Chapter Eight

Mac was our unofficial meteorologist. At the first sign of daylight he would be up, peering through the blackout curtains. If the weather was lousy he would report it with a note of cheerfulness. If it was clear he would declare mournfully, ‘Not a bloody cloud; looks like we’ll be dicing again tonight.’

When we awoke the next morning Mac reported overcast sky and rain. This drizzle increased in intensity later in the day and washed out all thought of operations. That night a pleasant holiday feeling prevailed. No ops coupled with the fact that most of the crews had successfully completed two do’s in three nights started a series of sessions in the mess, which as the night wore on and the grog took effect, gradually amalgamated all the crew into a happy singing mob. Snowden and Ninnes retired early, but Williams, Jones, Kiwi and myself kicked on well into the night.

The following day, Mac glumly reported the rain had gone and prophesied it would be on again. This proved true, because just before lunch the Tannoy brassily announced a special navigator’s lunch time. That afternoon, before the main briefing, Williams went to make a phone call to his wife and found the mess telephone with a neat chain and lock on it. Thus we learnt the station was completely cut off from the outer world.

At briefing, in addition to the Groupy and Wingco, was a middle-aged florid officer with bags of rings who was finally pin-pointed as the Group Air Vice-Marshal. An English pilot called Granger, with twenty ops to his credit, remarked, ‘I don’t like the look of this. These bloody AVMs mean a lousy target.’

The Groupy introduced our distinguished visitor, who informed us he had come along to briefing because this was a special do. At a sign the Wingco drew back the curtains and there we saw the tape running through the heart of Germany. Someone said, ‘Cologne? Gee, that stinks!’

The Wingco then took up the briefing. He explained that this was a momentous occasion: tonight history was being made – Bomber Command was going to launch the first thousand plane raid on Germany.1

Someone raised a laugh by enquiring if they were going to use Ansons (a twin-engined plane used for training).

Casting a withering glance in the direction of the interjector, he continued, ‘Every Group is to take part and every available kite is to fly. Your bomb-load will be mainly incendiaries and because of the distance and weight of the bombs to be carried there will be only a small petrol safety margin. Navigators will have to be on their toes and evasive action will have to be cut to a minimum. The whole operation is scheduled to be carried out in ninety minutes. This will necessitate careful timing, so see that you arrive over your target in your allotted time.’

A voice from behind said, ‘Christ! A thousand bombers in ninety minutes! What a schemozzle.’2

The Wingco gave some details. There would be approximately a hundred heavies, that is, the new four-engined Halifaxes. The balance of this mighty air armada was to be composed of Wellingtons, Whitleys, Hampdens and any other kite that could go the distance.3

‘Might be worse,’ said a Canadian pilot. ‘We could be in Hampdens.’

The squadron, the Wingco continued, was to go in at eighteen thousand feet; the attack was to start at 1 am and finish at 2.30. The navigators had their attack times and heights.

‘Eighteen thousand!’ said one pilot. ‘My old bomb will be lucky to hit fourteen.’

On the way out in the bus Snowden said, ‘I don’t like this bomb-load. It’s five hundred pounds up on the last two do’s. We’ll be lucky to get to sixteen thousand ourselves tonight.’

‘Seventeen thousand, five hundred,’ said Ninnes precisely.

‘I know it is,’ said Snowden, ‘but I’m telling you we won’t be able to bloody-well make it.’

His use of the great Australian adjective for the first time was a sign our pilot was reaching maturity. In fact, it was one of the few times I ever heard him swear.

The last of the twilight still hung over England as we climbed into the evening, covering the drome and surrounding countryside in a soft translucent haze that gradually deepened as we crossed the coast and started to climb. Gradually the sea and the sky merged and the stars twinkled dimly as S for Sugar strained mightily like a weightlifter trying to do the impossible. The engines beat a frenzied tune, the wings fluttered, the whole plane shuddered.

‘Enemy coast coming up,’ and almost in the same breath a whoomph of shells beneath us indicated that the enemy gunners were on their toes. Normally Snowden would have dropped the nose and dived a few hundred feet to throw the predictors off their scent, but tonight, conscientiously following instructions, he continued his climb. Strangely enough the gunners, anticipating a change of course, dropped the next bracket below and before they could correct, we were out of range.

On this night the Germans did not lack for targets and they must have looked at the radar screens in amazement as the bombers streamed across their frontier.

Our plane shook and vibrated as she struggled to get height, but like a pregnant dachshund the ironmongery in her belly dragged her earthwards. Petrol is consumed, but a bomb-load is with a plane until it is dropped. Added to this, a second and more serious problem intervened, for the overloaded plane was unable to get the speed necessary to reach the target on the stipulated time.

For some time after crossing the enemy coast the navigator and the pilot had engaged in a near-argument, with the former calling for more height and speed and Snowden tersely stating he was getting every foot and ounce of speed out of the plane. This finally culminated in Ninnes declaring that if this continued we would be twenty minutes late on the target. No pilot likes to have his flying ability questioned and Snowden was near to exploding when he retorted, ‘I’m doing the best I can, navigator, so get off my back. I can’t help it if we’re twenty minutes late and three thousand feet out. This kite is flat out and I’m doing my best.’

Ninnes said, ‘Sorry, Skipper. I know you’re doing your best.’

As we vibrated our uneasy way across the heavens the flak arose in its deadly splendour on all sides as sprog pilots blundered off-course to run into the dangerous areas. How many were lost in this way would be hard to say.

We came to Cologne twenty minutes late and three thousand feet short of altitude. In the glare of the searchlights planes flittered like moths and the sky was a mass of smoke and flame. Strangely enough, the bulk of the Jerry hate seemed to be bursting well above us. The reason for this was suddenly discovered by Kiwi who exclaimed, ‘Gawd! The heavies are up there, that’s why the flak’s so high.’

Williams asked, ‘What about when they bomb?’

Jonesy said, ‘Let’s drop our bloody bombs and get out of here,’ but sure and steady our navigator’s voice came over the intercom, ‘Target coming up, left, left, steady.’

The air reeked of cordite and gunpowder. S for Sugar lurched like a drunken sailor in the grip of shell-blast and the slip-streams of other late-comers like ourselves.

‘Right a little’, said Nav.

‘Drop the bloody things,’ I said silently.

Then those blessed words, ‘Bombs away.’ A cone of light groped for us but Snowden steadfastly held the plane on that straight course for twenty seconds to let the camera take its picture, then as the great pillar of light touched the port wing, he swerved violently to starboard. Suddenly around us like falling raindrops dropped the thousands of incendiaries as the heavies five thousand feet above let their loads go. Close behind, the sky was suddenly lit by a brilliant flash as a bomber, hit by the falling bombs, exploded. High above, crippled by flak, a heavy plummeted, slowly at first, then with ever-increasing momentum towards the earth.

Our guardian angels surely rode with us that night for the sky seemed to be filled with burning planes. As we turned to battle our way home, Cologne burned, its fires fed by thousands of incendiaries and burning bombers that fell to help the fires, as though avenging the crews that died in them.

Then, like hawks loosed on a flock of pigeons, the German fighters climbed to wreak their hate on the planes that had devastated their city and on the untrained and inexperienced crews. Horizontal tracer and gunfire filled the night as the shaken crews battled for home. We seemed to bear charmed lives, for although continuous combats were going on all around us, nothing came our way.

A hundred miles from the target, I was admiring the glow of the fires when it happened. A stream of white-hot ingots seemed to suddenly materialise out of the night from the port quarter and fly straight at me. I can honestly say I never saw the fighter and it didn’t conform to the tactics I had been taught. In that split second between surprise, fright and panic, I rose to the occasion and bellowed, ‘Turn port, go!’.The pilot, already alerted by the crash and the flight of tracer, obediently threw the plane to the left which meant we flew straight into the path of the attacking fighter.

For one brief moment it looked as though he would crash into us and I felt that I could have touched the black shadow as it banked violently by us. My correct order should have been, ‘Turn starboard!’ Perhaps I fluked the right order! Perhaps the close shave our attacker had from a collision so frightened him he flew home and changed his pants. Or perhaps he, like us, was a sprog and being only human decided to call it a night. Anyway he did not attack again.4

After the panic was over the Skipper checked all crew and found nobody had been hit. Jonesy shoved his head into the astrodome, reported damage to the port wing but the motor seemed OK. If ever there was an alert-eyed gunner on the rest of the way home, it was me.

Going over the enemy coast the flak flickered and the search-lights probed. Over the dark sea I reported numerous flares rising from the water.

‘Looks like someone in the drink,’ said Williams.

‘Judging by the flares half the bloody air force is in the North Sea,’ commented Kiwi.

Just as we reached the English coast the port motor started to go on the blink. Over base, Snowden asked for an urgent landing. We were told to orbit as there were more urgent cases than ours. Finally, just as things were looking desperate we were given the okay from control and came in with five minutes’ petrol left and three massive holes in our port wing.

Our losses that night were five planes with roughly forty per cent of the remainder unserviceable. Amongst the missing crews were Drake and the little skinny bloke from Western Australia. I remember asking what was the latest a plane could expect to make base. ‘Five minutes,’ said an officer.

Kiwi and I went outside and strained our ears for the drone of returning planes. The five minutes came and went, and with heavy hearts we climbed aboard the bus for the mess.

The ground crew took this mass of planes and men to their hearts even more than aircrew. Without a doubt these under-paid, over-worked men, with none of the glamour or perks that went to fliers, played a major part in the final victory. Without this untiring work, endless servicing and loyalty of the erks, the air force would have soon ground to a stop.

It was a glum breakfast. Thirty flying mates had gone and everyone had a tale to tell of combats and danger. How many planes were lost that night we never knew, but rumours persisted for months that over two hundred and fifty planes had been lost on this operation.

It was stated Air Sea Rescue had been completely swamped and were not able to cope with the special emergency of dozens of aircraft either damaged or out of petrol that had had to ditch. Remembering the forlorn rockets that arose from the inhospitable North Sea, we thought of the unfortunates either in rubber dinghies or struggling in the icy grip of this grey waste.

Afterwards, we went across to the huts of the two missing crews to see if there was any further news. Three officers were piling belongings on a bed. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’, Kiwi demanded.

‘We’re the Committee of Adjustment’, said a sad-eyed individual.

‘What’s that?’

‘We look after the deceased’s belongings.’

At this, silence fell over the hut. That statement, ‘We look after the deceased’s belongings,’ had a terrible finality. It was hard to believe that only yesterday these two had laughed and joked.5