Briefed to drop their load in the channels north of Kiel, Tinsley did a good job at making landfall close to their planned track. Although it was a simple task of almost repeating their route from the last raid, chastened by his last performance, Tinsley had studied the maps hard to avoid any mistakes this time.
They threaded their way through the clouds as they continued to head east. They began their descent as they hit open water again. The wave tops glittered as the moonlight caught them. Their target was the narrow channel between the islands of Langeland and Lolland but Carter had no intention of offering himself up on a plate to the German gunners. Rather than fly up the channel itself, he was going to cut diagonally across the stretch of water and cover its width.
A long thin island that ran roughly north to south, Langelland was a narrow strip of land and Carter throttled back as they passed over it. With the wind coming from the east, there was a slim chance the Germans may not even hear them coming. He levelled off at three hundred feet and prepared for the run in. If the mines were dropped from too high, they broke up on contact with the water. Drop them too fast and the parachute would tear off when it deployed.
The water flashed below Tinsley in the nose. Low flying on air tests and training was generally frowned upon due to the high accident rate so any chance to indulge was exciting. Forrester called off the height and speed as they settled at 120mph, a big fat target while they had the mines on board.
Tinsley opened the bomb doors and dropped the first mine. He counted off ten seconds and dropped the next one and so on until all four were away. Smith saw the mines fall away, drifting for a few seconds under their parachutes before slicing into the dark water.
As the bomb doors closed, Forrester rammed the throttles forward and Carter went lower, skimming the surface of the sea. If it had been exciting before, Tinsley was terrified now. One hiccup and they would make an enormous splash. In the tail, Smith could see their slipstream stirring up the surface of the water.
“What’s that?” Forrester asked as he pointed ahead of them to the right. Just off the western shoreline of Lolland island there was a sandbar. A black shape blotted out some of the white capped waves as they crashed over the bar.
Carter knew what it was. He clung grimly to his course, relying on their speed to get them out of this.
“Flak ship to starboard!” he shouted. “Give them a squirt as we go past!” he told his gunners. Jones and Smith didn’t need telling twice. Both sides opened up at the same time.
The dark was split apart by bright flashes of gunfire. The sea around the Manchester churned to froth as tracer fell around them. Smith blazed away in return but he had no idea if he was hitting anything. In moments they were through, hugging the waves and heading north, melting into the dark.
After putting some distance between them and the flak ship, Carter turned to port and circled round Fyn island, a large, almost circular clump of land just off the Danish coast. Ground fire chased them all the way round. One or two searchlights switched on and Smith reported flak going up over Kiel as the German gunners entertained themselves, chasing after phantom bombers.
Carter had the crew to check in, then had Forrester go looking for any damage. He found one hole on the starboard side, but it was an awkward one. A cannon shell had come in on a low angle and smashed through the Elsan chemical toilet. The back of the fuselage was quite fragrant where the liquid was sloshing around on the floor.
“I thought we were done for,” Forrester commented after resuming his seat.
“No sweat,” said Carter with some small amount of bravado. “We were on top of them before they knew we were there.” He took Popsie back up to three thousand feet and they headed west for home.
On the way back across the North Sea, the port engine started to play up again. Forrester reduced speed and that helped a bit but no one relaxed. Just after they passed Withensea, Carter looked to his left, glaring at the recalcitrant engine, daring it to cross him. It duly obliged.
There was a final shower of sparks and then the engine decided that was it for the evening. There was a massive bang and a shudder and the prop started to windmill. The Manchester lurched to the left with the loss of power and Carter stamped on the rudder pedal to get her back. Forrester cut the switches to the port engine and feathered the prop and Popsie started to descend.
“If anybody wants to jump, you’d better get going,” Carter informed the rest of the crew as the altimeter wound down.
Jones was sorely tempted but he didn’t fancy the idea of baling out of the mid upper turret. The turret was fitted with doors at the back, so a gunner could open them and go over the side, but Jones had visions of being cut up by the tail plane. He clung on as the airframe rattled. Carter flattened out at six thousand feet, using the speed gained in the dive to hold her steady.
“I’m staying, sir,” said Tinsley, Fitzgerald said the same, as did Jones and Smith. Carter looked at Forrester.
“Looks like you’re stuck with us,” said his second pilot simply. He went back to staring at the temperatures intently, hoping the other engine didn’t crack up.
“Gawd save us,” muttered Carter. “How long to base?” he asked Tinsley.
“About fifteen minutes?”
Carter did some maths quickly in his head as he eyed the altimeter. Fifteen minutes flying time, it would be touch and go to make it.
Reaching Amber Hill, Carter went straight in. Crossing the threshold at one hundred feet, they floated down the runway with full flaps and tons of opposite rudder to counteract the dead engine. Just before touchdown, he eased off on the rudder to let the wheels straighten up and then thumped it down.
The tyres squealed as they kissed the tarmac. The Manchester bounced and Carter kept a firm grip on the controls. The bomber touched back down and stayed down. He kept the yoke pulled back to keep the nose up and then turned off the runway.
Wrung out after nearly seven hours in the air, Carter was grateful when his feet touched the ground. He joined the rest of the crew round the front to find them all starting up at the port engine. There was a hole in the outer panel where a thrown con-rod had made a smart exit. Oil dripped out of the hole like blood from a ragged chest wound.
6 - We’re H-A-P-P-Y
That sortie marked the end of Carters involvement with Lambert's crew. The MO let Lambert out of the ward the following morning and he was given a clean bill of health to resume operational flying. Carter got five hours sleep and woke at nine. It was a miserable day and he lay for a while listening to the rain lashing the glass. One of the panes in the wooden frame was loose and it rattled as the wind battered the hut. The curtains swayed in time to the gale.
During interrogation, Tinsley had produced his chart and log showing where they had laid the mines. Carter filled in the blanks where some of the flak sites had been. The Intel WAAF was particularly keen to pin down the location where the flak ship had been moored and wanted a better description of it.
Carter was pretty good on its location but the description he left to the crew. The WAAF was met by blank looks all round. She clicked her tongue in annoyance but Smith wasn’t phased. He’d aimed at flashes in the dark, so had Jones. Fine detail was the last thing on their minds at that point.
Carter got dressed and and went for breakfast. He sat down across from two of the other pilots that had laid mines off the Texel the previous night. One was slurping his tea while reading a letter from home. The other was wiping the last of the egg yolk from his plate with a bit of fried bread. A steward came over to Carter bearing a plate of crispy bacon and a fried egg. He asked for a tomato and the steward pointed him towards the toast on the rack in the middle of the table before gliding off to get one for him. Carter buttered a slice of bread while the others asked him how he’d got on. He shrugged.
“All right. Buggers had put a flak ship in the channel but he saw us too late. Engine packed up on the way home.”
“Lucky you,” murmured the tea d
rinker, his tone almost disinterested. The other pilot popped the yolk smothered bread into his mouth and started chewing.
“I ran into one too,” he said, his voice muffled from food. He chewed a bit faster. “He got the chap ahead of us.” He shuddered at the memory burned onto his brain.
He had just got to the chain of islands just off the Dutch coastline to make his run in when the sky had been torn into a kaleidoscopic light show. An F-lighter had been moored in the shallows. Bristling with guns, they were large concrete lined barges that the Germans used to move cargo around. Due to the aggressive MTB activity, they were also used sometimes to beef up the escort on the coastal convoys. Some F-lighters were very well armed, having everything up to an 88mm on the deck.
The Manchester in front had just dropped its last mine when a blizzard of fire had arced across the water from the port side. At two hundred feet, it was almost like going clay pigeon shooting. Golf ball sized gobs of light turned the twin engined bomber into a shredded mess. The wing tanks brewed up and the Manchester nosed into the water, a large plume of water to mark its passing.
Breaking off his run to the right, he disappeared into the dark to get as far from the F-lighter as possible. Circling round, he dropped his mines further up the channel and then made for home, pondering the random nature of war. Ten more seconds and he would have run right into that himself. He broke into a smile when a new arrival traipsed into the Mess.
“Well, well, so you aren’t dead after all.”
Carter turned to see who had come in and he saw a Pilot Officer striding towards them. Thin, about five feet ten with fine blonde hair, he had a pale face and drawn cheeks with dark smudges under his eyes. Faded red marks on his face and hands showed he must have been one of the squadrons diseased members. The sickly pallor made him look barely eighteen.
“Shouldn’t you be ringing a bell, shouting, ‘unclean, unclean’ as you go along, old man?” asked the tea drinker in good humour.
“Very funny,” the new arrival said as he sat down next to Carter. “After being confined to bed for two weeks while a bunch of doctors poke and prod you was long enough.”
“My heart bleeds,” tea drinker responded deadpan. He rather liked the idea of two weeks in bed. It was better than flying three ops and slogging across flak filled countryside.
“Are you, Carter?” asked the new man, glancing at Carter’s chest and noting the scruffy DFC ribbon below his wings.
“I am.” He held out his hand. The new man took it, shaking firmly.
“I’m, Lambert. Dicko told me you’ve been looking after my mob.”
“If you can call it that,” replied Carter, trying to keep his voice upbeat. “I like to think we were looking after each other.”
The steward came back with a small side plate, bearing the requested tomato. It was slid onto Carter’s plate. Lambert asked for some porridge.
“I don’t think my tummy would tolerate anything else at the moment,” he said, jealously eyeing Carter’s egg and bacon. His mouth watered at the prospect of crispy bacon. He’d barely eaten the first week when he’d been laid up in hospital. While Chickenpox in youth might be something that made you a bit uncomfortable for a week, for an adult it was much more serious.
Lambert had been rubbed all over with Calamine lotion, repeatedly told not to scratch or pick at the blisters and they had funnelled so many aspirin down his throat he could be a pill dispenser. The worst thing had been the scratching. Morning noon and night, his skin had itched like crazy and sleep had been hard to come by.
His porridge placed in front of him. Lambert dumped a load of sugar on top and mixed it in by stirring his spoon.
“I hope everything’s gone okay?” he asked as he started into the porridge.
“As it can be,” Carter responded. “I’m not so sure you’ll be pleased with me after you see what I did to your kite.” Lambert arched an eyebrow as Carter reeled off the litany of woes, “had a fire, broke the loo, bust an engine.”
“I heard,” said Lambert. He shrugged as he shoved a big spoonful of porridge into his mouth. “Nothing the erks can’t put right. It’s just a bit of metal at the end of the day. As long as everyone made it home, that’s the main thing.” He stopped himself from itching around the collar of his shirt where it was bothering him. “What are you going to do now?”
“I’m not sure,” said Carter. He knew flying with Lambert's crew had only been temporary, but a few days had stretched to a week. He’d not thought about having to go shopping for a crew of his own. He talked with Lambert while he finished his breakfast and then went looking for Dickinson.
He found his flight commander in his office, fiddling with some memo’s from Group. Carter provided a welcome distraction and Dickinson waved him in as he knocked on the door. Carter came in, spinning his peaked cap on his left index finger as he parked himself on a chair in front of Dickinson’s desk. There was a pile of files to the right, on the left some wooden In and Out trays. A telephone occupied one corner, a bible was on the other. Dickinson put the memo’s back in their tray and turned his attention to his pilot.
“What can I do for you, Mr Carter?”
“Lamberts out of the infirmary so I need a new crew, sir.”
Dickinson leaned back in his chair, sucking on his lower lip. Air whistled through the gap in his teeth while he pondered the possibilities.
“I don’t have complete crews lying around you know,” he said, his tone light. He glanced to his right. There was a chest of drawers against the wall and on top was a bundle of personnel files. He could go thumbing through it and make suggestions but he always thought that the tried and true methods worked best. “There’s a few odds and sods floating around that might fit the bill. I’d rather you found some people rather than ordering someone to do it.”
Carter nodded his understanding, There were always a few men on a squadron looking to get on a crew. They might have been wounded or gone on a course and come back to find the rest of their crew gone. Some might have been dumped because they were not so good at their jobs. He would have to form his crew from a limited pool and hope he got a few good ‘uns in the mix.
“Give it a few days, put some feelers out,” Dickinson suggested.
“I’ll give it a go, sir.”
The first member of his new crew appeared that evening. Carter was lazing on his bed. He’d snaffled one of the magazines from Walsh’s side of the room and was thumbing through the pages when there was a knock on his door.
“Come,” he said, his voice far away while he focused on an article. A dark head appeared round the door jamb.
“Could I come in, sir?”
Carter sat up. The visitor was a short dark haired Flight Sergeant.
“By all means.”
The man came into the room. He was about five foot four, broad shouldered and had an AG brevet on his left breast. His uniform was the darker blue of the Royal Australian Air Force. He cast a glance around the room, gauging his surroundings.
“I’m, George Todd, I heard you’re looking for a new crew, sir,” he said, his voice pure Aussie twang.
“I am, where’d you hear about that?” replied Carter, his tone cautious as he considered how to play this. He couldn’t just accept someone straight off the bat without getting a feel for them first, but if he said no, word might get around he was being a bit of a snob.
“People talk. I thought I’d pay you a visit.”
Carter nodded. No doubt, Smith and the others had been crowing about getting their pilot back in the Sergeants Mess. He grabbed his peaked cap and made for the door.
“Let’s take a walk and have a chat.”
They went past the NAAFI and headed towards the hangars. Carter offered the man a cigarette which was gratefully accepted.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said.
“Not much to tell, sir. It was only ever me and me mum. I did a few bum jobs for a while and then one day I saw a poster on the bus.” Todd remembered
it well. He’d been sat on the bus after another hard day at the mill, sweat streaking his face, when the poster had caught his eye. Aircrew seemed a lot better than flogging your guts out in some factory job.
“I figured it was better to volunteer than waiting around to get conscripted as a footslogger. I joined up in Melbourne, did some initial training at home and then got shipped over here.”
“How many trips have you done?” asked Carter, getting to the nub of the issue straight away. Any man who was willing to come thousands of miles to fight already had his respect.
“Seven, and I got one kill on my fourth trip out. Then I got sent on a gunnery course and the rest of my crew left me behind. I’ve had to pick up the odd trip here and there after that.” Carter noticed that Todd had hesitated before mentioning the course. There was more to that story than a glib one liner but there would be time to hear the full reason later. Seven ops was a respectable number and Carter had to admit, anyone with the nerve to come and seek out an officer and ask, rather than be approached himself deserved consideration.
In fact, Todd had beaten a path to Carters door as soon as he’d heard he needed to form a new crew. A few days before he had overheard Smith moaning about Nanny Carter and his strict ways in the Sergeants Mess. Todd took that with a pinch of salt.
Firstly, Smith had drunk too many pints and secondly, he was a bit of a blowhard anyway. He had a belligerent streak that needed careful handling and Todd knew it wouldn’t take much for him to take a dislike to someone. In addition, the fact that Carter was on his second tour counted for a lot more than Smith’s expert opinion as far as Todd was concerned. A second tour man would know what he was doing. Todd rated his chances of getting through his own first tour a lot more highly if he was flying with someone who had seen it and done it once already.
His own crew had been very good. His pilot had been an experienced second dicky who had done five trips before being bumped up to first pilot. Then Todd had been sent off on an advanced gunnery course at Sutton Bridge. For a few weeks he had flown around in clapped out Hampdens and Wellingtons in a remote corner of the fen country.
Maximum Effort Page 6