Chapter Thirty-one

A three-day leave was due so Smithy and I decided to pay our usual respects to London. It was 7.30 pm when we got off at Waterloo Station and made our way up the stairs. A well-dressed, good-looking woman of twenty-five or so gave me that hard, direct stare that speaks volumes to a wide-awake male. She was in the night-fighter area. I felt she could be a lady of the night but, in case she wasn’t, I stopped and said, ‘Hello. Are you waiting for anyone in particular?’

She said, ‘No.’

Acting on the axiom of nothing ventured, nothing gained, I asked her if she would like to have a drink with me. She gave me another direct stare, which I felt was meant to convey something, before answering, ‘I don’t mind.’

Unaware of this little by-play, Smithy had continued on. Finding me missing, he backtracked. His glance said, ‘You bastard,’ so I asked the femme if she had a friend. She hadn’t, so I said, ‘I’ll see you at the pub, Smithy. I’ve met an old friend of mine.’

By the way he left I knew Smithy wasn’t happy. As we went towards the entrance, I felt I hadn’t got the message. Looking at her well-groomed figure I thought, ‘She can’t be on the street.’

It was evident she was no stranger to the district as we jointly made for the little working-man’s pub tucked away in a side-street. Seated on a stool I ordered drinks and we formally wished each other luck. She was well-spoken and when I came to look at her closely, a very personable female. She had that indefinable feminine something that makes a man look twice. Perhaps it was the rounded bosom under the well-tailored suit, the straight direct frank gaze from dark eyes, the well-knit figure, the perky little stern, or maybe it was a combination of all these that made her an extremely intriguing and desirable person.

I firmly believe that four gins are equal to four months’ acquaintance under normal conditions, so while we drank we got to know each other. She told me her name – we’ll say it was Pearl. She was a tailoress. After a while, looking into her glass, she said, ‘Johnny, are you interested in a really exciting night?’

‘I certainly am.’

‘Well, you can have it, but it will cost you money.’

This was a stumbler. I had always wondered how the ladies of the night in England made a living against the enthusiastic amateurs. From my viewpoint, paying cash for something that could be had for a little effort and initiative didn’t make sense. Besides, a principle was involved.

‘Pearl, I’ve knocked around this world a lot. I’ve never paid for my love yet, not in straight-out cold cash anyway.’

She said, ‘I’m sorry. That’s the way it is.’

I had a feeling the wisest thing to do was to buy her another drink and go, but this female intrigued me. There was an interesting story somewhere. I thought, ‘A bit of salesmanship wouldn’t hurt; I can always bail out.’ My counter-proposal, backed by a bit of bull, was; we obviously got on well together, so she could have a night out on me, and the love side could be left in abeyance.

She agreed. Probably we both had our ideas on the ultimate outcome.

She took me around to an Italian restaurant where the food was good. It was a pleasant meal with all the trimmings. A mournful-looking Italian added a romantic touch by playing a squeeze-box and singing love songs in broken English.

Later we went to a night club, similar to the hundreds of others that had sprung up all over London where the payment of ten shillings automatically made you an honorary member and entitled you to drink, dance and sing to the inevitable piano till the wee small hours.

This wasn’t a bad little club as they went. There were a number of pros, but I noticed with interest my companion was not known, not openly anyway, to any of this hard-faced fraternity.

It was twelve when we called it a night. We had consumed a lot of drink and we were in a very happy mood. If she had told me that was the end of the road I would have left with no ill feelings. As we came out into the blackout she linked her arm in mine so I tailed along.

After a fifteen minute walk we came to a quiet, modern-looking building. She turned in to the entrance. Without any query I followed. At her door I decided to test the atmosphere and pulled her to me. That kiss was a sizzler. I couldn’t get inside fast enough.

The apartment was a well-furnished bed-sitting room with a separate modern kitchen and bathroom. It was a palace compared to the usual dingy residential rooms in which most of London’s love life was conducted.

It turned out to be a pleasant end to an interesting evening. Later, when we were having a little talk – there’s no place like a bed for the sharing of secrets – Pearl said, ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I asked for money?’

I lied that I wasn’t. She then gave me her explanation. She was married to a soldier who was fighting in the Eighth Army in the Middle East. They had been married only a month or so when he was called into the Army and shipped overseas. She said she found it impossible to do without men’s company and, despite her many good resolutions, found she was an easy mark for any importuning male.

When she found she could not do without love she decided to cash in on it, so had moved from her Midlands home to London. Her objective was twelve pounds a week which, allowing for off moments, gave her a flat and five hundred pounds a year, all of which she banked. She declared she had close to fifteen hundred in the bank, and intended to establish her husband in some business when he returned. She was without embarrassment, explaining her position in plain, business-like terms.

She said she picked her lovers; had four regulars who paid well. This night had been a pleasant change. It reminded her of nights spent with her husband. She spoke in such endearing terms of her missing spouse that I asked, ‘Do you love him?’. Her answer, which has had me pondering ever since, was ‘Yes, I love him as much as a woman could love a man.’

Next morning she served a pleasant breakfast and tidied her flat. Before I left, even though it went against the grain, I said, ‘Pearl, here’s four pounds. Put it towards the rehabilitation fund.’

I wondered afterwards who had sold whom, but I sincerely trust her Tommy returned to his level-headed little wifey and they lived happily ever after.

I met Smithy at the club. He wanted to know where the bloody hell I’d been all night. I didn’t discuss my unusual night out, only said I had had a most pleasant time. I could see he was not happy. ‘He’ll get over it,’ I thought. He had done the same thing to me many times.

We met a few of the boys who had come over on the boat. They were generally survivors of tours but as far as we could find, only six of the gunners, excluding Clarkey, had come through, and about the same percentage of pilots and navigators. They were different fellows to the aloof, slightly supercilious shipboard mates. Some had done Bomber Command tours, others had finished on Beaufort torpedo bombers. There was a profound difference in the outlook and appearance of these young veterans, still in many cases just out of their teens. The strain of the many hours of operational flying was etched in the lines on their faces, in the hardness of their eyes.

They were interested to hear that Smithy and I were still on operations. Most had wanted to continue on and do their second tour after a rest, but Kodak House had cracked down on this. That we were approaching our fiftieth op, completed on three different kites, caused some discussion.

They wanted to know what we intended doing when we had reached our fiftieth. It was something I had thought of but never discussed with Smithy. I said, ‘I think I’ll go through and complete the full thirty ops and then they can go to buggery.’

Smithy, after a short silence, stated that this was also his intention.

We met a couple of the boys from the old Vent squadron. The pilots and navs were engaged on the famous little-advertised milk run to Berlin and adjacent German cities.1 They told us Wilbur and Jack were missing but as yet there was no definite news as to their fate.

This didn’t sound the best of propositions. The Mossies had only a crew of two, a pilot and a nav, carried a four thousand pound bomb, and were completely defenceless behind. Admittedly they had a fair turn of speed, but so did the latest 109s and Focke Wulfs. The Mossies operated on the nights after the big raids to keep the defences stirred up and the civilians out of bed. It meant that the enemy, instead of having six or seven hundred planes to chase, had only thirty or forty to get stuck into. I said, ‘I don’t like the sound of it; missing usually means dead.’2

It was a day of reminiscing and speculation. By evening we were bright. Towards tea-time a pilot said, ‘Christ, look who’s here!,’ as a resplendent figure came into the club. It was Dagworth, full of his own importance, aglitter with his new rank of squadron leader. He descended on Smithy and me before we could get off the mark and condescendingly called us by our surnames until we reciprocated.

He was, he declared, engaged on a highly secret job of flying VIPs – couldn’t tell us their names, but it was an extremely important job. He was wearing a beautifully tailored American overcoat, one of the perks of his ferrying work. He insisted on taking both of us for a drink, for at the sight of him the rest of his former shipmates had disappeared. Unable to think up a suitable excuse we went across with him to the little Scotch pub opposite Boomerang House.

Night and gloomy fog had fallen on the world’s largest city. We had had a lot of drink but were not full. Dag insisted on shouting Scotch. It was a one-sided conversation. It got around to old shipmates and our host started enquiring about various members. Strangely enough, nearly everyone he asked about was dead or missing. Smithy became increasingly truculent; ‘He’s bloody well dead’; ‘He’s fugging had it.’ I’m susceptible to atmosphere and realised he was fast approaching exploding point. If Dagworth had had any bloody sense he would have seen it too, but he was either too dumb or puffed up by his own importance and chose to ignore it.

He said, ‘There’s no doubt about it, you young fellows have all the luck. There’s nothing I’d like more than to have a crack at the Nazis but,’ he added piously, ‘the powers that be seem to have reserved me for more important jobs.’

Smithy’s reaction to this hypocritical tripe was surprising – for Smithy. ‘What bloody bullsh. You’ve never done any ops, Dagworth, because you’re yellow, you’ve got no guts. No-one can tell me a pilot capable of flying a plane across the Atlantic isn’t capable of flying over Europe. You give me a pain because you’ve crawled and bludged ever since you came to England.’

Dagworth’s mouth was a vacuous ‘O’. He replied weakly, ‘Remember you’re speaking to a superior officer. I’ll have you placed on a charge.’

‘Superior posterior,’ returned Smithy. ‘This is what I think of you and your bloody whisky,’ and he tipped it on the floor. Putting his face close to the other’s purpling one he said, ‘You can go and get fugged, you yellow bludging bastard.’

For a second I thought Dagworth was going to have a go. I said, ‘I wouldn’t do that, Dag. If you touch him I’ll drop you.’ I knew one good wallop in his big fat gut would stop him. On the other hand there was a world of difference between insulting an officer and striking him, so I didn’t really want to see any fisticuffs.

He looked at us both and realised he was outgunned. Clutching his tattered dignity as he made for the door, he declared, ‘You will hear more of this. I’ll have you both court-martialled.’

Smithy’s parting salutation was inelegant.

As Dagworth disappeared I said, ‘I think we’ll go, too.’ RAF headquarters was only fifty yards away and I could imagine him hotfooting across for MP reinforcements. But Smithy was obstreperous; ‘I’ve been waiting to give that bastard the works. We know and so does he what I said is true. He hasn’t the guts to do anything about it.’

It was only with an effort I got him out of the place and steered him down into the city. I knew if Dag could raise the bloodhounds he would cover all our usual drinking haunts nearby. As the night wore on we got fuller and my companion more difficult to handle.

Towards ten we had forgotten about Dag and were back in the Old Cock Inn in Fleet Street. I was of the opinion that Smithy was getting completely impossible and he probably had the same opinion about me. It’s hard to remember what sparked the final upset. We had words, bitter ones. It would have developed into a brawl, which would have been all for the better – a black eye, a bloody nose gets rid of the tensions – but the drinkers broke it up.

He said, ‘If I never see you again, Beede, it will be too bloody soon,’ and disappeared into the night.

For a second I felt like following and attempting to make it up; then thought, ‘Bugger him, he can come to me first.’ What I didn’t realise at the time was that he was only twenty-two and for the past two years had been on almost continuous active service. I was later to find there is a limit to most men’s endurance and nerves on operational flying. At the time I felt only irritation at his perverseness.

A feminine voice beside me asked, ‘Having a little upset, Aussie?’

I was aware I was full, but even allowing for the rose-tinted viewpoint this gives the opposite sex, she looked all right to me. She was a civvy in her thirties and seemingly endowed with all the things that make a woman a woman. To prove that she wasn’t on the bot3 she bought me a drink. Things got a little hazy after that. I remember taking her around to Dirty Dick’s and then her suggestion that I come and have a cup of coffee.

I woke up next morning in unfamiliar surroundings. The time was 8.30. The morning light filtering through the blackout curtains showed I was on a double settee in a very tastefully decorated room. I looked at the sleeping female beside me with some anxiety. I had awakened like this before to some unprepossessing sights, but this one was above average. I tried to remember the night’s doings. There was something oppressive on my mind. I finally traced it to my row with Smithy.

I couldn’t remember her name. By a deal of tactful probing I found it was Beryl. She declared, ‘Were you high last night! Had a fight with your friend and generally played merry hell!’

It was the beginning of an association that was to last while I stayed in England. She was a journalist and, I was later to find, a good one. She was a generous woman in every way and I think considered that part of her war effort was to keep a selected number of the boys happy. She showed her good sense before I left by advising to make up my quarrel with my friend.

I could not find Smithy around the club so I travelled back to the camp alone.

Meeting Smithy in the mess at tea, he proved his pilot’s point by wiping me cold. He was certainly taking our quarrel to heart. I ran into the Yank and his navigator, Stan, and they both said, ‘Have you and Smithy fallen out?’

‘Yes, we had a little upset last night.’

‘He’s very crooked,’ the Yank advised. ‘I think the best thing is to leave him alone till he cools down.’

‘We’re both on the battle order tomorrow,’ said Stan. ‘Briefing’s at 4.30 am.’

This was unusual. Stan voiced everyone’s feelings when he added, ‘I don’t like the look of it.’

It was freezing cold when we were called at 3 am and some uncomplimentary remarks were directed at headquarters. Before briefing, security was in evidence for the first time since we’d been on the station. There were only six crews, three from each squadron, all experienced men. The curtain still covered the wall map so that we couldn’t see our objective. Before the briefing started, the Groupy stated that because of the nature of the operation straight gunners need not go unless they desired. WAGs had to fly. He asked if any AG wished to withdraw. There were some enquiring looks and short consultations. I expect there were a few who would have liked to say ‘no’. Smithy and I, because of our unusual set-up, had no option. Finally they all decided they would go.

There was an audible gasp when the curtain was pulled: the tape lead straight to the naval base of Brest, reputedly the strongest and toughest fortress on the European coast. Its very name was liable to send shivers down any thinking flier’s spine.

After the murmur had subsided Groupy continued, ‘My offer to gunners still stands. This is a low-level do and I can see no reason why straight AGs need fly.’

There was a silence, then a young Canadian and an Englishman said they did not wish to go. The CO said, ‘Right! You will be under close guard till this is finished. You are excused.’ They were immediately escorted from the room. I reckon the two men had more guts than the remaining four who sat terse and tight-lipped, held by false pride and fear of the opinion of their mates from accepting the virtual offer of their lives.

The objective was a merchant raider which had been damaged by a Sunderland and had put into Brest for safety and repairs. ‘The target is of such importance that it must be destroyed no matter what the cost.’ A pleasant declaration, these last five words, in terms of planes and young lives.

On the spectroscope we saw comprehensive pictures of the dog-legged breakwater and adjacent strong points. The raider, as shown by a last-minute photograph from a reconnaissance Mossie, was anchored in the middle of the harbour two hundred yards from the centre of the breakwater. Our plan was to leave an hour before first light, fly as low as possible and rendezvous at a given minute three miles from the harbour. Perfection of the plan required all planes to rendezvous on time, then immediately attack in line astern. Some were to carry short delay bombs, others incendiary. It was hoped sufficient hits with both would completely destroy the pirate.

The rendezvous was all-important for the success of the operation. The leader was instructed to do three short circuits of the area; two minutes after meeting, the available forces were to go in and attack. Anyone arriving late was to follow the main force, the equivalent of playing Russian roulette with all chambers loaded. In the event of a bad fog or mist we were to withdraw.

The Groupy finished on a highly emotional note, stressing the traditions and history of the squadron. His closing words had the unpleasant tinge of a farewell as though he never expected to see us again.

Going out in the bus we decided that, as we were third to take off and consequently Number Three in the attack line, it was necessary for Bill to keep in touch with the two preceding planes to the extent of following dangerously on their heels. To arrive late and not be a dingo would, in the face of the aroused defences, be suicide.

As we taxied around, FIDO’s oil-fed fires glowed eerily through the envelope of fog which held the station in its grey grip. We took off so close behind Number Two that it looked as if we were racing them to the end of the strip. The advantage of this was apparent when we came out above the fog, for despite the flame arresters we could still see the glow of the exhausts in the blue-black sky. In a few minutes we also picked up Number One and never lost them for the rest of the journey.

Above the fog the night was clear and velvety black, the stars shining coldly through the frosty air. The temperature was minus fifteen when we took off; with the slipstream whizzing around our ears it was freezing. In spite of this, the anticipation of our impending ordeal brought on a cold sweat.

It was considered highly dangerous to go within three miles of this fortified strong point. We intended going right into its maw. It looked like curtains for most of the planes engaged. If I ever prayed for a real stinking yellow fog over the combat area I did on that one-hour trip.

Dawn was breaking as we came to our rendezvous. The light was strong enough to see the two planes ahead and two behind. There was a mist with visibility of two hundred and fifty yards, enough for the op to go ahead. We did three circuits as directed, then the leader waggled his wings to indicate he was going in to attack. As we straightened up I saw the sixth plane come out of the fog perhaps three hundred yards astern. There wasn’t a chance he would catch us but he came in hell for leather after the echelon.

We were flying so low I felt and tasted the spray thrown back by the slipstream of the leaders. My guts were a solid ball of fear. Jock said, ‘Here we are.’ The broad breakwater flashed so close beneath us I felt I could have touched it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the contours as it stretched away exactly as portrayed in the visascope. White streamers of flak were already whisking by. Someone said, ‘There she is, bombs away’, and the masts of a boat raced past our ears.

I anticipated the terrific right turn; as I felt the swing I grabbed the guns. For ten horrible seconds centrifugal force plucked at me with a mighty hand. I felt Basher rising below me, pressed up by this invisible force. Then the plane righted itself and the pressure was off. Behind us I saw a small vessel of perhaps a thousand tons wreathed in smoke and flames.

The sleeping giant was coming to life. A veritable inferno of flame and tracer poured in our direction. One of the rear planes did a crazy wobble, just cleared the causeway, then disappeared in a welter of spume into the sea; a second took a shell in the guts and disintegrated in the air. Below, the water was churned white as the defences reached out in fury at this audacious intrusion. The latecomer, still three hundred yards astern, took a pasting but came out seemingly unscathed.

The splashes dropped away. Suddenly, realising we had made it, I bellowed, ‘We’re out, we’re out!,’ and was immediately doused in a veritable wall of water. I thought for a second one of the planes must have gone in till I saw great pillars of white water erupting around us. Bill said, ‘It’s the bloody naval guns.’ At this unexpected threat, we scattered to reduce the danger, but even after Brest had disappeared far astern into the mist those mighty guns continued to range and search for us, throwing their towering columns of water skywards. I suppose there wasn’t much chance of their scoring a hit, but they kept up the tension.

It was here that Jock voiced the thought that was on everyone’s mind; ‘I don’t think that was the raider at all. That ship was not more than a thousand tons; the raider is an eight thousand tonner.’ In broad Geordie, Basher said fervently, ‘Christ, I hope we don’t have to go back.’ It was a certainty the Jerries would not be caught napping next time.

As we regrouped, I noticed one of the planes flying on one engine; the port was feathered. It was not usual for a group to wait for a lame duck, but the leader must also have been feeling the relief of coming out alive, as he throttled back to let the tail-end Charlie and the damaged plane catch up. They flew at about seven o’clock a hundred yards away and, despite a two hundred and sixty miles clip, kept up with the box.

I could make out their markings and asked Jock, ‘Who was flying M for Mary?’

‘I think it’s the Yank.’ I looked across and gave a wave. I saw an answering reply from the Yank and Stan, and said, ‘I believe you’re right. Is he punishing that motor! God, I hope it lasts out.’

As we came in over our coast the Yank called and said that due to hydraulic failure he’d been unable to bomb and still had his lethal belly load. Bill commented, ‘I hope his bloody landing gear works or it’s curtains for someone.’

At base, the fog of early morning had almost disappeared. Despite quite fair visibility, FIDO still poured its dirty smoke skywards. The Yank called the control tower and explained his predicament and was given immediate priority. I could imagine the flap below, the marshalling of fire engines, ambulance and sundry staff cars. The control officer asked if his landing gear was working. There was a silence and then the Yank’s nasal twang reported it was okay.

The rest of us were put into orbit; with the landing gear working there was little danger. A good pilot could land a bomb-laden plane on one engine without difficulty. Visibility was so good that I saw a second Boston cut in, in front of the Yank’s. I said, ‘What’s that bastard doing?’

The intruding plane cut straight in ahead of the crippled bomber. Then the latter did an amazing thing; it turned left into its dead engine. For a second it seemed to hang in the sky and, in a twinkling, disappeared. Dumfounded, I said, ‘I think they’ve crashed.’

Concentrating on his circuit, Bill said irritably, ‘Who’s crashed?’

‘Smithy and the Yank.’

From behind the trees a black tell-tale pillar of smoke climbed skywards. Over the intercom a crisp voice said, ‘All planes keep clear of smoke area. Plane with full bomb-load has just crashed.’

There was nothing we could do. There was still a faint hope that it wasn’t Smithy’s plane or that they had been able to break clear. The intruder was soon identified as one of the French planes. At interrogation the fact that we had bombed the wrong ship seemed of small consequence. The Groupy was ropeable. He didn’t say much, but by his looks and actions intimated he was most displeased at our goof.

The only crew to receive any kudos was the crew who had gone in last. Admittedly they had been shot up but no worse than the rest. The crew’s pilot, a flight lieutenant, belonged to the menagerie and was a particular toady of the CO’s.4

After interrogations we waited for news of the crashed bomber. When it finally came through, it was a stunner. The plane had gone in from about fifty feet, crashed near a group of houses and immediately caught fire. An English erk home on compassionate leave to see his wife who had given premature birth to twins, had immediately raced across to the plane and succeeded in dragging Smithy from the blazing wreckage, when one of the bombs had exploded, blowing both the rescuer’s legs off.

The explosion had kicked the three remaining bombs clear, which did not go up. The other three crew members had been incinerated. Showered with blazing petrol and peppered with blast and shrapnel, Smithy and his rescuer were not expected to live.

That night the rescuer died unhonoured and unsung. Smithy, from scanty information, was not far behind. The thought of burning petrol recalled those unfortunates at Crothers. I was physically sick at the thought of this young airman becoming a charred, walking skeleton.

I rarely prayed for my own safety during the war. I couldn’t see how I could affront my God in everyday life and ask for his protection in battle. That night I prayed sincerely and fervently that Smithy’s life be spared, that he be made whole and well again. I tried to get some information from our quack, but without result. In the end I went to see the Catholic padre. Smithy had been one of his flock. He was a good chap and gave me a daily bulletin. At the end of the week Smithy was moved from the local hospital to one closer to London.

The padre said, ‘He’s grievously wounded and terribly burned. Perhaps it might be better if God, in His compassion, took him to his reward.’

The two big questions from this tragedy were: ‘Why did the bomber cut in ahead of a plane that had complete priority?’, and ‘How could an experienced pilot turn into his dead engine with a full bomb-load aboard, a flying manoeuvre calculated to bring almost certain disaster?’

It seemed a pointless loss of lives, akin to an infantryman surviving a tremendous land battle and, when safely back behind his lines, being shot by one of his own troops.

This flagrant breach of flying rules incensed the entire station to such an extent that it overshadowed the possibility of a return to Brest to try to finish the job we had botched. It was later learned the errant French pilot didn’t understand a word of English and was unaware of his transgression.5