Chapter Seven

Immediately on our return, all new crews started on night-flying exercises. For a fortnight we stooged around England on four- and five-hour trips. The one who really worked hard on these do’s was the navigator as the two pilots merely followed his instructions. The rest of the crew, particularly the gunners, were just there for the ride and on odd occasions took a little nap. It was certain we obtained no useful practice to fit us for what lay ahead.

At the end of this period five crews were called one afternoon and briefed for a pamphlet op into France. On these raids the planes carried nothing more dangerous than large bundles of propaganda pamphlets. Each plane was given an area to cover. We were directed to the Pas-de-Calais area, which meant only an approximate three-and-a-half hour journey. The fact that the rear gunner had been wounded on the previous sortie didn’t add to my peace of mind.

Strangely enough, the complete darkness and absence of any searchlights or flak from the time we left our coast was more disquieting than later trips where there was plenty of both.

The only conversation was Ninnes’ instructions to Snowden and his terse comments of ‘Enemy coast coming up’, and ‘Crossing enemy coast’. After approximately twenty minutes’ travelling, Ninnes said, ‘Wireless operator, get ready to unload those pamphlets.’ The procedure was to cut the rope and then toss the propaganda down the flare chute, a funnel-like contraption in the middle of the aircraft.

I knew we had some eight large bundles for spreading and estimated it would take Jones at least six to eight minutes to cut the packages and jettison the pamphlets. It seemed next to no time when he reported, ‘Pamphlets gone, sir.’

Snowden was so surprised he said, ‘You sure you got rid of them all?’

‘Definitely,’ said Jones.

‘You were damn quick then,’ the Skipper commented.1

It wasn’t until a week later, with a few beers on his chest, Jonesy confessed he had thrown the completely intact bundles down the chute, his explanation being, ‘I didn’t think the bloody pamphlets would do much good but I might have hit a bloody Jerry on the head with one and that would definitely have left an impression.’

The trip back was uneventful. We saw no flak, no enemy fighters and arrived back smack at 4.30 am. We were interrogated by a sleepy officer who, after a few questions, told us that all crews had returned safely.

Next day the weather turned bad and blew a half-gale from the north-east. All flying was out for the next two days. On the third morning there seemed to be an unusual amount of activity about the station. At lunch time it was accepted by the older members that it would be a full petrol load. We found that the ground crew could tell the approximate distance of the coming op by the amount of petrol that went into a plane. A three-quarter load meant a reasonably short one, a full load a long one. Happy said, ‘they could count us out as we hadn’t got to that stage yet.’

At about four o’clock the Tannoy spoke, asking all crews to report to operations at 4.30 pm. Snowden and Ninnes came around and collected Kiwi and myself. The front gunner said, ‘What the hell do they want us for? We won’t be going.’

Snowden and Ninnes exchanged glances but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t until later we found the navigators had already been briefed and Ninnes had been in it.

When we arrived at the ops room, a separate stone building capable of seating over a hundred people, most of the crews were already there. Service police checked us in. Then, when all crews were seated, the doors were shut and locked. It was a long building and the bottom part of the wall was covered by a large green curtain. Both the Wingco and the Groupy were present.

The latter spoke. ‘Well, boys, I guess you’re wondering where you’re going. Here it is.’ With that, he pulled the drawstrings and two curtains rolled back from the centre, something like a miniature theatre curtain. There, covering the entire wall, was a huge map of Europe from the Baltic to Spain. Red tape stretched from England across the North Sea, deep into Germany.

For a while the significance of those vivid red lines escaped the newcomers, then as various exclamations came from those in the know, we suddenly realised this was the route and the end of the tape was the target.

As the buzz of conversation increased in intensity the Wingco held up his hand for silence. ‘I know it’s a tough one,’ he said, ‘but this is a general two-group bash. We are putting up every available aircraft. I am aware there are some crews here who haven’t done a fully-fledged operation but this will be a good one to cut their teeth on.’

Kiwi and I looked at Snowden with questioning eyes and he nodded his head. ‘Jesus,’ said Kiwi, ‘I don’t like this one little bit.’

The Wingco explained our objective was a factory area in Essen, which meant we had to penetrate the Ruhr. This, we gauged from a variety of comments, was considered to be a decidedly unhealthy place.

The Wingco covered the main points of the attack. The meteorologist then gave us a resume of what we could expect to and from the target. The navigation officer said a few concise words, stressing the necessity of missing the bad flak areas, both going in and coming out. These were marked in red. The wireless leader gave some points on special jamming techniques the Germans were using.

Although the gunnery leader was present he had nothing to say. After the general briefing was over, he called us to one side and gave us this terse advice: ‘Keep your eyes open and don’t go to sleep.’

‘That bastard should have a record made,’ said Blondie, ‘and he could go to sleep for all the use he is.’

As we were taking our gear to the bus, an English pilot was saying to his navigator, ‘Eighteen thousand arseholes! They bloody-well know none of these kites can get to seventeen thousand. With the load, we’ll be lucky to get to sixteen thousand.’2

‘That right?’, Kiwi asked Snowden, who gave an embarrassed smile and said, ‘I can’t really say, old fellow; haven’t tried the old bus out yet.’

It’s hard to say how the crew felt about the coming op. The atmosphere was one of almost painful silence. We were such a completely untried and inexperienced crew, I guessed everyone felt it was wisest to keep his mouth shut.

The rest of the crews had little to say in the bus trip around the perimeter. Here and there the bus would stop, the driver would announce A for Apple or whatever plane it happened to be. The crew would clamber out, someone would say, ‘Good luck,’ and on we would go again. We were the second-last crew out. The night was pitch black and the ground crew were moving about the aircraft which towered above us like some prehistoric monster.

Inside the Wimpy the air was heavy and filled with the smell of oil and petrol. I moved down the catwalk to my turret, parked my ’chute and closed the doors behind me. Seated there, I experienced a feeling of complete isolation and loneliness that I was never able to lose while I flew in Wimpys, even though I was only thirty feet from the rest of the crew and could speak and hear them over the intercom.

I heard the pilot giving his instructions, then each member reported he was in position and ready. Away somewhere in the darkness I heard a muffled roar as engines came to life. Our own, after a few preliminary coughs, started with a shattering roar that shook the plane. I tried the control stick and swung the guns in an arc to see they were working. Before I knew it we were moving.

The red lights slipped by as we bumped along the perimeter and in what seemed seconds, S for Sugar was rattling down the runway. Even in daylight it is difficult to tell when a plane leaves the ground; in the darkness of night it is completely impossible, so for the rear gunner there was always that feeling of suspense that the plane had not lifted and perhaps was rushing to its destruction.

We did a circuit of the station and I saw the perimeter lights twinkle. The navigator gave a course and we were on our way.

As on previous trips all the work and conversation was shared between the navigator and the Skipper. The rest of us, particularly the two gunners, sat there, listening, and looked out into the darkness. I know I had no clear conception of what was expected of me, nor, as I found out afterwards, did Kiwi.

We heard Ninnes say, ‘Crossing coast’, and then later ‘Enemy coast coming up,’ disquieting words that conveyed but little to me sitting with my back to the engines. ‘Crossing enemy coast,’ said our navigator. So dark was the night, sea and land merged into one indistinguishable black mass. Looking down trying to pick some line of demarcation I suddenly saw a line of bright flashes twinkling below. Almost immediately dead astern a series of dark red flashes appeared. The lights twinkled again and the flashes danced a little bit closer.

Almost in embarrassment I heard my voice say in the earphones, ‘Think there’s flak behind us.’ At the word ‘flak’, our pilot who was evidently more tee’d up on such matters, acted with creditable alacrity and shoved the plane into a steep dive. Above us, the vicious bracket of three danced and he said tersely, ‘Haven’t you been told to report height and position of flak immediately?’ I did not answer and in an uneasy silence we flew towards our target.

‘Half an hour TOT, Skipper. The height is only fifteen thousand feet; you will have to push her if we are going to get to eighteen thousand,’ reported our navigator.

‘I’ve been pushing her ever since we got over the coast,’ replied Snowden, ‘but she’s not making it. May be able to get to sixteen thousand.’

‘Briefing said eighteen thousand,’ replied Ninnes.

‘I know that,’ said our pilot, ‘but unless we get the crew out to push her we’ll be damned lucky to get to sixteen thousand.’

God or someone rode with us in the sky over the Third Reich that night for never was a crew less fitted to defy the might and cunning of Hitler. Like tourists on a sightseeing trip the gunners gazed in wonder as the flak curved gracefully skywards and the searchlights probed, trying to catch an unwary adventurer in their silvery threads. What added to the armchair ride of S for Sugar, although we didn’t know it then, was that we had a first-class navigator. We had been routed to miss bad flak areas, but less fortunate crews who wandered from the path attracted Guy Fawkes displays that caught our attention. If this was any indication, there were a lot of sprog navigators flying that night.

Sitting in my rear turret I was at a disadvantage as comments came to my ears, since I could see only to the rear and about forty-five degrees to either side. I spent half of my time swivelling the turret in an endeavour to look at the matters under discussion.

Our navigator said, ‘Ten minutes TOT’. I was still trying to work this out when Kiwi asked, ‘What’s TOT?’

‘Time On Target, you clot’, answered Ninnes. ‘Don’t they teach you blokes anything?’

Then Kiwi said, ‘Jesus, look at those searchlights and flak. Have we got to go in there?’

These ominous words sent a creepy feeling up and down my spine. It would be hard to describe the next ten minutes as we came into the defence perimeter. The sky seemed to turn into a sea of molten flame. How it was possible to live in this inferno I did not know. S for Sugar was buffeted wildly and shook like a sapling in a storm. Flashes of light mushroomed for a few seconds and plummeted downwards, marking the passing of a plane and crew.

Strangely enough, no noise came to our ears while we rode this man-made storm except the navigator’s voice giving calm and precise directions. ‘Tracking in on target,’ he said. ‘Left, left, steady. Right, steady, hold it, steady, bomb doors open, bombs away.’

The plane, released from its four thousand pound load,3 seemed to leap with joy. Snowden, as per instructions, held the plane straight and steady for twenty seconds after the bombs had gone so that the camera would operate. Then he said, ‘Let’s get out of this place.’

As we did a tight diving turn I had a full view of the destruction down below. Fires seemed to be burning everywhere. To my inexperienced eyes, it looked as though the entire city was alight. For a while I thought of the women and children cowering there, many of them possibly enveloped in this holocaust. Then a terrific whoomph which nearly threw the plane on its back brought me back to reality. ‘Bugger them’, I thought in angry self-justification, ‘they have brought this on themselves.’

Once clear of the city the flak fell away. This should have been a sign for extra caution as fighters rarely operated in flak. However, I continued to spoil my night vision by watching the fires drop slowly behind. The navigator was applying himself to plotting our return course and a constant stream of instructions and alterations ensued between him and the pilot. Now and then bright horizontal lines of light would break the darkness. These often culminated in an orange flash. Kiwi said, ‘They must be tracer from fighters.’

Combats seemed to be going on all around us but we flew serenely on. After what seemed like an age, our navigator said, ‘Enemy coast coming up.’ Crossing it we ran into some desultory but inaccurate fire which soon fell behind.

By this time the excitement and concentration of the trip was beginning to take its toll. I found the rocking of my turret extremely comforting, then over the intercom came a weary yawn.

‘Hey, you blokes, don’t go to sleep; keep your eyes peeled,’ said the Skipper. As fighters were known to chase bombers back over the Channel, the reproof was justified.

As we came back over the station, the skies were already full of orbiting fellow-travellers. Someone was calling for an immediate landing and was given a green. Control gave us a height and we flew a circuit for forty-five minutes. Feeling that I had faithfully carried out my watch-dog duties, I slumbered peacefully, to be awakened by the bump of wheels as we touched down. Dawn had already broken as we came back to flight. Someone said, ‘You want a rum?’ This, I found, was a RAF custom to loosen the tongues of crews at interrogation.

The gunners had not been informed of the intention of this briefing and wondered what all the questions of a pimply-faced intelligence officer meant. If we had known he was trying to get as much information on defence establishments in enemy territory and other general information as he could we might have been of some assistance, but as one of the boys stated afterwards, ‘I thought the bastard was checking up to see if I’d done my job.’

With the rum working on empty stomachs there was soon a babble of chatter and a little line-slinging. Someone said, ‘we had four combats but lost them every time’. Another said, ‘we had three’. We couldn’t rightly claim any, but away from our crew, Kiwi and I modestly claimed two. What with the grog and the release from eight hours of anxiety the boys certainly let themselves go. Our jubilation was short-lived when it was rumoured three Wimpys had not returned. This started a search around the crowded room to see if any of our mob was missing.

The Wingco stopped speculation by announcing three planes had not returned, that a signal had come through stating one had made a forced landing just over the coast and all the crew were safe, but there was no news of the other two.

‘What were the crews, sir?’ There was a complete silence as he paused as though weighing the question. ‘The two that are missing are A for Apple and J for Johnny. C for Charlie is safe,’ he said.

Kiwi, who was standing beside me, said, ‘Christ, Aub was in J for Johnny.’

We waited at the flight until we were told if we didn’t catch the bus, we would have to walk back to the mess. At breakfast we learnt that the reward for our night’s flight was two eggs. I have never been partial to cackleberries so couldn’t say that I was impressed. The English boys seemed to think that this was a more than adequate compensation.4 The discussion centred on the loss of J for Johnny and the op in general. Some of them had had exceptionally rough trips, possibly because they strayed off course and ran into the flak areas.

It did not seem possible that Aub had gone. In those early days we were willing to grasp at straws. We conveniently forgot about those plummeting comets that fell earthwards, trailing their golden tails. The lively little Gunner couldn’t be dead. He would have bailed out before they went down or perhaps they had ditched or had landed somewhere else, with damage to their wireless. We sought every reason rather than admit that he was dead. We had no yardstick to measure whether it was a good or bad trip but everyone agreed the chances of surviving thirty such trips did not look particularly bright.

***

At midday we were awakened by orderlies and the Tannoy announced special lunch times for navigators, which didn’t mean a thing until Snowden said, ‘Looks as though we’re dicing tonight. Ninnes has gone to the special briefing.’

‘Christ!’ exclaimed Kiwi. ‘Not again tonight! I haven’t got my blood pressure under control from last night’s do!’

Ninnes came back and said, ‘It’s on all right.’

Bomber Command was evidently taking advantage of the good weather. The fact that the crew’s nerves might be in a jangle didn’t mean a thing. Briefing was substantially the same, only the Wingco prefaced it by complaining photographic reconnaissance had revealed that bomb results were poor. Only approximately twenty per cent of hits had been registered on the target area.

Someone said, ‘Balls!’ and that was the consensus of opinion. The memory of that inferno of flame below was still vivid in our minds. The Wingco’s statement didn’t seem to tie in with the facts. He let the angry murmur of dissent die down, then said, ‘It’s essential that this objective be destroyed. The target is the same again.’

The curtain fell apart and there, stretched across the map were the same red indicator tapes. Target for the night is rarely received in silence. There is always the inveterate wit who has something to say, the same buzz of comment, but today there was complete silence as the crews gazed at this identical track. They felt they were having one put over them. It didn’t seem possible they had endured so much – two crews lost with another plane written off – for such lousy results.

Again the leaders went through their paces. When briefing was finished, our gunnery leader called us together. Before he had time to open his mouth Blondie said, ‘Keep your bloody eyes open and don’t go to sleep.’ This raised our sunken morale a little. He was nonplussed for a second. ‘I’ll see you in the morning – that’s if you get back, Henschell,’ he said.

When we were going out Blondie growled, ‘One day I’ll bomp that bastard.’

This op was almost a repetition of the first. The same uneasy feeling as we took off. The flak came up. This time we reported it. Ninnes plotted his competent course as flak and searchlights reached up to the left and right to pluck the off-course stragglers from the sky. Bright lights blossomed and faded. Over the target the great cones of searchlights, twenty to thirty lights bonded together in one great pillar, probed and searched. The flak was worse, if anything, than on the previous night but we rode through it, dropped our load and flew a virtually straight and level course home. Although we saw the horizontal flare and tracer around us indicating aerial battles, we never sighted a fighter and finally landed at base without trouble.

After briefing, we learnt another two bombers had not returned but, as they were two crews unknown to us, the impact was only slight.

Kiwi said, ‘These ops don’t seem to be too bloody bad. When I first saw that flak I didn’t think you could live in it but now I think all we need is a bit of luck.’

Bearding Hitler in his den successfully two nights running had engendered some confidence and hope.5