10 Holland, Happy
   Valley and France

Next day, only fourteen hours after returning, David was scheduled for take-off again. He and his crew were down for their first op together, on Battle Order 166, chuffed that the aircraft allotted them was V Victor. ‘That’s a good omen,’ they told each other as they watched V’s ground crew working to get it ready. All the same, it was with a certain amount of trepidation that they passed the security guard and entered the briefing room, where the names of all participating crews were chalked up on the blackboard.

Every man had to empty his pockets of anything which could provide intelligence if he fell into enemy hands - notes, coins, letters, photos, dockets, even bus, train, theatre or cinema tickets. Wireless operators were issued with the code of the day, printed on rice paper, so it could be eaten if necessary. David drew the escape

Bomb damage, Cologne, Germany. Factory chimneys often survived the blast better than walls.

aids and wallets of foreign currency for them all. Then he studied the details of the target maps and the large wall chart of Europe with its red tape stretching out along the route, this time into Holland, entering the necessary information on his captain-of-aircraft map.

The atmosphere was tense as they awaited the navs and bomb aimers coming in from their specialised briefings. The tension was partly dispelled when their navigator Murga joined them as they sat at their table, making notes.

‘It’s a piece of piss,’ he told Drew, though to the skipper he said, ‘It’s a piece of cake.’

The main briefing covered details of the target and the importance of the attack, the route to be followed, which wave the squadron was in, expected opposition and tactics to be used. The method of marking the target varied according to weather conditions and visibility. Wanganui was code for sky marking, flares used when the target was not clearly visible. Parramatta was code for target indicators like cascading fireworks that were used for ground marking when visibility was good. And as weather conditions were critical to success, briefing always included a forecast by the Meteorological Officer, who described the synoptic situation, and projected a chart. It was a lot of gen to take in, but it was heartening to know how carefully the op had been planned, to cover every detail and foreseeable contingency. The briefing concluded with the CO’s send-off. ‘Good luck, chaps!’

The airmen, in battle dress and flying boots, walked to collect kit and rations from the crew room and parachutes from the drying room. Then it was ‘All aboard’ as they climbed with their awkward gear into buses driven by

WAAFs, who ferried them to dispersal bays. ‘End of the penny section!’ they joked. Their aircraft and ground crew were waiting.

David’s pre-flight checks of the aircraft, both internal and external, were even more detailed than usual. He ran up the engines and tested all the systems; brakes, hydraulics, electrical and intercom. Cyril repeated the checks. Then the crew sat on the grass in the shade of the wing, discussing each man’s job and the problems it involved, to refresh each crew member’s understanding of the others’ tasks. David wrote, I tried to engender confidence in them, suppressing my own feelings, and this certainly eased the tension in the air.

After the Wingco had driven up on his last-minute round to have a few words with them, David spoke with the ground crew, checking and signing Form 700, that veteran aircraft V Victor was airworthy.

‘Time to harness up, boys,’ David said, and ensured they had all put on their chute harnesses. The crew climbed up with their cumbersome parachute packs, Mae Wests and gear and groped their way in the dark along the narrow fuselage to their stations.

It was most difficult for Birdy and Boz. They were wearing bulky flying suits, padded and electrically heated to protect them against the paralysing cold they would have to endure. As rear gunner Birdy had the loneliest position in the plane. He had to climb over the spar supporting the tail-plane to get to his turret through small twin doors. It was a snug fit. Once he was shut in, his only contact was the intercom. ‘Birdy’s in his cage,’ he reported. He had earlier checked and installed his four

Allan Avery (Birdy), Rear Gunner, in electrically heated flying suit and parachute harness, carrying parachute, flying helmet and Mae West life jacket, Kelstern, 1944

.303 Brownings with the armourers. Now he rotated the turret and elevated and depressed the guns to satisfy himself that all were in order. He then cocked them and plugged in his suit. Boz swung himself up into the mid-upper turret and onto his sling seat and went through the same procedure.

The other five had to climb over the main spar supporting the wing, not easy in such a confined space. Murga settled at his table facing the fuselage, changed his cap for his leather helmet, spread out his maps and charts, and arranged his instruments. Pop’s table aft of Murga, which housed his radio equipment, faced forward. On a night flight he would draw the blackout curtains, but today the sun was still streaming in through the cockpit’s perspex canopy. Drew sat on the step into his compartment in the nose with its commanding view. Cyril perched on his folding seat, looking at his set of dials and cocks.

David, now in his seat to the portside in the cockpit, sitting on his parachute, strapped himself in and put on his flying helmet, with oxygen mask clipped to one side, which he connected to its inlet. After plugging in his microphone, which was located in the oxygen mask, with its earphones in the helmet, he checked with each crew member on the intercom. His procedure began with the rear gunner. ‘Rear gunner, everything OK?’ Hearing the reply ‘All OK’, he continued systematically forward, each man hoping that his fear could not be detected in his voice.

Then it was a matter of waiting. Waiting for up to an hour until the signal came to taxi to the end of the runway. Stomachs churning, mouths dry. Shut in this cramped and claustrophobic cocoon of destruction and death, with its all-pervading oily smell, longing for a lungful of life-giving untainted air. Wondering if the op would go ahead. Hoping for a reprieve from hell.

In some ways this waiting was the worst part of an op, David was to find. Once he was up and flying, every atom of his whole being was on the job he had to do, every second demanded his full and undivided attention, his total concentration. But the waiting… After he had gone through every detail of the pre-flight check, ensuring everything, every single thing was in order … then the fear he had fought so hard to push down would claw its way back into his consciousness. And on his heart and gut heavy as a bomb about to explode lay the dread of all that awaited them… The danger of collision while orbiting, as all the squadron kites circled to gain height, and as they headed south across England… Then the critical timing needed to move into the main stream of aircraft, and again at the turning points in the blindness of night. Heading out across the Channel or the North Sea into the unknown. Crossing the enemy coast to run the gauntlet of flak, fighters and searchlights. The horror of the sights, the sounds, the smells. The terror, the raw terror, of each moment.

In the late afternoon light of the autumn day, England appeared all the more beautiful, particularly as the thought was ever there that some of our chaps, maybe some of us, might never see it again. The target, a V2 rocket storage depot at Eikenhorst in the Netherlands, was in a small wood northeast of The Hague. David had studied the photos closely during briefing, and had a picture of the area imprinted in his mind. Nearing Holland, Drew called, ‘Enemy coast ahead’, and at 12 000 feet they saw desultory flak, which by day appeared as puffs of black smoke. Drew, using his bombsight, ran up on the target and directed David over the indicators.

What relief they all knew in V Victor as he pressed the bomb release tit! They could feel the bombs falling - twelve 1000 pounders and four 500.

‘That’s a heap of rockets that won’t be coming to Old Blighty,’ Pop exulted.

Turning back, skirting The Hague, thankfully they met with little serious opposition, even though the weather was clear. All crews returned safely to Kelstern and David wrote, It is a pity that the rest of the tour will not be like this. But this easy trip gave us all the more confidence for the future.

Safely in dispersal three hours later, knots in stomachs loosened, gags in throats gone and the twitters - as the men called the urge to shit - dissipated, they climbed down from the aircraft. And smiled again. Feet firmly on the tarmac which overlaid the precious earth of England, breathing in the free air of the crisp English evening, all except David felt able to admit how scary it had been and their elation at being home. He kept a lid on his feelings, knowing how important it was for crew morale that he always appeared calm and confident.

At post-flight interrogation, they reported their observations and answered the Intelligence Officer’s questions. But even as they enjoyed the standard issue biscuit, cocoa and well-earned tot of rum, they could still hear the roar of the engines in their heads and feel vibrations through their bodies.

Next day they saw the photo of their strike up in the nav aids room and the intelligence library. They had achieved the second-best results of the squadron. After this we got rather cocky, Drew wrote. But David certainly did not let it go to his head. He wrote, One cannot relax even for a moment on an op. To do otherwise is to court disaster.

Because the squadron was acting as army support and could be called at short notice to attack wherever needed, crews were kept on standby, and between concentrated bursts of activity there were lulls. It was frustrating, but David avowed, The chaps of 625 are the best one could meet, and have the knack of making one feel at home immediately. There is no rank-consciousness and we are all members of one big happy family. When not out on radar training with the Y, or a bombing exercise, he spent most of his time in the flight office, quietly observing and listening. There was so much to learn from these experienced airmen.

HAPPY VALLEY

On the evening of Saturday 23 September, David and his crew did their first night operation. This time it was into the heart of Germany, ‘Happy Valley’, as the industrial Ruhr Valley had been ironically dubbed by the airmen who had been pounding it since early in the war. Talking over what was ahead of them, David suggested each crew member try to keep a record of every trip, so that in the event that they did not come back, at least it could be sent to their family. Drew, married and deeply in love, adopted the idea and started a diary for ‘My Dearest Thel’.

The target was the railway marshalling yards at the Düsseldorf suburb of Neuss. This was a major traffic centre and one of the enemy’s few outlets from the Ruhr to the battle front. Capable of handling 2200 railway wagons every 24 hours, it was of great strategic importance. Navigators and bomb aimers joined the main briefing after their own, and they came in with long faces. Drew muttered, ‘I don’t mind telling you - it’s put the breeze up me.’ Nor was David reassured by the intelligence reports of heavy fighter defence and bags of flak, and the Met report of complete cloud cover en route. Obviously this op was not going to be as easy as their first trip.

With a load of twelve 1000-pounders and four 500s they took off just after 1900 hours and were shocked to witness the first casualties even before they left England. At the coastal concentration point where squadrons from different airfields converged to form one stream like a great swarm of bees, two bombers collided. It was a horrifying sight. A vivid flash lit up the sky. Flaming wreckage fell to earth, where it broke up, burning fiercely. ‘Two of ours,’ Drew groaned, and muttered a prayer. David agonised silently, ‘It could be fourteen of our friends “going in”.’

All nav lights were supposed to be extinguished at this point. David put out B Baker’s, but many pilots, afraid of a repeat episode, continued to burn theirs until they were over France. Here, Murga had to contend with navigation difficulties. First the Gee radar packed up, and then the air position indicator (API) went u/s. They were not permitted to use the Y radar until almost on target, as the enemy was able to pick it up and direct fighters to intercept them. So Murga carried on without aids.

To interfere with enemy radar Drew frantically dropped ‘window’, long metallic paper strips, through the chute. But in his haste he also threw out the engineer’s log, half of his own map and the silver propelling pencil David had bought in New York! Murga’s dead reckoning was good and brought B Baker in over the target to drop its load. A dull glow through complete cloud cover, spreading out like red velvet sparkling with sequins, looked unexpectedly beautiful. But for those on the ground it was an inferno. To British aircrew it indicated success by preceding bombers.

The return flight was not easy for B Baker. The flak defence was ferocious. Pop and Boz thought they saw a Messerschmitt flash by, but it sheered off before Pop could stammer out a warning. The wind had changed and without instruments Murga had no means of finding the exact amount of drift. Before the Gee came good they were a fair way north off track and found themselves over the Frisian Islands. The solitary aircraft was an easy target for the many guns which suddenly opened up below and put some small holes in B Baker. Needless to say, David wrote later, we wasted no time in getting out of that area. He was pleased that they managed to return to base by the briefed time, as did all their squadron aircraft.

Home again after three hours, the crew swapped notes.

‘I felt frightened all the way,’ Drew admitted.

‘Just a little bit shaky,’ was Boz’s reaction ‘More than just a little bit,’ Birdy added. ‘Had the shits good and proper.’

David saw it as a good lesson for future ops at night, because it made Drew, Boz and Birdy search the sky even harder. Their concentration was critical. There might be no second chance.

They had tea, rum and biscuits with an understanding female Interrogation Officer. Drew, who always appreciated a good-looking female, cheerfully handed over the camera magazine to a ‘slashing good’ WAAF Section Officer. Then at last they could enjoy their bacon and eggs. An open bar in the Mess also helped them to readjust before going off to their billets ‘to sleep the sleep of the just,’ Drew said.

But David’s was haunted by the sight of the two colliding bombers.

Altogether 3500 tons of bombs had been dropped on three major Ruhr targets that night. And twenty-two British planes were missing. One hundred and fifty-four men.

FRANCE

Over the next four days David and his crew made three daylight sorties to France. These were in support of the Allied troops advancing on Calais. One aim was to knock out the enemy’s long-range heavy guns trained across the Channel towards Hellfire Corner, as the Dover area was known. Drew lamented, We were dug out at an unearthly hour for briefing and breakfast. The first briefing was even more detailed than usual, as the target was very small - railway guns, mounted on rolling stock which could be readily moved. It would require great accuracy on the part of pilot and bomb aimer, flying at a lower level, to pinpoint the target.

It was their first experience of another of Butch Harris’s strategies - the Master Bomber. The Master Bomber would broadcast instructions to the main force of Lancasters and Halifaxes, coordinating and concentrating the attack. On this op his code name was Boxkite 1. Main Force’s was Samson. The code word for Abandon Mission, which everybody hoped they would not hear, was New York.

Briefed to fly between 8000 and 10 000 feet, at the English coast David was surprised to hear on the radio telephone, ‘Boxkite 1 to Samson, Basement 5.’ Descending to 5000 feet they broke through cloud cover over the Channel at the Straits of Dover. A second command had the force descending to 4000 feet, and it was remarkable to see all the aircraft with their flaps and undercarriages down in order to lose height quickly. Even though the Master Bomber’s deputy, Boxkite 2, went down to 800 feet, he could not identify the target. So the force was ordered to descend to 2000 feet and orbit while he made another attempt. It was an unnerving experience to have so many bomb-laden planes circling in close proximity.

Then came the unwelcome command, ‘Boxkite 1 to Samson. New York.’ Bombs were in short supply, and it was crucial not to waste them. Drew wrote, It was enough to make a saint swear. And we aren’t saints. So the air was blue around us. We had been orbiting for quite a while and then to have to abandon when we had got that close was lousy.

Flying so low they could see details of farms, houses and hedgerows, they seemed to whizz along the French coast towards Cap Gris Nez, where they had their first encounter with light anti-aircraft fire. David was intrigued by the patterns woven by the tracers, pretty as a cloud of fireflies, pretty but so deadly. They also met with heavy flak, which burst so close it shook the plane. But even after they crossed the Channel, their troubles were not over. Landing back at base in a cross-wind with a full bomb load was hair-raising. Drew held the seat and glued his eyes to the flight engineer’s panel, watching for warning lights. He breathed a silent prayer as Dave did the ropiest landing he had ever done since we crewed up. It was OK though and nothing happened. David admitted in his diary, The landing was not of the best. But it was a consolation to see everyone else doing ropey touchdowns.

Everyone cheered up when they were told at interrogation that it would be counted as an op. But later in the day, when this decision was countermanded, it raised a storm among the aircrew. Thirty ops had to be flown to complete a tour before an airman had a break from operational duties. To the men who had just gone through almost three and a half gruelling hours, only to have their efforts frustrated by poor visibility, it seemed grossly unfair and was deeply resented.

Next morning they were called early again to repeat the trip to Cap Gris Nez to target another ‘Big Bertha’ long-range heavy gun emplacement. ‘Let’s hope the Met does not boob as it did yesterday,’ David said tersely.

Again there was a special briefing as this was a very small and sensitive target, with Allied troops within 2000 yards. If necessary, the troops would use yellow ground strips or smoke markers to show their positions. Pathfinder marking and red indicators would show the target and bombing was again to be done on orders from the Master Bomber. His code name was Toolkit, Main Force was Strongman, and Abandon Mission was Mincemeat. David was always intrigued by the code words and would have liked to supply some himself. He and Drew had memorised their target photos thoroughly, and as soon as they had crossed the English coast Drew checked and rechecked his bomb sight settings and fused the bombs. Pickwick was the code name for the order to release the bombs and they were glad to hear it, bombing the leading edge of the dense black smoke which was beginning to rise, lit by vivid red flashes.

Flying east toward the target, David had found it rather difficult to see. The bright sunlight reflecting off water and patches of cloud was dazzling. But turning back he was thrilled to see the white cliffs of Dover standing out brilliantly against the green background of England. I can understand how Englishmen welcome this first sight of their homeland, he wrote later. But nostalgia for him was the scent of boronia or wattle wafting out when he opened a parcel from Australia.

On the third morning they were called even earlier and briefed again for Calais. The inhabitants must be thoroughly fed up with our calls, David observed. It seems a pity to destroy part of the town when obliterating small targets. As it was, most of the surrounding country had been flooded by the Germans for defence.

‘Poor bloody civilians,’ Pop empathised.

It was much easier to do the necessary checks in daylight than by night in the blackout and at 0755 hours B Baker took off with its usual load, following an almost identical route as the previous day’s. The MB’s call sign was Nelson, Main Force Walpole and Abandon Mission was London. On leaving the English coast they heard ‘Nelson 1 to Walpole - basement 5’, so they had to descend. They watched Baker’s bombs straddle the target and could see the blast rings of the 1000 pounders spreading. But they could not turn away until the camera finished running.

Back at the station they were heartened to find that none of 625’s aircraft had been lost. Over lunch they

High Explosive bombs going down over Calais, 1944

listened to a BBC report of the heavies’ raid, hearing of the damage inflicted by 1000 tons of bombs. And when they saw their own good results in the photos, they were satisfied.

The following day, Canadian troops liberated Calais. All the French Channel ports were now in Allied hands. This was of great strategic importance for getting supplies to the invasion forces, although the facilities required extensive repairs and many sunken vessels had to be cleared. The next major port to be won was Antwerp, still tightly held by German troops. ‘Look out, Antwerp!’ the crews said to each other. ‘We’ll be visiting you soon for sure.’