Chapter 3

MAXIMUM EFFORT – MANNHEIM

There were many things I would rather do than to go to a funeral but, with little persuasion from the Signals Officer, I agreed to act as a pallbearer at Sergeant James Dodds’ funeral, to be carried out with full military honours, at Stranton Cemetery, West Hartlepool. In the meantime, Steve and Bill would attend the funeral of a fellow Canadian, Sergeant Ash, at Carmel Road Cemetery in Darlington.

The service and the interment were highly emotional affairs, and my heart went out to James Dodds’ family and friends; there was a large gathering for the local lad. This was not so for Sergeant Ash’s funeral twenty miles away where, due to the exigencies of war, none of his family were able to make the journey from Canada to pay their last respects.

Both these municipal cemeteries have large plots of ground set aside for the graves of the military personnel killed on active service. The many Commonwealth airmen from the airfields in the vicinity brought back from raids dead or fatally injured, are laid to rest in these cemeteries alongside the British airmen, soldiers and seamen. It was some comfort to see that these plots were well maintained and each grave had a suitable epitaph on the white standard military headstone.

On the way back to Croft, I dropped off at Darlington and, for something better to do, I went to the cinema hoping to cheer myself up a bit.

After watching the film, I walked the short distance to the Hole in the Wall public house in Market Street. I hitched onto my usual stool at one end of the bar and ordered a beer. The woman at the piano was already pounding out her favourite singalong songs although, with so few customers in the bar at that time, she might just as well have been doing her ironing. For the next hour or so I sat drinking and smoking myself out of the bout of depression, and watching the bar fill to capacity. The dense haze of tobacco smoke made it difficult to see to the far end of an already dimly lit bar.

Draining my glass, I decided to get some fresh air and then set forth on a pub crawl which, in Darlington, simply meant moving from one pub to another around the Market Square. One could diversify by exploring the side street taverns. As I was about to visit the toilet before leaving, I noticed a party of three Women’s Land Army girls elbowing their way to the bar. I immediately took a fancy to the one ordering drinks. She was beautiful, with blue eyes set in a radiant oval face with a peaches and cream complexion; shoulder length blonde wavy hair hung from beneath a jauntily worn pork pie shaped Land Army hat. We were attracted to one another the moment our eyes met, and I completely dismissed the notion to breathe fresh air and embark on a pub crawl. Eat you hearts out Betty Grable, Alice Faye, and all the many other glamorous film stars I had until then secretly adored. I was suddenly infatuated with someone else with a Geordie accent.

Due to exigencies of flying duties during the seven days following the funerals of Sergeants Ash and Dodds, I managed to get into Darlington to see Joyce on a couple of occasions only. Nevertheless our romance blossomed.

We were placed on standby for a maximum effort to target Frankfurt during the night of the 8–9 April, but in the event the squadron could only dispatch ten aircraft out of the anticipated sixteen which had been fitted with long-range petrol tanks necessary for them to complete a round trip to the target. Our aircraft was one of those still waiting for these tanks which had been ordered some weeks ago in early March before the Squadron was equipped with Wellington Mk Xs to replace the faithful, albeit battle fatigued, Mark IIIs.

We were put on standby for a raid on Stuttgart a couple of nights later, but once again our participation was not required; this time because only ten aircraft from the squadron were required to be deployed. However, before take-off that night there were two cases of careless driving. In the first, a taxiing aircraft crashed into a petrol bowser and on the second, quite by sheer coincidence, a bowser was driven into an aircraft at its dispersal. Both aircraft and bowsers were temporarily unserviceable, and the Commanding Officer was furious. Whilst none of our squadron were posted as missing on the Frankfurt and Stuttgart raids, 6 Group lost four and eight aircraft respectively, resulting in a total of thirty-one airmen killed in action, twenty-seven becoming prisoners of war, and two evading capture.

In the mess one evening we heard a rumour that London Southwood, a sergeant pilot, whose aircraft had not returned from the St Nazaire raid six weeks before, was interned in the Republic of Ireland with his crew and, apparently, was having the life of Riley. This was the first we knew of, not only Southwood’s, but also another of our squadron crews, being interned, although not through official channels. A girlfriend of one of the two crews had received correspondence from Eire and was overjoyed to know of his, and nine other crew members’ safety. The chiefs would have known this soon after the event, but like so many cover-ups during wartime, kept it from the braves for fear of more crews finding their way to a neutral country, particularly one with a good supply of Guinness. It was assumed that the two aircraft could have suffered damage by enemy action, or a combination of navigational errors, fuel shortage or radio trouble in losing their way back from France and, by an unusually strange coincidence, found themselves over Dublin Bay before flying west inland and abandoning their aircraft as fuel ran out. Both aircraft were write-offs. Sergeant Southwood had previously written off a Wellington aircraft, the first to be lost to the newly formed squadron, during the previous November. While coming in to land at Croft, he had overshot the runway and pancaked the aircraft into a ploughed field. In both cases he and his crew had escaped with minor injuries. It came to pass that these two 427 Squadron crews were the only Bomber Command airmen to find sanctuary from the trials and tribulations of war by being interned in the Republic of Ireland throughout the Second World War, although several crews enjoyed the hospitality of Sweden after running into trouble bombing the North Sea and Baltic Ports.

During this period we occupied some of our time by carrying out dinghy drill at Darlington Swimming Baths (most essential with the North Sea and English Channel between us and our targets in Europe), air tests and other training exercises. One day aircrew had to parade to be issued brand new Raleigh cycles and I am sure some of the Canadians, particularly the French Canadians, had never used a cycle before in their lives. It was quite comical to see the antics of some who tried to maintain their balance with the pedals still turned inwards as they had left the factory. Nevertheless, the cycles provided the means of transport between airfield sites and, in particular, the farm for tea and egg sandwiches. It became immediately necessary to paint some sort of identification on the rear mudguard; in my case ‘Lucky Johnnie’, to prevent short or long term borrowing without the consent of the keeper.

One morning we climbed into our aircraft to carry out a night flying test, a test that usually took about an hour. Any faults discovered would be reported to the appropriate groundcrew tradesmen to be rectified. Climbing over the main spar towards the rear of the fuselage, I was puzzled to see that a large nut had become loosened on its bolt, one of two bolts virtually holding the wings to the fuselage. The bolt was the upper one and any further vibration would have caused it to unscrew from the remaining exposed few threads. Located at the very centre of the main spar, the castellated nuts were tightened to a specific torque and secured with split pins. In the unlikely event that the aircraft needed a wing replacement, then there would be a practical reason for working on these bolts. The matter was reported immediately to the ground crew and the air test, was, obviously, cancelled. Not one of our ground crew could give a logical answer as to what had happened. In this instance the gremlins had been really naughty on picking on our aircraft. I would often visualize us taking off, and the flexing motion of the wings dislodging the nut and bolt with quite spectacular consequences: wings slowly folding Pegasus shape, and having lost its aerodynamic properties, the misshapen Wimpy would plunge earthwards, the hapless crew unable to escape because they would be subjected to powerful ‘G’ forces.

We were all perfectly aware that, despite the guard patrols, the airfield security was almost non-existent, except when trying to sneak past the guardroom by the main gate. The perimeter fence could be breached in many places, and used to provide a short cut across the airfield from Croft Spa Hotel or the railway station. We were more inclined to put the incident down to sabotage by an enemy sympathizer who could also enter the airfield many ways rather than having to pass the guardroom. The children at West Vince Moor farm clambered about inside the aircraft parked near their farmhouse most Sundays, as inquisitive youngsters would, but not to use a torque wrench on nuts and bolts. The incident remained a mystery, but I would carry out a most thorough check the next few times we had to fly. I fully supported the belief expressed within the Group that there were hoteliers and boarding house keepers in York, Harrogate and Darlington who, innocently or otherwise, harboured enemy agents registering in such names as Smith, Jones, Thomas, McDonald and O’Reilly; how else could the Luftwaffe obtain the early information of targets selected for attention by Bomber Command; information that would allow them to relocate their nightfighter squadrons and the mobile 88mm anti-aircraft guns. If the saboteurs were RAF personnel, then they were not likely to be aircrew for obvious reasons. Whether the infiltration of enemy agents believed to be infesting our off-duty drinking haunts was an exaggeration or not, one would have to be rather naive to dismiss out of hand the possibility that there were those characters in our midst who were actively engaged in espionage and sabotage. In many cases we could be wrong in planting the blame for unexplained faults and fatal mishaps squarely on the shoulders of gremlins.

On Friday, 16 April, we learned that we were on ops that night. I started to whistle ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’, and then busied myself writing to Joyce in endearing terms and to let her know that I anticipated being with her the following night. A 2½d stamp ensured that she would get it first thing Saturday morning. I wrote other letters, but left them with my personal belongings with what cash I had in my pockets – except a sixpenny piece. I then bulged out by battledress with three packets of 20 Sweet Caporal cigarettes. I was nearly ready to go to war again.

At briefing we were honoured by the presence of Air Vice-Marshal G. E. Brookes, the Officer Commanding 6 Group RCAF, who had popped over from ‘Castle Dismal’ to make a routine inspection of the squadron. Not only was there an extra large assembly of aircrew, but there was also an exceptional turnout of officers. It was probably a coincidence that Air Vice-Marshal Brookes decided to sit in on the briefing too.

The target for the night was Mannheim situated on the east bank of the Rhine, but just across the river on the west bank was the twin town of Ludwigshafen. Mannheim was a river port and industrial town at the junction of the Rhine and Neckar rivers: it had large electrical, chemical, engineering and textile industries, all of which were essential to the German war machine. 6 Group were committing a total of ninety-one aircraft to the force of 271 Wellington, Stirling and Halifax aircraft. Our squadron’s contribution was fourteen aircraft, a maximum effort which accounted for the extra crews at the briefing. Our target was the IG Farben plant at Ludwigshafen.

Another force of 327 Lancaster and Halifax aircraft were going to be with us along the way, but would press on to attack the Skoda works at Pilsen in Czechoslovakia. This plant was manufacturing tanks for the Panzer divisions of the Wehrmacht.

Take-off time for the lead aircraft from Croft was 21.00 hours, with an ETA on target at 01.00 hours. The 8 Group Pathfinder Force of Mosquito and Lancaster aircraft would precede the main force to identify and mark the targets with TI flares. Our squadron would be bombing at heights varying between 18,000 and 21,000 feet, and the met. officer forecast 8/10ths cloud over our route, with a possibility that it would clear to 4/10ths over the target area. If this was to be believed we would have near ideal conditions to reach the target, with the cloud suddenly breaking to give good bombing visibility. As so often happens, the weather over the Continent is nothing like that forecast and aircrews tend to be very sceptical when being shot up by enemy nightfighters in bright moonlight when they were given a forecast of cloud. The met. men had no control over the weather, and their forecasts left a lot to be desired even over the British Isles much less the Continent, where they received no cooperation from their opposite numbers in Germany and occupied Europe.

Our crew was to bomb on green TI flares from virtually our ceiling height of 21,000 feet and, being nearly four miles above the target it would be more luck than judgement, with all due respect to Bert’s bombing prowess, to score direct hits. With nearly 300 aircraft off-loading bombs and incendiaries on Mannheim and Ludwigshafen hoping to saturate the docks and industrial areas, it would inevitably develop into the now accepted ‘area bombing’ in which the civilian population suffered – just as the civilian populations suffered during the blitzkriegs of Warsaw, Amsterdam, Coventry and London. The height we were allocated was virtually the ceiling for a fully bomb laden Wimpy and, with a round trip of some 1,000 miles, we were going to have to watch the fuel gauges. With a full load of 500lb high explosive bombs and racks of incendiaries – weighing something like four tons, there was no room left to accommodate an auxiliary fuel tank.

Once away from the Briefing Room we expressed misgivings about the night’s programme. We mere servants of Bomber Command were convinced that the hierarchy at High Wycombe were dispatching us on a diversionary raid to take the ‘flak’ off the main force of four-engined aircraft sent to wipe out the Skoda Works at Pilsen. By taking the unusual step of selecting two main targets to be attacked the same night, with almost identical flight-paths to both targets, although Pilsen was a further 200 miles beyond Mannheim, we suspected that we were being set up as decoys to attract the malice of the Luftwaffe nightfighter pilots while the main stream pressed on to Pilsen. In any event, with a total of 589 aircraft heading in the general direction of Mannheim and Pilsen, there was bound to be fun and games with the Luftwaffe defences within the next few hours.

For security’s sake, after briefing we were confined to camp. We went to collect and sign for escape money, but were told that because the whereabouts of some signatories was unknown, and the squadron had marshalled so many aircraft in a maximum effort, all foreign currency had been issued already.

Soon after 20.00 hours we were conveyed out to our aircraft to carry out the pre-flight check before joining the queue at the end of the runway for the signal to take-off. On checking the wireless equipment I found that the gremlins had been at work again. This time they had rendered both the TR9 air to ground radio transmitter and the IFF, Identification Friend or Foe, equipment unserviceable. The latter piece of equipment was essential as it transmitted a code to deter our own flak batteries from mistaking us for the enemy. We treated our ack-ack gunners with the same respect as their German counterparts, as they could be equally as accurate when they put their minds to it.

We were driven poste-haste to one of the standby aircraft dispersed half a mile around the perimeter. Its fuselage letters were ZL-G. As we climbed into the aircraft I was far from satisfied with the way things were going, although at least the wireless equipment was serviceable and the main spar nuts and bolts were intact. I silently cursed the gremlins whose antics had caused us to switch to an aircraft we knew nothing about. And if I could have foreseen that it would be two years before I would set foot on Blighty soil again I would certainly have declined to fly that night; I would have been struck down with an acute attack of colic and reported sick, or perhaps completely funked out and been branded LMF. Despite giving the aircraft only a cursory inspection, Steve signed the Form 700 which, in effect, charged him with responsibility for the aircraft as viewed and tested. The form was handed back to the ground crew NCO who wished us bon voyage and that the goods would be returned intact. Having satisfied himself that the makeshift aircraft was capable of sustained flight, Steve started the engines to give them time to warm up. Geoff sorted out and spread his charts on the table, and checked the ‘GEE’; while Bill settled in his gun turret. Bert had little to do but assist Steve if necessary. Soon other aircraft were on the move vacating their dispersal sites and taxiing past us to join the queue for take-off. We took our place behind them.

Precisely at 21.15 hours Steve lifted the Wimpy off the runway and began a climbing circuit of the airfield. Once again I was secretly relieved when the aircraft came unstuck from the ground and, complete with heavy bomb load, began a steady climb to follow most of our squadron’s aircraft who had been ahead in the queue. Records would show that all 427 Squadron’s aircraft became airborne in sixteen and a half minutes flat, breaking all previous records of take-off times.

Wing Commander Burnside and Air Vice Marshal Brookes joined the party at the chequered hut to wave us off, and the AVM must have been suitably impressed by our eagerness to leave Croft and to disrupt the enemy’s production schedule.

Soon we were approaching the enemy coast, flying in clear weather as we climbed to 21,000 feet. Geoff would give Steve a course of 130 degrees at Flamborough Head to cross the coast of Holland just south of Rotterdam.

Over the North Sea Steve gave his consent for Bill to fire off a few rounds to test his guns, and a short burst from his four 8mm Browning machine guns resounded through the fuselage; an exercise I considered was enough to alert the Luftwaffe defences throughout Holland and Belgium – but essential to boost his confidence with the assurance that he possessed devastating firepower at his fingertips.

I ‘tinselled’ like mad while we passed through the Kammhuber Line of the defensive air ‘boxes’, each with its predatory night-fighter. The Germans referred to the individual ‘box’ as a Himmelbett, our four-poster bed, and the whole system was the brainchild of the Luftwaffe General of nightfighters, Joseph Kammhuber. As soon as I was sure that we had cleared the area of greatest danger before the target, I pumped oil to top up the supply to both engines, after which I took up position in the astrodome.

So far the flight had been uneventful. Visibility was good, although I was concerned to see that we were leaving telltale vapour trails at the height we were cruising. I reported heavy flak and many searchlights away over to our starboard side, which Geoff suggested would most likely be the town of Saarbrücken. We assumed that either one of our stream had wandered off course or the Pilsen bound bomber stream were overflying the area. With a moonlit night and cloud patches beneath us, flying at our height had its advantages and disadvantages. Nightfighters, like most aircraft, increased fuel consumption dramatically in climbing to reach the upper altitudes, consequently the pilots tended to seek out their prey at much lower levels to give them more flying time before having to land to refuel. From 5,000 up to 15,000 feet, there were comparatively easy pickings to be had among the bulk of the bomber stream flying at these levels. Other advantages were that there was considerably less chance of ‘friendly fire’, of being bombed by an aircraft or of a mid-air collision. Flak and searchlights could be a problem no matter at what height an aircraft of Bomber Command flew.

Turning slowly full circle I scanned the moonlit sky straining my eyes to spot the glow from an exhaust manifold, or reflected moonlight from a cockpit canopy or a gun turret. If I had spotted anything suspiciously like a nightfighter, there would have been a lot of mental stress as Steve took evasive action by corkscrewing the aircraft, an experience not unlike a ride on the Big Dipper at Blackpool.

As we approached Ludwigshafen, I was mesmerized by the growing intensity of the flak and the increasing number of searchlights that ringed the target area. No matter which way I looked, there was flak exploding all over the sky and black puffs of smoke from shell bursts hung all around the aircraft. I softly whistled ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ into my oxygen mask, and wanted to get away from it all as soon as possible.

Ludwigshafen and Mannheim across the Rhine were really getting clobbered by many tons of high explosives and incendiaries; there were fires that spread over the towns and surrounding areas, and a thick pall of black smoke hung in the air making target marking difficult. TI flares hung above our target area, and clusters of bombs exploded on unseen places far below. With a myriad of shell bursts around us, coupled with the tracer-like effect of light flak, it was an awesome sight, and we were going to have to spend the next few minutes right in the thick of it. I counted two aircraft that would not be returning to their bases, both were on fire and falling out of the sky. There was also a huge explosion about half a mile away on our port side. This could only have been a fully bombed up aircraft receiving a direct hit, and most likely the crew would have been instantly blown to oblivion.

Soon I was aware that the bomb doors were opening and Bert went in to his left … left … right … left routine as he lined the aircraft up for the run to the target. The smoke over the area was causing difficulties, and he asked Steve to go round again. To circle the target, even at the height we were flying, could be compared to driving along a motorway in the wrong lane without lights in pitch darkness. Steve took the aircraft in an orbit and, once again we flew over the huge barbecue. This time we got it right.

With the green TIs drifting along his bombsight, Bert thumbed the bomb release button and announced that the bombs had gone as our kite, now free of its load, reared and performed like a racehorse leaving the starting gate. I watched the photoflash cannister disappear down the chute, while Bill needlessly informed anyone listening that there was a helluva lot of shit coming up and we should get to goddam hell out of the lousy place fast. Steve obliged by making a banking turn from the target area, and Geoff gave him a course to steer on the first leg home. All we had to do now was to successfully run the gauntlet of enemy air defences for another three hours and there would be a bacon and egg breakfast waiting for us at Croft.

We were just leaving the target area when suddenly the aircraft was caught in the beam of a master searchlight, the cockpit being bathed in its eerie light blue fluorescent glow. We were fully in the spotlight for the flak crews to see – we were so vulnerable. We were in deep trouble, and before the other searchlights swung to lock on to us, Steve gave us another roller-coaster ride described by some as chucking the kite about the sky until the searchlight was shaken off. Steve was lucky inasmuch as he managed to shake the searchlight off in less than a minute of violent evasive action, during which time I was glad of the main spar for support. As suddenly as we were caught by the searchlight, we were free from it and back in the comparative safety of the hazy moonlight. Steve could be heard panting with exertion over the intercom; for to have escaped from the menace of the searchlight so soon called not only for muscle power but for a lot of flying skill – and luck. We were all feeling immensely relieved after this latest bit of excitement; Geoff tugged at my trousers and with a wide grin gave the thumbs up sign. We had successfully overcome our first real challenge, and perhaps thwarted the undivided attention of the 88mm radar-controlled flak batteries, or a nightfighter pilot. With all the aerobatics I was rather surprised that Geoff had not thrown up over the aisle behind his seat.

Leaving the main action behind us, we still had to fly through a flak barrage that, although lacking in intensity, was too close for comfort. Looking down from the astrodome, the dark patches of smoke left by the exploding shells formed a panoramic polka-dot pattern against a backcloth of moonlit cloud. I realized that I had lost my fear of flak, just so long as it kept far away from our kite. One 88mm shell came too near.

I was about to return to my wireless compartment to resume ‘tinselling’ when simultaneously with a loud explosion beneath the starboard wing, it seemed that a giant fist had delivered an uppercut; the aircraft actually flipped onto its back and then screamed nose down in a terrifying spiral dive. I was thrown across the fuselage to land heavily against the hydraulic cylinders, my oxygen mask and intercom microphone being torn from my helmet in the process. An unseen force pinned me to the cylinders in the squat position; meanwhile Geoff and one or two of his navigation instruments momentarily levitated above his seat, before he too was subjected to overwhelming ‘G’ forces. The howl of the engines was ear-piercing, in truth, as our Wimpy screamed earthwards. A heavy vibration set in and I added the fact that the aircraft may be disintegrating to my troubles; I was quite unable to move to reach my parachute even if it was possible to bale out. Even though I was in a state of shock, I was still aware that at any moment I would be compacted along with the aircraft as it made a crater in German soil. Surely this could not be happening to me when I had just met the girl of my dreams. I unashamedly turned to God for salvation, and he listened to my prayer.

I suddenly became aware of a reduction in noise and vibration, and was relieved to find that I could move about again. Steve was excelling himself this trip as, with super-human effort he had managed to gain control and restore the aircraft to level flight. We had spiralled out of control for a total of 11,000 feet, or two miles, and the fact that the aircraft had not fallen apart, although the starboard engine had been knocked out, was testimony to its rugged design.

I got to my feet and connected up my intercom. Happiness was still being alive. Geoff had vomited.