Chapter Thirteen

With the progress of winter the weather deteriorated to such an extent that, towards the end of January, we were told that half the squadron was to be transferred to Northern Ireland to help counter the U-boat threat. Everyone hoped they would be in the transfer, for anything seemed preferable to the grind of operations into Germany. When the transfer was rostered, it was found that Hally’s, Smithy’s, our own and eight other crews were to remain while seven were to be transferred.

Jonesy said, ‘I knew that bastard wouldn’t give us a break.’

Early in February, on a wild night, Happy’s crew failed to return. Nothing was ever heard of them. Happy was a man who was willing to stand up for his convictions and fight for his fellow-man. He was that rarest of specimens, a practical idealist who fought for the underdog, and his going knocked our morale even lower.

During February and March, despite being on battle order almost daily, we did only six operations. Day after day we would go through the routine of briefing, then wait, ready and tense, while the operation was deferred hour by hour. If the briefing was at 4 pm for a seven hour trip with a take-off at, say, 7 pm, it meant a return to base at about 2.30 am. But if the operation was deferred hourly to, say, midnight, then it was obvious the return trip could not be made without being caught over Europe in daylight.

The waiting, suspense and late hours were worse than the actual flying and the crews became nervy and irritable. Also, because a big proportion of Bomber Command had been switched to the Battle of the Atlantic, it meant less bombers and a hotter reception from flak and fighters during the period you were over Germany, for the Nazis concentrated to make night raids so costly that Britain would have to call them off. During this period it was not unusual to have up to six fighter attacks on a normal trip for, whereas the bombers were subjected to continual wastage, the German fighters increased in number and efficiency. This usually meant short shrift for new crews that came to the squadron.1

Over the targets, in addition to the greatly increased density of flak, the Germans introduced an amazing variety of scare pyrotechnics. These included flashes, explosions, exploding stars, and other ingenious contraptions that looked like a bomber blowing up, so that it appeared as though the entire force was being annihilated, and crews who weathered the buffeting of flak started their homeward trip with jangled nerves.2

With their abundance of fighters the Germans introduced a new diversion. The planes of the squadron had completed their trip and half a dozen were orbiting at different heights under instruction from control. Z for Zebra, piloted by a pleasant Canadian named Thompson, had called for an emergency landing with one engine feathered and the plane badly shot up. Control immediately placed the rest of the planes at different heights and gave instructions for an immediate landing.

We were circling at about fifteen hundred feet and I was watching the runway with some doubt. A badly punctured Wimpy with one dead engine was not the surest bet to land. I felt the tension existing in that plane as it made its run.

In the darkness for a brief moment I saw the glow of its exhausts as Thompson flattened out Z-Zebra for its landing and imagined the crews at crash stations, tense and fearful. Then suddenly the night lit with a stream of tracer. All hell seemed to break loose.

Over the intercom a voice screamed, ‘Snappers, snappers, disperse, disperse!’ Z-Zebra seemed to explode in mid-air. Close by there was another blinding flash. Snowden’s reaction was immediate, executing a split-second turn away from the drome and, without waiting for instructions, started a violent weave.

A stream of tracer behind showed his manoeuvre was a wise one. Like startled pigeons the squadron fled into the night. Behind, the darkness was lit by the glow of fires. We were directed to a station some hundred miles away and landed safely.

Next morning we returned and found three intruders had infiltrated. In addition to Z-Zebra, two other planes had been shot down. The intruders had also shot up the hangars and control tower and altogether had a very successful visit. Later we learnt this intrusion had been planned on a wide scale and at least fourteen other dromes had been strafed with just as serious results.3

This meant from then on we could never relax. Previously, when we had got within reasonable distance of England, crews had taken it easy. Afterwards, however, gunners stayed at their posts, watchful and anxious till the plane actually landed. And so another little imp was added to an already oppressive load.

A week after this intrusion Jerry paid us back in our own coin with a bomber attack. When the smoke and confusion cleared there were twenty to thirty delayed-action bombs lying around the place, which mean the squadron was completely immobilised.

Between 6 and 8 am four of these went off, so the CO, probably on Group instructions, gave aircrew three days leave while they sorted things out.

We decided to go up to London, Blondie declaring he wished the bastards would come over twice a week. Leave was rather a problem in those days; most of the pleasant spots were out-of-bounds; travelling was as difficult and unpredictable as the Second Front; and London reached an all-time high in prices for accommodation.

However, in a little side street off Fleet Street we made the acquaintance of an unpretentious cafe with tabletops of grey marble, euphoniously known as ‘Dirty Dicks’. Dick himself was a lean, hawk-nosed character obviously from the Middle East, who at various times stated he came from Malta, Greece, Albania or Egypt. He had evidently been told of the Australian and New Zealander’s liking for grilled steaks. With meat rationing it was impossible to get a steak in London at any price but somehow Dick served fairly good imitations that, though a bit tough, still smelt and looked like steaks. From what particular beast they came from we never knew, but this drab little cafe became in time a meeting place and rendezvous for the meat-hungry Australians.

Rooming quarters on the top floor housed a diversity of adults and a motley collection of children. Whether all or a portion sprang from Dicks’ loins we never knew but it was generally conceded if only a part were the result of his night work, he was a pretty good boy in bed.

Eating in England was a problem, particularly in London. The Boomerang Club offered light refreshments, excellently served by a bevy of charming volunteers. Every pub had its sandwich bars where you could get a variety of sandwiches. Restaurants and dining houses offered a collection of substitute meat dishes such as the repulsive spam and other unappetising concoctions. To get a roast dinner, a steak or even a grilled chop, was a complete impossibility. These substitutes were poor fare and the mere mention of a juicy underdone steak was liable to set any Australian drooling.

Restaurants run by shady characters offered on paper such tempting dishes as roast or grilled spring chicken, grilled steaks, etc. Generally, you were only caught once.

During my stay, I sat down to a grilled chicken you couldn’t even get a fork into. I later learned the rooks or crows as well as seagulls suffered grievous losses to satisfy the insatiable appetites of London’s wartime millions.

On another occasion I was served with what seemed genuine steak which looked all right, smelt all right and what was more surprising, tasted all right. After I had mopped up the last remnants I tried to assess what kind of beast it had been cut from; the darkness and coarseness of the meat indicated venison, probably poached from some nobleman’s park. Pondering this problem, a notice in exceedingly small print at the bottom of the menu took my eye. Out of curiosity, I deciphered a message that stated; ‘Under Health Regulations, this restaurant has permission to sell horse meat’. I know the horse is a clean animal, so is the cat, but I suddenly felt squeamish.

***

One night I was groping my way along the blacked-out streets when the banshee-like wail of the sirens sounded. It’s something that never fails to chill the blood.

The organisation that this great city had to combat the raids was incredible. People disappeared like magic from the streets. In a surprisingly short time the scurrying of footsteps was replaced by almost complete silence, broken now and then by a sharp command as police and wardens took over, and the bleat of lost pedestrians in belated search of shelter.

I lodged myself in a big doorway and decided to see the fun from the civilian angle. In the period preceding a raid, a feeling of hushed expectancy hangs over the city. The policemen, wardens and others tread softly and speak quietly. The first white fingers of light begin to poke and probe in the black canopy overhead. You can sense the lifting of every face, and hear the quick intake of sharply-drawn breath. Then far away at first come the dull boom and the thud as the coastal defences open up. This swells and swells and swells, like some note begun on a mighty organ, increasing in intensity and volume that transcends all description as the raiders battle towards the centre of the city.

The searchlights have by now increased to hundreds, some swinging alone, others in great cones that sweep the sky in pillars of white light – all combining to make an intricate pattern of luminous lines, reaching far up into the blackness of the night. For all their fantastic beauty it’s the barrage that creates the greatest impression, assaulting the ear in one tremendous, stunning burst of sound.

As the raiders were coming in very high, thousands of feet up, you could see shrapnel exploding in a brilliant display of fireworks. Then came one of the most exciting moments of all. A plane was ‘coned’, and though it tried desperately to rid itself of this unwelcome limelight, the searchlights held it.

I could imagine the fear that gripped that crew twenty thousand feet up as their pilot twisted and spiralled in a frantic endeavour to save his plane. As soon as it was caught in the lights, the guns seemed to work themselves up to a new pitch of frenzy, till literally hundreds of shells began to burst round the luckless raider. I held my breath. I knew how they felt up there.

Then suddenly the plane started to dive, trailing a silvery plume of smoke; faster and faster it fell, spinning like a burning leaf, for it was now completely out of control, and I watched till the tall buildings in front hid it from view.

I was so engrossed in the spectacle that I quite forgot the other raiders. A blood-curdling whistle that seemed to be coming straight down on my unprotected head woke me to reality, and I went to earth, wishing fervently that I was a mole, a rabbit, anything but the most prominent target in all London’s streets. In those moments of suspense, when the shriek develops to a veritable scream, followed by a thud and then a mighty who-o-o-mp, I knew the meaning of the phrase ‘his bowels turned to water’. I was certain the bone-shaking, breath-taking crash was just beside me, but it turned out to be in the next street. Further whoomps mingled with the crack of guns, then the battle moved away as the raiders sought to battle their way out again.

Slowly the barrage lessened and slackened till it died in the distance. Within seconds of the first bomb, fire engines and ambulances were clanging their way through the city. The shrill call of whistles and the scurrying of many feet showed that the complex and amazingly efficient rescue organisation that London had built up was swinging into life, and I took myself off to the nearest public house.

***

Later, at the Boomerang Club, Smithy and I met Dagworth, the lurks artist who had come over on the same boat as The Mob, and who was as bullshy as ever. Somehow he had got himself a commission. He said the RAF had recognised his worth and he was transferring to Ferry Command to fly planes across from America via Newfoundland and Greenland. He hinted that it was a job fraught with some peril but the dangers were alleviated by the fact he would spend some time in America on each trip and he understood there were some profitable rackets that could be worked from both ends.

After we got rid of him Smithy said, ‘He’s a bludger all right. If he’s good enough to fly across the Atlantic he should be on ops. He’s just too ruddy smart, that’s all.’

Later in the evening we met a couple of females who were willing enough but as they had to catch the last train we had to content ourselves with an affair in the blackout.

‘Funny thing about these girls,’ said Smithy. ‘A naughty seems to be placed in the same category as a kiss would be back home. How the hell they miss getting into trouble I don’t know.’

When we got back to the station the bombs had been cleared out by two bomb disposal boffins. One bespectacled, quiet and unassuming fellow was still there. It was unanimously agreed that it took real guts to go to work on bombs that were liable to go off and blow you to smithereens at any time.

What really intrigued us was his statement, eventually substantiated, that at least sixty per cent of German bombs were defective.4 This he attributed to sabotage on the part of conscripted European workers. But for that fact, the damage would have been much more extensive. Thus appeared one of the internal cracks of the Reich facade that could possibly have some bearing on the future conduct of the war.

In our absence runways had been repaired, damaged kites patched. As one disconsolate gunner said, ‘All that you require to put a Wimpy back into fighting order is a pair of scissors and a roll of adhesive tape.’