Chapel of Wellington Barracks, a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace, just as the congregation stood to sing the Te Deum. Fifty-eight civilians and sixty-three service personnel died and over seventy more were seriously injured.
Within three days of the first flying bombs 647 landed in the capital. Others were blown to pieces in the sky by the antiaircraft batteries ringing London, many were destroyed by fighter command aircraft, some were even deflected by pilots using a brave technique which called for fighters to manoeuvre their wingtips under the 103s stubby wings, so tipping the flying bombs onto a course away from their original targets.
The assault continued, night and day until the following year, though in September the V-1s were joined by the equally vicious V-2 rockets which came from the skies with no warning. The people of London and southern England who had been so defiant during the Blitz of the early forties, became nervous and fearful of the new threat: the psychological damage being as bad as the physical destruction.
Some five weeks later, on a Sunday morning, one of the flying bombs – now dubbed ‘doodlebugs’ – exploded near an Anglican convent in south London, an event inextricably linking the lives of Colonel Max Wachtel and Woman Detective Inspector Suzie Mountford: though it is doubtful if the colonel, commanding officer of Flak Regiment 155(W), ever knew.
CHAPTER TWO
‘So, where’re we going?’ she asked as they hustled down the stairs – couldn’t waste time waiting for the lift because Brian already had the car, the black Wolseley, waiting in front of the building.
‘Convent. Religious house. Like old times for you, heart.’ Tommy breathless, ought to take more exercise. In the car, Brian driving, Suzie in the back crammed between Shirley Cox and Ron Worrall.
Ron asked, ‘What’s going on, Chief?’ – They all called Tommy chief instead of the usual guv.
‘Three bodies, one wounded, result of enemy action.’ Tommy slewed himself around, looking straight at Ron who sat behind Brian. ‘One of this morning’s V-1s. Apparently one of them isn’t kosher.’
‘One of the V-1s?’ from Shirley, not paying attention.
‘One of the bodies, Shirl. Wake up. I’ve got no details except a part of the convent’s been seriously damaged and there are three fatalities.’
‘One of them not kosher,’ Suzie said, a bit cheeky.
‘Absolutely.’ Tommy paused, looked up at the mirror on the passenger side: he liked to have a mirror on the passenger side of his cars as well as the one normally placed for the driver. ‘That Emma?’ he asked and Brian lifted his hands off the wheel, making a little placating movement.
‘Yes, Chief,’ he nodded. Yes, it was Emma Penticost. ‘Said it was her duty to be with you. Following up in her own car.’
Tommy made a harrumphing noise. ‘Lucky to have her own car.’ Pause. ‘Takes it seriously, doesn’t she? Being my nanny. Full-time job, eh?’
It certainly is, Suzie thought, glancing back through the rear window to see the nose of Emma’s little black MG a few yards behind them, clinging on for dear life.
Brian drove fast, just within the limit, slipping neatly passed other cars as though trying to throw off a tail, giving them an occasional burst of the bell. All unmarked Metropolitan Police cars carried amplified electric bells to warn other drivers to keep their distance. Riding the ringer they called it and Brian was especially fond of using the bell. Sometimes he sang under his breath, ‘Ding-dong the witch is dead,’ from the Judy Garland film The Wizard of Oz. Suzie would sometimes look at Tommy and say, ‘Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.’
It took forty-two minutes to get there. Ten minutes to three on a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon in the middle of August, 1944.
The Anglican convent of St Catherine of Siena lies between Silverhurst Road and Easter Park, taking up a huge slice of ground that once
Within three days of the first flying bombs 647 landed in the capital. Others were blown to pieces in the sky by the antiaircraft batteries ringing London, many were destroyed by fighter command aircraft, some were even deflected by pilots using a brave technique which called for fighters to manoeuvre their wingtips under the 103s stubby wings, so tipping the flying bombs onto a course away from their original targets.
The assault continued, night and day until the following year, though in September the V-1s were joined by the equally vicious V-2 rockets which came from the skies with no warning. The people of London and southern England who had been so defiant during the Blitz of the early forties, became nervous and fearful of the new threat: the psychological damage being as bad as the physical destruction.
Some five weeks later, on a Sunday morning, one of the flying bombs – now dubbed ‘doodlebugs’ – exploded near an Anglican convent in south London, an event inextricably linking the lives of Colonel Max Wachtel and Woman Detective Inspector Suzie Mountford: though it is doubtful if the colonel, commanding officer of Flak Regiment 155(W), ever knew.
CHAPTER TWO
‘So, where’re we going?’ she asked as they hustled down the stairs – couldn’t waste time waiting for the lift because Brian already had the car, the black Wolseley, waiting in front of the building.
‘Convent. Religious house. Like old times for you, heart.’ Tommy breathless, ought to take more exercise. In the car, Brian driving, Suzie in the back crammed between Shirley Cox and Ron Worrall.
Ron asked, ‘What’s going on, Chief?’ – They all called Tommy chief instead of the usual guv.
‘Three bodies, one wounded, result of enemy action.’ Tommy slewed himself around, looking straight at Ron who sat behind Brian. ‘One of this morning’s V-1s. Apparently one of them isn’t kosher.’
‘One of the V-1s?’ from Shirley, not paying attention.
‘One of the bodies, Shirl. Wake up. I’ve got no details except a part of the convent’s been seriously damaged and there are three fatalities.’
‘One of them not kosher,’ Suzie said, a bit cheeky.
‘Absolutely.’ Tommy paused, looked up at the mirror on the passenger side: he liked to have a mirror on the passenger side of his cars as well as the one normally placed for the driver. ‘That Emma?’ he asked and Brian lifted his hands off the wheel, making a little placating movement.
‘Yes, Chief,’ he nodded. Yes, it was Emma Penticost. ‘Said it was her duty to be with you. Following up in her own car.’
Tommy made a harrumphing noise. ‘Lucky to have her own car.’ Pause. ‘Takes it seriously, doesn’t she? Being my nanny. Full-time job, eh?’
It certainly is, Suzie thought, glancing back through the rear window to see the nose of Emma’s little black MG a few yards behind them, clinging on for dear life.
Brian drove fast, just within the limit, slipping neatly passed other cars as though trying to throw off a tail, giving them an occasional burst of the bell. All unmarked Metropolitan Police cars carried amplified electric bells to warn other drivers to keep their distance. Riding the ringer they called it and Brian was especially fond of using the bell. Sometimes he sang under his breath, ‘Ding-dong the witch is dead,’ from the Judy Garland film The Wizard of Oz. Suzie would sometimes look at Tommy and say, ‘Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.’
It took forty-two minutes to get there. Ten minutes to three on a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon in the middle of August, 1944.
The Anglican convent of St Catherine of Siena lies between Silverhurst Road and Easter Park, taking up a huge slice of ground that once
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