Chapter Thirty

Life on the station was pleasant. With the coming of autumn the trees put on their mantle of gold and the lanes and highways were covered with a carpet of leaves. It was a new experience for the Australians; in treeless Norfolk we had never witnessed this lovely English transition from summer to winter.

With the shortening of the days we realised we were situated in a bad fog-bank area. These fogs weren’t like the ordinary ones that lifted sometime during the day. They hung around for days, restricting visibility to a hundred yards, sometimes less.

No-one, except perhaps the CO, shed any tears at the advent of these grey clinging blankets. It meant you couldn’t fly and no flying meant no ops. It was felt with the advent of winter they must get worse. This conjured up pleasant thoughts for all concerned. This didn’t relieve us from being up at flight. Kruschen called regular rolls to see that his flock were not skulking in bed.

We did notice, on the odd occasions the fog cleared, an unusual amount of activity around the runways. We noted a small army of workmen busily laying an assorted collection of two inch pipes, for what reason no-one could guess.

Then one day, after a ten day lay-off, the fog suddenly cleared. Briefing was automatic. We were to attack marshalling yards in Belgium. Our track in was over a little fishing village which intelligence declared was undefended.

We roared in over the thatched rooftops without opposition, barely ten feet above the power wires which ran through the centre of the little place like a ribbon.

A few miles further on, still seventy miles from our objective, we ran into a wall of fog almost as dense as that which plagued our station. We hit it so suddenly that the attacking planes disappeared into its cloying greyness. It was an eerie experience; it was impossible to tell where the other boxes were. Luckily no collisions occurred. A general recall was announced. The Belgians, who had a few minutes before waved us in, had the pleasure of waving us back out.

Next day the met boys had the gen. The fog had disappeared and as our weather continued fine, it was on again. The squadron leader, who had only returned from leave with his crew the previous night, angled himself onto the battle order, to everyone’s delight except the crew he pushed out.

With him back as leader the op took on a different perspective. The navigators were not called for prior briefing, which didn’t cause any comment as the target was the same. It was Jock at general briefing who noticed the red ribbon showing the track in had not been altered. This was not a bright idea, particularly after our turn back of the previous day. No-one made any open comment. It did show laxity or laziness on someone’s part.

The Squaddy and his crew were the only busy ones and were unaware that the route was the same as the previous day’s abortive intrusion. Smithy, who was in the second box, had a crack at his navigator to bring this up. When he wouldn’t be in it, I asked Jock to have a go. He wouldn’t either. This had nothing to do with gunners. Perhaps everyone expected someone else to comment. In the end nothing was done.

As we were getting into the bus I told Des. He, in turn, told the Squadron Leader. I heard him say, ‘Is that so?’ He then asked one of the pilots if the information was correct. He snapped, ‘You’re a lot of bloody fools. Why didn’t someone bring this up? There’s thousands of miles of coastline. It’s sheer bloody laziness. I’ll have something to say when I get back.’

My butterflies were bad on takeoff and I had an uneasy feeling. ‘Bill, I don’t like this,’ I said. ‘Those bloody Jerries are one-track thinkers. We could get a hot reception over the coast.’

‘I don’t like it either,’ Bill replied. ‘I expect one of us should have spoken up. Perhaps we could take a different track in, anyway.’

Jock said, ‘I don’t think so. If anything went wrong he’d cop the lot.’

We were flying Number Five in the lead box; the other six were a little to our right at about six o’clock, six hundred yards astern.

Bill said, ‘There’s no doubt about the Squaddy. He flies like a dream. He’s a marvellous leader.’

I looked at the compact box; the six planes flew almost as one unit not six feet above the sea. It was a marvellous example of precision formation flying. The thrill of this two hundred and eighty mile per hour rush dispelled my fears. Our leader, I felt, was capable of handling any situation.

Jock said, ‘Enemy coast coming up.’ I felt the formation rise slightly to skim the housetops and then the sky was full of flying tracer, smoke and fire. In two swift horrible seconds, One, Two, Three and Five had disappeared out of the sky. One, the Squaddy’s, dived and hit power wires. The tail, whipping over like a giant catapult, shot Des through the air, turning somersaults where, for a few grim seconds he kept pace with our plane. Then, as the impetus of his two hundred and eighty mile an hour thrust lessened, he disappeared into the rooftops of the village.

The concentrated fire had come from our right. This had given our plane some protection. As we flashed over clear country I saw that we and Number Four were the only survivors. Behind us a pall of smoke marked the passing of four planes and sixteen lives. I saw the other box swing for home.

It was then I realised that instead of taking a wide sweep as a prelude to coming out, we were rushing inland. I thought, ‘Jesus, Bill has frozen at the controls. We’re bound for the middle of Belgium.’ This was something I had heard could happen to pilots through shock. An answer to it, if you could get at him, was to wallop him over the ear, but this was impossible in a Boston. In a panic I called, ‘Bill, pull out of it. We’re going the wrong way.’

Then I heard his voice calling, ‘Bobby, Bobby! Wake up! Wake up!’

A chill ran up and down my spine. I thought, ‘He’s nuts.’ Basher, down in the dungeon, unable to see anything and sensing that something was wrong, was trying to force himself up.

I could see the tops of stunted trees under us, the pall of smoke was rapidly receding. It would be suicide to try to bail out, and still a voice was calling, ‘Bobby! Bobby! Pull out!’

I called, ‘Bill, Bill.’ His voice said savagely, ‘Shut your bloody mouth, will you.’

Then I saw we were flying beside the other survivor and enlightenment hit me. It was the other pilot who was frozen and our pilot was keeping with him, trying to pull him out. I saw the other gunner look over the side, evaluating a jump.

Suddenly the other plane came to life. Instead of its straight, rigid course, the wings dipped a couple of times. A voice said, ‘I’m okay.’

Turning right, we came around in a wide sweep, Bill shepherding him like a sheepdog. All this, from the first fusillade of cannon fire to our turn, would have taken perhaps four minutes, but at close on five miles a minute we could be twenty miles inland.

Coming to the coast, Bill said, ‘We’ll climb,’ and the planes rose to five hundred feet. The precautions were unnecessary. Not a shot was fired at us. All the hate seemed to have been concentrated over that little fishing village.

We had crossed the coast when two specks appeared behind us. They were possibly two miles astern but their slim silhouettes shrieked Me 109s. Luckily we still had our height. As I gave the alarm, Bill said, ‘Jettison’, and put the nose down into a shallow dive. He said afterwards the needle touched three hundred miles which wasn’t bad for a light bomber.1 I don’t reckon those fighters gained much on us. They were still a mile astern when we were more than half-way across, and they decided to give it away, possibly feeling our calls for fighter protection would bring retribution.

Back at base we found the other box had landed safely, having smartly sheered off when they saw the fate of our crowd. All surviving crews were subjected to a searching interrogation. From the intensity of the fire we could only surmise we had run into a mobile twenty millimetre battery. Consisting of twenty to twenty-five trucks, each with four twenty millimetre synchronised cannons, these units were dreaded by low-flying planes. We would probably have run into a barrage of eighty to a hundred quick-firing guns. The point that no-one appeared anxious to pursue was whether they planted them in anticipation of our coming. This, on the face of things, looked likely; but the ultimate decision was that we had unluckily chanced on a marauding battery. In this respect, the base wallahs took some pains to protect each other, and we heard no censure on the dills who had been too bloody lazy to change the track in from the previous unsuccessful operation.

Coming back in the bus we agreed that nothing would be said about the other pilot’s lapse, as we felt it was a certainty he would be classified as unsuitable for operations. One astute intelligence officer did get on to our late return but in the general flap we were able to broom this bloke. This decision proved a correct one as this young sergeant later received a commission and then won himself a very creditable DFC.

The loss of the four planes, particularly the squadron leader’s crew, threw the entire station into deep mourning. The reaction was ground staff and air crew went on the grog and the Groupy, for once using tact, let them.

About this time the weather turned from balmy autumn to chilly winter. It seemed to happen overnight. All of a sudden the gold-clad trees were standing stark and bare against the sky and the night temperatures had dropped below freezing.

For a week after our unfortunate op the weather favoured the station. A damp cold fog held the area in its icy grip, which precluded flying and allowed everyone to drift back to normal. However, a few days later word went out there was to be a super panic and the station was to be cleaned from top to bottom. The reason for this was then given – we were to receive a visit from the King and Queen and the two Princesses.

I personally, and Australians to a man, had a profound admiration for this shy monarch and his able Queen who, despite the dangers of the Blitz and, later, the Buzz Bombs and V2s, remained with their people in London sharing their dangers, sympathising with them in their losses – this in contrast to the bulk of the supposed Blue Bloods who smartly took themselves off to their funk holes in the country and stayed there till the danger was over.

Their visit was an event, and the squadrons paraded with pride before their distinguished visitors.2

To help the gunners get back on their feet, Kruschen started a series of daily five-mile cross-country runs. The shrewdies soon woke up to the fact that, with visibility restricted to a hundred yards, all they had to do was get off the mark fast, disappear from sight, then make their way to a prearranged retreat for a game of cards, or some other relaxing notion, the midway publican proving very helpful in making a quiet back room available.

It was at one of these unscheduled bludging periods that the Rooter’s Club was born. Its function was for a closer and more intimate relationship with all females. Membership was confined exclusively to gunners. It was innocuous enough, for during its short history, I would say there was far more boasting than fornicating. Its intended purpose was to take our minds off the grimness of operational life. The club operated for approximately five months before languishing, as most of its members were dead.

***

In the meantime, the small army of workmen had continued working on the strange pipe contraption. In the fog one day Smithy and I ventured across to inspect it. We found both sides of the runways were encircled by lengths of galvanised pipe joined in sections with holes bored at nine-inch intervals. They looked like enlarged gas stove pipes. We examined them with some interest till an authoritative civvy arrived and ordered us out of the area.

A few days later, while the fog still held, a dull glow pierced the gloom. We thought a kite must have pranged. It was then announced that this was the famous FIDO, Britain’s answer to the fog problem. Oil was pumped through the pipes under pressure and automatically lit. The result was a four-inch flame from each hole. It was considered the heat generated would dissipate some of the fog and the burning oil jets would outline the runway and allow for take-off and landing.

The innovation was viewed with some scepticism and much resentment by the rank and file, as it looked like ending what had appeared to be a nice quiet winter operational period.

Our first op with the help of FIDO ushered in a new era. Visibility was about thirty yards on the ground. With some misgivings we were briefed for a target in France, bombing at nine thousand feet.

Getting to the takeoff point presented as many hazards as an op. If we weren’t going up someone’s bottom, someone was trying to go up ours. It was a time of blasphemy and frayed tempers. On the sides of the runway the oil fires burned murkily, adding their smoke to the fog. We seemed to fly into a wall of cotton wool, and I’ll admit I said a little prayer of thanks as the wheels lifted. Five hundred feet up we miraculously climbed out of the swirling fog as the Met wallahs had said we would and into clear sunlight. It was a revelation.

The op wasn’t bad, some light and heavy flak over the target. One unpleasant indication of things to come was the cold. On low-level ops we hadn’t bothered to wear a lot of clothes; most crews flew in their battle jackets. No-one had issued any warning. The temperature on the ground was probably around 36°F but at nine thousand feet it would have been –20°F.3 The gunner in a Boston was practically in the open air, the small canopy around his ears being the only windbreak. The floor gunner had to keep the bottom hatchway open to get his gun in place. This created a God-Almighty downward draught.

I thought I had been cold in Wimpys but this trip, in inadequate clothes, was a veritable freezer. My hands were so cold that in the event of attack it would have been impossible to use them.

Back over the drome the fog bank still held, but glowing murkily down below we could see the oil fires which gave some indication of the runway. Trouble was, pilots had to go down through the cotton wool, estimating the beginning and centre of the runway.

Everyone landed safely except one young pilot who hit the edge, skidded into the soft stuff, then ploughed through the pipes, the plane finally tipping over on its nose. In ordinary circumstances this would have been only a bad shaking for the crew, but in a matter of seconds the fire from the shattered pipes climbed up the fuselage and the plane was a raging inferno. The two gunners, being smart boys, got out and departed the scene rapidly, escaping with a singeing. The pilot got out all right but stopped to see if he could help his navigator until being driven back, severely scorched. The navigator, trapped in the shattered nose, was roasted to death, his screams being heard for some minutes till the smoke and flame overcame him.

This incident gave warning to pilots of the necessity of coming in on a straight and direct course, in which they were ably assisted by the bleatings of the sweating navigators.

Despite this tragedy the powers that be voted the pipes a great success. Any hopeful thoughts of carefree foggy winter days vanished.4