Chapter Nineteen

We arrived back in camp full of speculation. It had been said that a ten per cent loss was more than the air force could stand. If this were so, we argued hopefully, there shouldn’t be a repetition of the first op. However, the grim uncertainty remained.

That some indecision existed in the TAF was evident for the first few days, because even though the weather was good we stayed on the ground. Then some bright backroom boy got an idea. Four crews were called up for briefing and departed on their own. This caused some speculation till their return, when we found that they had been sent on individual train-busting sorties into Holland and Belgium.

This seemed to be a good way of committing suicide, though strangely enough all crews returned and reported they had seen no trains and no fighters. The weather closed down for a few days, then cleared. A runner announced that Smithy and I were wanted at the flight at 9.30 am.

The rest of the crews were already gathered when we arrived. We found at briefing that four planes were to go out on an individual train hunt. We were to fly at zero feet to mock the radar, stay together till the enemy coast was reached and then divide. Wireless silence was to be maintained. If we found a train, we were to attack and do as much damage as possible. If we saw any fighters we were to return immediately. Smithy muttered, ‘If possible.’

‘Rather like advising a surfer if he saw a shark to get out of the water,’ and ‘Do they think we’re going to attack the flaming fighter?’, were some of the comments.

The unknown always evokes more fear than the known. I was not happy with the mission. It looked too much like bearding the enemy in his den. Before we got into the bus we had a conference and decided in the event of trouble to use the clock system, because if attack came while we were flying in company, it would be each crew for itself.

As soon as we got under way, I started evasive action patter, interspersing sudden directions with long drawn-out ones.

A mist that reduced visibility to two miles hung over a leaden sea. The mist could be handy. Two miles is not far in the air. Fighters would find it hard to pick our camouflaged grey planes.

We came in over a deserted dune-covered coast without a shot being fired. This was heartening. I had imagined every portion of the west European coast bristling with soldiers, but this, when I later came to consider it, was a sheer impossibility. Anyway, no shots could mean no alarm.

Here we split, the two centre aircraft going straight ahead, and the two outer bearing left and right. As we were on the outer right we turned south and started a sweep, found the train line and followed it.

The land was flat and the soil a blackish grey. It appeared to be well-cultivated. In fact, a number of parties were working heads-down, bums-up. They didn’t even bother to look up as we buzzed overhead, probably thinking we were Germans. One old farmer, working with a lethargic-looking horse, was galvanised into activity when the horse bolted and waved an angry fist at our retreating plane.

The stations were dreary and deserted. Bill voiced the opinion that either the service was poor or the trains, like rabbits, holed up during the day. We buzzed the line for half an hour over the countryside, drawing still further away from the coast until, finally, like music in our ears, came Jack’s ‘Have to turn back, petrol’s getting low.’ We came out the way we went in, with nary a sign of a Jerry and scooted across the sea towards home.

Two other planes were already in when we arrived and had substantially the same tale to tell at briefing. The fourth plane never turned up, which added a touch of mystery and tragedy to what appeared to be a very innocuous op.

That night there was some discussion as to what could have happened. That particular crew had taken the far northern beat. Perhaps they had met a fighter or run into an ack-ack group. One thing it did show was that train hunting wasn’t without its hazards.

The next time the squadron tried this little stunt, two planes failed to return. What made these disappearances more mysterious was the complete absence of any wireless alarm that they were being attacked. Whatever got these planes was mighty sudden.

We were again called into the next briefing, only this time there were six crews and we were to work in pairs, keeping tabs on each other. If one got into trouble the other had to make for home. TAF was determined to find out what was happening to its planes.

Our partner was an English pilot called Petersen, a tall determined-looking joker with an all-Pom crew. The railway we were briefed to patrol had a line that branched north about five miles from its terminal. The instruction was, we were to start from the beginning or end of the offshoot and pick up Petersen at the main line. It would mean we would only be parted for a matter of minutes and would cover the entire system.

The day was a replica of the first. Same dead-dull sea, mist and grey fields. We found the little station that marked the terminal of our line and followed it towards our rendezvous. The grey fields slid beneath us. I was keeping a steady watch for snappers when suddenly I heard Wilbur say, ‘There’s a bloody train.’ Swinging the turret around, I caught a glimpse of the long black goods train, snaking across the flat countryside. Wilbur altered course to bring it on our starboard side.

Jack said, ‘There’s Petersen.’ We were flying a parallel course to the train at about fifteen hundred yards. Petersen’s plane was streaking along to the left of the goods, with the obvious intention of either getting in first by giving the engine a burst from the rear, or flying ahead and coming back for a head-on attack. It was obvious he intended beating us to the first shot and the glory of chalking up the squadron’s first engine.

Wilbur said, ‘That bugger should be on the other side. He knows we have to come in on this bearing.’ The Ventura was half-way along the train when, from the end, centre and front of the train smoke suddenly erupted and three lines of tracer converged on the low-flying Vent.

Petersen, sensing his danger, made a desperate effort to turn left, but in a matter of seconds the plane was literally blasted to pieces and plunged in a searing, rolling ball of flame into the grey fields.

It was like watching a drama from front seats. Here one minute was a plane and crew rushing in for a kill and, in a matter of seconds, a shattered rolling mass of flame and wreckage.

Jack’s awed voice came over the intercom. ‘Christ, did you see that?’

No-one answered. We were too stunned.

Wilbur said, ‘There’s the answer. That train’s armed’, and did a sweep left and came around in a wide circle.

‘What are we going to do?’, Wilbur asked.

‘Let the bloody thing go,’ I advised, ‘and get cracking for home.’

‘We could come in and make a fast attack on the engine from the side,’ Wilbur said. ‘We know the danger now, Petersen didn’t.’

‘Yes, and get a bellyful of lead,’ I replied, ‘those blokes are trained gunners. You’ve got to expose your guts no matter which way we attack. Let’s get back and save someone else’s lives besides our own.’

I knew his dilemma. A pilot is instructed to be aggressive at all times, to press his attack. If there were to be any reprimands or a bawling-out afterwards, he was the one who would cop the lot. Bill and Jack said nothing as we streaked by the slow-moving train at some fifteen hundred yards. I elevated my guns and gave the middle truck a long burst. It must have been good shooting because four streams of tracer snaked out towards us and kicked the dirt up under the plane. It stopped as soon as it started. I could imagine the itchy-fingered gunner getting a wallop from his superior.

Bill said, ‘Cripes, that was close.’

We passed our target and commenced a wide sweep again.

Wilbur said, ‘What do you think, Jack?’

‘I agree with Johnny,’ was his reply. ‘Better to return with the news than go like Petersen.’

‘How about you, Bill?’, he asked.

There was a seemingly long silence, then, ‘I agree with the other two’, he replied. ‘Those blokes have shown us that they can shoot. They apparently have multiple 20 mm cannons mounted in the rear centre and front. We wouldn’t have Buckley’s.’1

‘Right,’ said Wilbur. ‘Let’s get going. Give me a bearing, navigator.’

These were the sweetest words I had heard for many a day.

Back at base we made our report.

‘Thank God you didn’t go in,’ said the Wingco. ‘This explains the loss of our other machines. Train-hunting from now on will be a job for fighters.’2