuel pump plate bolts to the tank.

The original pump (mounted in front), fuel filter (behind) and strainer off to the right.


Disassembly was straightforward. One of the nice things about an immersed system like this is that rust can’t get at it.


The new bits installed, very straightforward.



You can see the difference in colour with the strainer. The old one was stiff as well as discoloured. With all new parts I’m hoping this magically restores the Tiger to regular fueling duties. I’ve seen some other comments suggesting that this is the silver bullet when it comes to old Triumph 955i fueling headaches.

It’s all back in the tank again now. I’ll get the bike back together and if the snow holds off take it for a spin, hopefully with a sense of resolution.

Update One

Got it back together again and the new fueling bits have solved the starting problems (it fires on the button again) and it idles steadily again – a bit high even (but I’d been messing with the fuel maps to try and bump up idle speeds). I’ve since reinstalled the stock map and it starts and idles well.. But as with everything fueling related on this thing, one solution has caused another problem.

Previously the throttle worked fine but it wouldn’t start or idle. Now it starts and idles but if you touch the throttle is stalls. My first thought is that this might be because the new throttle cable wasn’t adjusted right, so I loosened it off and gave it the required slack the manual suggests. It still stalls when you touch the throttle.
The next thought was perhaps the new fuel pump and filters have messed with the throttle body synchronization (this bike is notoriously finicky about this). So, I took the fuel tank off (again – can’t count how many times now) and rebalanced everything yesterday. We’ve got our first snows of the year now so I can’t take it for a spin, but I’m hoping to have it all back together (again) this week and see if I’ve got a working Tiger.

If you want a sense of how perilous fueling is on 955i Triumphs, Classic Bike Magazine (my go to for genuinely helpful advice on keeping old bikes running since Practical Sportsbikes closed down and got folded into CB who now support a much wider range of machines that vintage) had a piece on the 955i Speed Triple (one of my all time favourite bikes). Page two had the enlightening piece to the right.

Fueling on these old Triumphs is known headache. I’ve sold on bikes I’ve become frustrated with before technically and the problem hangs in my mind. Rather perversely, I need to figure out what’s wrong with the Tiger before I sell it rather than just selling it on in this state. Not knowing what the problem is will drive me nuts. On the upside, if I become one of the ‘very few people with experience of the Segem fuel injection’, I’d be able to pick up a 955i Speed Triple that isn’t working for a song.
Doing this after the Tiger, now *that* would be perverse!

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Tiger, or not to Tiger, that is the question: Triumph 955i Winter To Do List

 Problems

Yes, I’m swearing at it.

  • The idle control problem has returned (stalling)
  • This is happening with no errors in the computer (all sensors working then?)
  • Fuelly smell (leak? mixture too rich, but with no errors?)
  • Poor starting is new (takes many attempts – might be a wiring issue?)
  • Triumph not supporting the bike any more with parts or service
  • Not a popular model/make, even finding used parts a challenge
  • I’m told that this wasn’t a bike built to last (with the two above points this is problematic)
  • New throttle cable may not be adjusted correctly

Recent Attempts to fix

  • new throttle and clutch cables
  • balanced throttle bodies and checked valve clearances in the summer
  • cleaned the relays under the seat and it started easier (but still not on the button as it used to)

Winter Targets

  • recheck all the possible points of failure

  • valves
  • check throttle position sensor
  • check fuel pump (but then do what? Fuel Pump Factory pump replacement – but where to find the filter? Quantum Fuel Systems kit comes with one.
  • throttle bodies balanced
  • throttle cable adjusted
  • replace all fuel o-rings and check for seal
  • clean all wiring connectors
  • double check all connectors for tightness/connection
  • torque set everything with easy reach
  • follow the book and keep it tight to spec (don’t do any of it from memory)
  • Only change the oil (less than a 1000k on it since last change) if everything else is promising (saving myself $120+ in the process)

Goal

  • Resolve starting issues
  • Resolve fueling issues
  • Stabilize the bike and sell it (?)
  • What might change my mind:
  • understanding the ongoing fueling headaches
  • understanding whether they are fixable with the resources I have
  • determining if ongoing ownership is worth the hassle
  • If viable, consider the 2001 low mileage bike
  • Upgrade the headlamps to LED
  • Ride the bike to the usual 5k+ kms next summer or
  • Sell it for what I purchased it for 8+ years ago


  • If the Tiger problems are diagnosable (ie: it’s not of an age that it’s simply falling to pieces) and solvable with the resources I’ve got, aim at 100k by end of 2025. If it’s too ‘disposable’ and unsupported, move it on to someone with the time and patience to deal with it.

    $1900 in Windsor. $1500 for the bike and another $300
    to get a van to go get it? If the Tiger warrants long term
    ownership then this move makes sense. It has <30k on it!
    What do I hope? I can find the time to make it viable and ride it until it’s the last one on the
    road in Canada. If that happens picking up the parts bike from Windsor makes sense. Perhaps I could park it in the shed and only go to it when I need parts.

    The alternative is to let the bike I’ve put the most miles on and have owned the longest go. My already limited brand loyalty has been stretched to breaking by the lack of support from Triumph. The Tiger replaced a 22 year old Kawasaki 1000GTR/C10 that I had no trouble finding parts and even service for. In between I had a ’97 Fireblade that Honda was happy to support, but not so for Triumphs that were built up to only a few years ago.

    I’d like to spend my riding years riding more than spannering. The C14/1400GTR has been dependable and with my various adjustments on it I’m still finding that I’m learning about it, though its road focus means I can’t trail ride like I do on the Tiger. With the Tiger gone my accidental Kawasaki fixation (I don’t go looking for them, they seem to appear when I need them to), I’m tempted to see if a KLR650 would do the dual sporting I’m missing on the Concours. It would certainly be more off road friendly than the heavier, fragile, unsupported Tiger.

    Other options could be a Royal Enfield Himalayan, Tenere 700 or CRF 300 Honda (though they aren’t good with bigger riders, which I am). The KLRs are plentiful, not overly expensive and well understood as the model has been going forever. I’ve also got a Kawasaki dealer 10 minutes from the house (as opposed to the 2+ hours for Triumph).


    The long bomb would be going in a completely different direction and getting something like a Moto Guzzi V85TT, though that puts me back into potentially fragile, poorly supported European manufacturer territory (they sure are pretty though). If I’m looking for a bike to put miles, it probably isn’t that one. Perhaps when I’m riding less one will find a spot in the garage.
    This winter will answer this existential question:


    Tiger, or not to Tiger? That is the question.

    Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

    The slings and arrows of outrageous mileage,

    Or to take arms against a sea of manufacturer unsupported troubles

    And by opposing end them.

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    SMART Adventures and Off Road Performance Dirtbikes

     Over the long weekend I got out to SMART Adventures again for my yearly knobbly tire exercise. If you’ve read TMD you’ll know I’ve tried to off road in South Western Ontario, but got stick for riding on hydro cuts and farmland and generally got nimbied right out of dual sport ownership. SMART is my release valve while thinking of ways to escape living in the one part of Canada that doesn’t make off road riding easy.


    If I lived anywhere else I’d have picked up the DR650 I found on a farm a couple of years ago and that would be my dedicated off road machine. My neighbor picked up a new Tenere 700 and I’ve long had my eye on Honda’s CRF300 Rally – both of those would do the trick, though after this weekend I’m thinking a dirt focused specialist might be the way. 

    Last year’s SMART was an apex experience for both Max and I as we got advanced individual instruction on the off road vehicles of our choice, I even got to ride an electric machine! This year we’d planned to meet with friends at Horseshoe Resort and that gave us a discount opportunity with SMART, so I signed everyone up for the busy Saturday afternoon on the long weekend.


    I initially went out on the Kawasaki I rode last year, but the gear shifter had been banged about by a pervious rider and it wouldn’t go into gear, so I got to switch to a Yamaha WR250F with upside down forks, high compression and proper brakes. I’d never been bothered with any of that and always thought a trail focused machine would be what I’d get as a pure dirt bike, but this Yamaha changed my mind.



    Unlike the 230 I started off on or the Honda and Kawasaki 250s I rode last time, the Yamaha demands more but rewards you for it. If you can appreciate the difference between an appliance car and a sports car you can understand the difference here too. Those upside down shocks will get you across pretty much everything with incredible feel, and the brakes are precision tools, but it was the engine that took me to my next level, and eventually let me slip the surly bonds of earth and fly (!).

    Trail bikes tend to be tuned for torque low down without worrying about stalling. This higher compression motor needs more revs, but when it comes on song (the exhaust snarls when you get there), it’ll pull you up any hill or over any obstacle. If you’re riding over whoops, it’ll get both wheels off the ground too.

    This turned out to be just the bike I needed just as I needed it because I probably wasn’t skilled enough to appreciate it before now.  SMART put me with Adam, the brother of my instructor from last year, who did a great job of testing my limits without overwhelming me. We covered a lot of miles through the fall woods. That’s a SMART hack: if you know what you’re doing say you’re ‘expert’ on the intake form. If gets you out of the kids-who-think-they-can catagory and lets you focus on improving your craft, usually one-on-one with an instructor.



    The Kwak wasn’t up for it, but that gave me a chance to explore the competition ready Yamaha…

    Passed these guys while out on the trail – that’s the dream setup.

    Adam and I got deep into the forest – he’s the red smudge down the trail that I’m keeping up with (because he kepts slowing to check on me). Every 10-15 minutes we’d stop and talk about technique, and then go exercise the talk.

    Everyone had a good day out. The girls got out in a side by side and discovered that off roading in one of these is well within their skillsets and not at all uncomfortable. The only complaint came from Max who wanted a more extreme ATV experience as he’s now expert in that. Next time he’ll be sure to stress that he wants to be in the advanced group.


    That Yam is the bomb! It’s on my wishlist now.

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    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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