Peter Deacon is the author of two novels that blend historical authenticity, suspense, and human drama. After senior roles in the Ministry of Defence and later building a successful business, he turned to fiction inspired by history, aviation, and intelligence operations.
A Chartered Engineer with a BSc in Electrical Engineering, Peter also holds an MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University, where he studied under several distinguished authors.
His first novel, The Time Just Before, follows a Lancaster bomber pilot and his crew during the Second World War, recreating the tension, camaraderie, and ever-present danger faced by RAF Bomber Command crews on missions where survival was far from certain.
His second novel, The Long Double Cross, is a crime mystery filled with deception and unexpected twists that keep readers guessing until the final chapter.
Peter’s latest novel, The Time of Falling Shadows, continues the story of the Lancaster crew as they become involved in clandestine intelligence operations and hazardous special missions. Inspired by real wartime exploits, it will be published later this year.
Extract from – The Time of Falling Shadows.
By Peter Deacon
Wing Commander Sheridan paced slowly before the crew. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Sergeant Watford assures me you are an excellent crew. Personally, I think you are undisciplined, insubordinate, and wholly unfit for combat.’
He paused, waiting for a response. None came. ‘This morning you will fly to Bristol and photograph the Clifton Suspension Bridge. I shall follow in a Hurricane equipped with a gun camera to demonstrate how easily I could shoot you down.’
An Hour later, Romulus climbed through cloud to ten thousand feet.
‘I see him,’ Jim said from the mid-upper turret. ‘Above us and coming in fast.’ George smiled. Sheridan was staying high, exactly as expected.
‘Still closing,’ Max called from the rear turret. ‘He’s diving now.’
George waited until the last moment.
‘Six hundred yards,’ Jim warned.
‘Throttle back, Chalky.’
George hurled the Lancaster into a violent slipping turn. The bomber dropped sideways through the air, harnesses biting into flesh as the controls fought against him.
‘Overshoot!’ Max shouted. ‘The silly bugger’s gone straight past.’
George hauled Romulus level again. ‘Where is he?’
‘Climbing for another run.’
‘Good. Get ready with flaps and wheels.’
A few minutes later Sheridan came in again, more cautiously this time.
‘Still behind us,’ Jim said.
George waited. ‘Now. Flaps and wheels.’
Instead of diving, he hauled the Lancaster upward and throttled back hard. The aircraft staggered into a steep climb, speed bleeding away so fast the control column began to shudder near the stall.
‘Christ,’ Max breathed. ‘Thought he was going to hit the tail.’
George grinned. ‘He’s rusty.’
‘Bristol in four minutes,’ Dingo called from the navigator’s table.
Romulus descended through the cloud. The Bristol Channel lay beneath them, grey in the morning light. ‘We’ve overshot,’ Dingo said, climbing forward beside George. ‘That’s the Avon. Follow it inland, and we’ll come straight over the bridge.’
George banked east, dropping to a thousand feet as the river wound between rising hills.
‘No lower than a thousand,’ Dingo warned. ‘The bridge crosses a gorge.’
Jim’s voice crackled over the intercom. ‘Hurricane at two o’clock. Just below the cloud.’
George glanced up and saw Sheridan circling above them. Then the Hurricane rolled into a dive.
‘Coming now!’
Sheridan had chosen his moment well. The hills confined them on both sides, and the bridge lay directly ahead. George eased back the throttles and lowered full flap.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Dingo muttered as he realised what George intended.
Romulus sank towards the gorge, skimming low over the river. The hills rose steeply around them, trees and rock flashing past at terrifying speed. The bridge appeared ahead, spanning the gorge at an angle. Worse still, the river bent sharply just before it, with high ground waiting beyond like a wall. George’s world narrowed to the ravine ahead.
Slow in. Straighten after the bend. Full power out.
The mantra repeated in his head as turbulence buffeted the Lancaster inside the confined space. For a moment, fear gripped him so completely that he could barely breathe, yet his hands and feet kept moving instinctively on the controls.
The bridge rushed towards them.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dingo trying to force himself backwards into his seat, legs braced uselessly against the floor. George almost laughed.
Almost.
The final bend came up fast. George corrected gently, lining Romulus with the narrow gap beneath the bridge. Rock walls flashed by on either side. One mistake and they would never know they had hit.
The underside of the bridge flicked overhead.
George slammed the throttles fully open, selected maximum flap, and hauled back on the column with all his strength while kicking hard on the rudder. After that, it was down to physics and luck.
The engines roared. Romulus surged forward and clawed upward. The nose lifted so steeply that the turret blocked the view ahead. George held the controls rigidly, every muscle locked tight.
Trees and rocks slid perilously close on the left side while the river twisted away beneath the starboard wing. For several endless seconds, he waited for the impact.
Then, suddenly, daylight and open sky burst around them. George glanced sideways. Bristol lay a thousand feet below, falling rapidly away as Romulus climbed over the city.
Only then did he breathe.
Silence filled the cockpit for several seconds. At last, Dingo turned towards him, pale-faced.
‘You crazy bastard,’ he said quietly. ‘You mad, crazy bastard.’
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