Chapter Fourteen

By April a tardy spring showed signs of breaking through, but it was still freezing and the weather was lousy. Despite an almost constant alert and briefing nearly every day, we had done only twenty-one ops. As we got over the twenty mark a new spirit permeated the crew. Whereas we had previously fatalistically accepted that it was impossible to complete a tour, now a small ray of hope shone through the gloom. If it was possible to do twenty-one ops, Kiwi argued, with our experience and skill we should do the other nine. It was a thought that no-one except our exuberant front gunner felt like discussing. Every time he brought it up he was told to shut up. Still the hope was there. We were now the senior crew on the squadron and were pointed out to newcomers as the lucky ones who had completed twenty-one missions.

The Tannoy announced our twenty-second. Going up to briefing Kiwi said, ‘This should be a soda.’

Jonesy said, ‘Shut up, don’t bloody-well talk about it.’

‘Ah, bullsh,’ said Kiwi. ‘I know we’re going to make it. I feel it in my water.’

‘Shouldn’t talk like that,’ remonstrated Jonesy, ‘should he, Johnny?’

‘Better touch a bit of wood,’ I cautioned. ‘Remember it’s not you but all of us, boy.’

I was rudely advised what I could do with my piece of wood and all of a sudden a feeling of doubt came over me and I said, ‘Shut your mouth, you bloody fool, or I’ll shut it for you.’

Snowden looked at me in surprise and said, ‘Now break it up, boys!’

The target was Munich which, though well defended, wasn’t so bad. Met forecast bad weather for the first three hundred miles but clearing from then on. The target would be clear. This raised the usual cynical laugh from his audience. From experience we knew these forecasts were usually eighty per cent wrong.

The op started badly as we nearly collided with another kite going around the perimeter which had got out of line and some terse words were passed between pilot and Control before we untangled ourselves. ‘Some bloody sprog’, commented Snowden, and I could imagine the collective eyebrows of the crew going up. It was only the second time we had heard him swear.

In the preliminary warming-up period, Snowden said to his co-pilot, ‘I don’t like the look of the port oil pressure.’

‘No,’ the second dickey replied, ‘it doesn’t look too good.’ And then, after further test he asked, ‘Do you think we should go?’

This two-way conversation was listened to by the crew in complete silence, whilst the plane shook and vibrated under full test. After what seemed an age, Snowden said, ‘She’s okay. We’ll go.’

It’s bad enough taking off on an eight hundred mile trip with a four thousand pound cookie and two sound engines, but with the expressed doubts of the two pilots in our ears, that hurtling rush down the runway was murder. When we lifted, Jonesys’ fervent ‘Thank Christ for that’ expressed our combined feelings.

Complete darkness had already fallen and land and sea had merged as one black indistinguishable blob as we crossed the coast and set our course. S for Sugar shivered and shook as we strove for height and the two pilots took up their conversation.

‘Pressure on that motor is still not rising,’ said Snowden. ‘I don’t like the look of it.’

‘No,’ said Williams, ‘Give her a bit of boost.’ Then, after a period, ‘Doesn’t seem to make much difference.’

Ninnes’s voice then cut in with, ‘Forty minutes to enemy coast, our speed is only a hundred and eighty mph, height four thousand feet. We will not reach required altitude of ten thousand feet unless you increase climb rate.’

There was a silence for a while, then Ninnes said again, ‘Did you hear me, Skipper? We are not maintaining either speed or climb rate to cross enemy coast.’

‘Of course I heard you,’ declared Snowden. ‘I’m doing my bloody best.’

Someone said, ‘My, two in one night!’

There was a long, pregnant pause, then Ninnes said in his clipped English accent, ‘I am merely giving you information. If you cannot reach desired speed and height, I recommend we return to base.’

‘We continue to our objective,’ declared Snowden, and a heavy silence fell on the fearful crew.

It was evident to everyone that with a dicky1 port motor we should jettison and return, but Snowden, with memories of his last interview with the Wingco, obstinately preferred to carry on. And when it came to final decisions, the Skipper made them.

We crossed the enemy coast at eight thousand feet and drew every damned gun in range. Safely over this obstacle we were left with the comforting thought that, unable to make height and flying at reduced speed, we would stick out like sore toes on the radar screens and, as well as being a target for ack-ack, would draw every fighter in the area. The only thing that saved us that night on the trip in, I think, was that the weather was so lousy the snappers could not pinpoint us.

Two hundred miles from target, Ninnes and Snowden had an argument, Ninnes stating that at our rate of climb and speed we would not reach twelve thousand feet and would be arriving at the target forty-five minutes late – a chilling thought because 3 Group Hallies were timed to arrive nine thousand feet higher and with double our bomb-load.

When Snowden obstinately declared we would continue, Ninnes said, ‘I think the crew should have a say in this. It’s their necks, too.’

Kiwi, myself and Jonesy immediately voted for a return. Williams, sticking by his Skipper, said he would leave it to him. This was a four to two vote, but Snowden squashed this by stating flatly ‘I’m in charge of this plane. We will proceed to target.’

As forecast by Ninnes we arrived at twelve thousand feet, forty-six minutes late over Munich and copped hell. Luckily the Hallies had gone in a few minutes ahead of us and had drawn most of the hate. There was still enough left to toss us around the sky. Saint Christopher must have been with us that night, for we rode a sea of bursting flak from below and missed the falling bombs from above by minutes.

As we came off the target a greatly increased cold draught and a sound of flapping cloth above the engines was evidence we had lost some skin, but by some miracle S for Sugar, after dropping her load, not only held her twelve thousand feet altitude but improved it slightly, although because of a fifty-knot wind our ground speed, the real indicator of progress, dropped appreciably. Because we were thousands of feet below the main bomber stream we knew we would stick out on the enemy radar, so that when trouble came we were prepared for it.

Fifty miles on the long trip back to safety we struck our first fighter, a decoy with all the lights ablaze, flying a thousand yards astern. This was strictly for the birds and, instead of catching us unaware, alerted the entire crew so that when the fighter who was tracking us on instruments started his attack from five o’clock, we turned smartly into it and he ran through a long burst which so disillusioned him he disappeared into the night. His decoy also doused lights and possibly went in search of more gullible victims.

Our next encounter was from a fighter that came in dead astern. I didn’t see him, but perhaps because he was a sprog too, he opened fire at about a thousand yards and, by the time he had closed to the dangerous distance of six hundred yards, our pilot had thrown S for Sugar into a wild corkscrew. Mainly because I had to cling to my guns during these wild gyrations I didn’t have time to retaliate, but got in a short burst as he broke to port upwards just to show I was awake.

In these two attacks we suffered no apparent damage. All around us there were signs of conflict. Now and again brilliant flashes would indicate direct hits or a plane with one or two engines afire would fall slowly at first, then, with ever-increasing momentum, towards the darkness below.

I noticed these things only in an abstract sort of way, endeavouring if possible to miss the glare of the explosions but at the same time to use them to pick the glint of the night-fighter, guided by radar instructions and using instruments, which could be tracking somewhere in the dark behind.

Whilst concentrating so intently on this alien dark sky my mind still had time to listen to the impersonal discussions, almost like a radio play, that came through the earphones: Nav’s’ precise instructions as to course and height, Snowden’s discussion with Williams on the ailing engine, which had lost so much compression they were trying to decide if it should be cut and feathered. WAG’s laconic advice to ‘let the bleedin’ thing go on as long as it turns’ was shared by the rest of the crew.

Any decisions in this regard were decided by our third attack. This bloke came in at five o’clock. A brief explosion somewhere in the sky silhouetted the dark hurtling shape and Snowden’s split-second reaction to my screamed, ‘Turn right!’ probably saved the bomber and crew. This Jerry was a fighter. He tightened his turn and poured a red-hot stream of tracer and cannon fire at his rapidly-skidding target. How close the first burst went to my turret I’ll never know but I’d swear six inches would be an over-estimate.

Something warned me that this bloke was no piker and even before we had straightened from our turn he swung in a circle and made a vicious head-on attack which was nullified by Kiwi screaming, ‘Dive! Go!’

That bastard was a dyed-in-the-wool Nazi. Perhaps he had lost his home, wife and family, or had some grudge eating at his guts; or was a champ who always got his plane. Whatever it was, he stuck to us like porridge to a blanket. Like a rabbit in the family way pursued by a kangaroo dog we zig-zagged around the sky. We knew by the bangs and shudders that we had received hits but as the engines still functioned and the plane answered our pilot’s masterly handling, we still survived.

A fighter only has limited endurance and ammunition and I think this was what really saved us, for his final attack from almost dead astern was a sizzler. Snowden had thrown the Wimpy into a violent corkscrew and despite the violence of the motion I poured a stream of lead at our attacker as he broke upwards to starboard. As he disappeared came Williams’ blood-chilling announcement, ‘Port engine on fire.’ This looked like the end. It was only a miracle we had missed being blown to pieces with two engines, but with one on fire what chance would we have?

Kiwi’s anxious voice came over the intercom. ‘Do we bail out, Skipper?’ I could well imagine his anxiety, for the front gunner had to have his door catch released by the second dickey, otherwise he went down with the kite. The fact that a number of front gunners persistently failed to survive bail-outs gave credence to the belief that they were often left to their fate by panicking crews.2

Snowden’s voice, concise and calm, stilled the panic with, ‘We’re diving to port. I’ll have the fire out in a jiffy. Watch for the blasted fighter. Is everyone okay?’

Everyone reported in. A short while later he announced, ‘Fire out, feathering engine.’

Nav said, ‘Down to seven thousand feet’, and gave a course.

We did not know the fighter had broken his attack, but felt he was somewhere in the darkness, tracking us, ready to pounce.

‘We’re losing height, Skipper; can you keep her up?’

‘You’re lucky she’s flying at all,’ was the terse reply.

Somewhere at the back of my turret was a wild flapping; with the cessation of the fighting, I realised I seemed to be getting more than my share of the breeze. This was partially explained when I put my hand out and struck nothing. The perspex had either been holed or blown off.

‘Six thousand five hundred feet,’ said Ninnes. ‘We’ll be coming over enemy coast in ten minutes. If we continue losing height at this rate we’ll cross at approximately five thousand five hundred feet.’ A chilling thought with the best of ack-ack crews and radar ready to raise the score for the night’s report.

When we came within range, Snowden said, ‘I’m going to put her into a dive. It may mean we’ll lose another thousand feet, but it’s better than being blown out of the sky.’

‘Flak dead ahead’, Kiwi reported, his last prophetic words. The next second we were in a world of bursting flame, a criss-cross of brilliant lines as the heavy and light guns strove to pull us to the ground.

Our strategy seemed to be paying off for already the tracer, instead of climbing vertically, was beginning to arch as the gunners endeavoured to follow the diving plane.

‘By Christ,’ I thought, ‘we’re through, we’ve made it.’ Then there was the most terrific crash I have ever heard. You never hear flak; the noise of the engines, the earphones, all help to drown it out. They say if you do hear a burst that’s the last thing you ever hear.

We had crossed the coast when that bracket of three from the lurking flak ship hit us. They must have been just over the engine on the starboard quarter, luckily in a way, for eighty per cent of the burst is upwards; three feet lower and they would have blown the plane to pieces.

That something was wrong was evident by the steepening of our dive. Among a jumble of strange unintelligible headphone noises, I heard Snowden say, ‘Quick, Nav! Quick!’, then through the earphones came the most blood-chilling, agonised groan of pain I have ever heard. This was followed by a series of gasping rattles, as though two people were gargling their throats in unison. There was silence for a while, then Snowden’s voice, on a strange key, said, ‘Let WAG handle him. See if you can help me with the stick. You will have to help me.’

Through habit, whilst listening to this disquieting conversation and noises, I had automatically continued to operate the turret. It took me a while to realise it was not working. Then I realised the oil supply that operated the rams must have been cut.

‘Rear gunner to pilot’, I reported, ‘Turret out of operation.’

‘Oh, you still there,’ came his weary voice. ‘I’d almost forgotten about you. Put your turret on manual control. We’ve been badly hit. Two crew members are badly injured. We will try to reach base. If we ditch they won’t have a chance.’

WAG’s voice then broke in with, ‘Have set on emergency, Skipper.’

It was hard to say what thoughts coursed through my mind. Two badly injured; that must be Kiwi and Williams, as I hadn’t heard their voices since that terrific crash. Ditching? Gawd! What chance would I have if we ditched? I toyed with the idea of asking permission to go to ditching stations, then remembered the fate of the planes as they were going in to land; what was the use of being in the belly of the kite if some marauding fighter blew you to pieces?

Nav asked, ‘How are you, Skipper?’

‘Bloody awful,’ came the reply, ‘but follow my directions.’ Then, to WAG, ‘Better pull the front gunner out. He won’t have a chance if we go in.’

It was an hour’s trip back across those black waters and I will remember it to my dying day. The sky was beginning to pale in the east as we came to the coast. It must have been bloody cold in my turret but all I can remember was the clammy sweat that ran in rivulets down my back.

As we came in towards base Nav made a request for immediate permission to land, stating S for Sugar was on one engine, co-pilot and front gunner dead and the Skipper seriously wounded. ‘I will assist with the landing,’ he reported, and as an afterthought, ‘Petrol dangerously low.’

The WAAF’s voice came back cool and efficient. ‘Permission granted, ambulance and fire engines alerted. Use centre runway. Good luck.’

This was the first indication I had that Kiwi and Williams were dead. I thought, ‘this can’t be right. Nav must have gone off his rocker.’

After a short silence, Snowden’s voice, as though from a long distance, said, ‘Unable to release landing gear, we will have to pancake. Rear gunner take up ditching position immediately.’

My first thought, ‘Why doesn’t he let us bail out?’, was followed almost immediately by, ‘Perhaps he can’t move himself.’

I came out of that turret like a rabbit out of a burrow and halted momentarily as I glimpsed the aerodrome lights shining up through the denuded fuselage.

It looked as though S for Sugar had lost all her clothes. That trip back along the catwalk was hell. Every moment I expected to put my foot through a hole and plunge parachute-less earthwards, and ended up crawling the last ten feet on my hands and knees.

Arriving at my ditching position, the cross-bar, I saw for the first time two recumbent figures stretched on the passageway. ‘Silly bloody place to ditch,’ I said aloud, and then nearly jumped out of my skin as a hand grabbed me by the trouser cuff. It was Jonesy, with his head braced against the cross-bar, gesticulating madly for me to get down.

I felt the nose dip steeply, and as I braced myself, put out my hand to warn the inert figure nearest and came in contact with a sticky pulpy mass. Self-preservation made me grab my neck as the plane did an uneasy wobble and then hit the runway with a resounding whack, then commenced a tummy-turning slide up the runway with a screeching and screaming of tortured metal as though we were running over ten thousand cats.

Towards the end of our run we did a neck-jolting loop and S for Sugar, like the gallant lady she was, slithered off the runway, sheared the starboard wing nearly off and came to rest with her bottom facing forward, a complete write-off. That she didn’t catch fire was possibly due to the fact there wasn’t enough petrol left.

The organisation certainly worked that day, for in a matter of seconds after our violent halt, three fire engines, two ambulances, plus three staff cars were at the wreck. Someone smartly hacked their way through the side of the plane and stopped in horror at the ghastly sight of Williams’ almost decapitated head and Kiwi’s smashed face.

The two lifeless bodies were placed in one ambulance and the rest of us in the other. I wondered why everyone was so solicitous for myself. It wasn’t till afterwards I realised that when I had stuck my hand into Kiwi’s gore I had transferred it to my own head as I automatically braced my head and neck before we touched down.

Snowden looked dreadful. His right eye appeared to have been gouged right out by a splinter and hung from its socket like a squashed grape; his flying clothes were caked with blood. That he had remained conscious and able to fly was a triumph of will. He lay on a stretcher on one side of the ambulance, his good eye closed. Ninnes had attempted to sit beside him but the attendant had ordered him over with Jonesy and myself where we crouched uncomfortable and inarticulate.

As I looked at Snowden’s ashen face I had a premonition he would not live. This gallant young Englishman had used his blood, determination and guts to get his crew home. Now that the job was accomplished he lay only semi-conscious.

At sick headquarters Doc took one look at Snowden and said, ‘Crothers.’ It was the only time I ever saw him concerned.

Due to the urgency of the case and because we were all covered in the two dead men’s blood, it must have looked as though the four of us were seriously wounded. From here things really did move. We were transferred out of the ambulance which departed at speed with the Doc and Snowden towards Crothers, a large RAF hospital some twenty miles distant.3

Jonesy, Ninnes and myself were bundled into a second ambulance which took off after the first, their reasons for the hasty departure were twofold, the first being that badly wounded airmen were never left on the station – bad for morale; and secondly, as previously mentioned, we all looked cot cases.

On the way I tried to take my flying helmet off but found it was stuck to my head. I thought, ‘It must be Kiwi’s blood; I’ll leave it till I get to hospital.’

Crothers was a model of efficiency. In a matter of minutes after our arrival we were stripped of our flying clothes and were being examined. Jonesy and Ninnes, except for a few abrasions, gathered apparently while they were dragging Kiwi and Williams from their positions, were unscathed.

I was in the same boat except that my stuck helmet was explained by about a dozen small flak splinters in my neck and shoulders. How the hell they got there I’ll never know; general opinion was they were from a twenty mm shell, either from the plane or ground. This could possibly have come from the second head-on attack.

It wasn’t till I got into bed that I realised how done-in I was. During the examination the doctor had learned what a shaky do we had gone through and said, ‘I think I’ll keep you two here for observation. This fellow will have to go into hospital while we get some of this ironmongery out.’

He was a decent bloke. I think he realised that a reaction would set in and his idea of keeping the others there was to give them a chance to get over the shock.

They gave me a couple of needles and a pert little nurse said, ‘Here, Aussie, drink this.’ I slept solidly for fifteen hours.

Next day they broke the news that Snowden had died during the night from loss of blood, shock and the eye injury.

About midday, Ninnes and Jonesy came in to say they were returning to the station. By the look on their faces, particularly Ninnes’, I knew they had heard the news. We didn’t say much. To my suggestion that he should get a gong, Ninnes said savagely, ‘What’s the use of posthumous gongs? He should not be bloody well dead at all. You know why he pressed on when he should have turned back.’

I found I had an exceedingly stiff neck and after they’d gone I underwent the most depressing period I’ve ever known – probably a kind of delayed action shock from all the violence, fear and death of those fateful eight hours. The stiff neck, a natural result of the pellets in it, received full attention. The doctor, no doubt well versed in the matters of shock, hit me with another bomb and I slept for another fifteen hours.