“Call in,” Carter told them and they responded in their own way, calling him skipper, skip, boss, sir. Vos was slow to respond. He scrabbled back to his desk and plugged back into the intercom. He’d been thrown around the inside of the Manchester like a rag doll. His head was ringing where he had banged it on the ceiling.
Slowly, Carter pulled back on the yoke and emerged from the gloom of the clouds back into clear sky. They seemed to be on their own so he climbed hard for the next few minutes, wanting to regain the height they had lost. Nothing more was seen of the fighter but no one relaxed. Where there was one, there may be others and another fighter could have seen the tracer and been drawn like a moth to the flame.
Vos shakily unscrewed the lid of his flask and poured himself a hot chocolate. He had a bump on his forehead and a cracker of a headache. Looking out of the wireless operators window on the port side there was a sudden flash and then a thin line of fire streaked to the ground. Ours or theirs, he wondered to himself.
The last of the clouds cleared ten miles short of the city. Two solitary searchlights swung across the sky probing for them. Flak guns started their symphony, the ground flashing as the heavy stuff started reaching upwards. They’d not been the only aircraft to bomb and there were isolated fires scattered all over the city.
Aachen itself held little strategic value, but it had psychological significance. The city had been the home of Charlemagne, leader of the first Reich as far as Nazi ideology was concerned. From 792AD the Emperor spent most of his winters there and the city became the focus of his court and the political centre of the Holy Roman Empire. The great man was buried in the cathedral.
Their target was the Nazi headquarters building. Woods picked up the IP but he had trouble seeing the actual target. One building in the middle of an urban area was rather difficult to discern, particularly with all the flashing of shell bursts, searchlights and jolting around in turbulent air. There was no way he was asking Carter to go round again. He knew it was near the railway station so he picked a spot, peered down the sight one last time and let the bombs go. As he closed the bomb doors he felt distinctly unsatisfied.
While they made it back, three other crews of 363 squadron did not. That helped Carter hammer home his message of just how lucky they had been. Like thieves in the night, the nightfighters had been in their neighbourhood, they just hadn’t knocked on their particular door.
One of the casualties had been Andrews, Carter’s pupil from OTU. They had bought it coming off the target. Three managed to get out before their bomber rolled in, a flaming comet, chased all the way by flak and searchlights. Andrews had managed three ops. Bishop, his companion from OTU was still around but the loss of Andrews changed him. He had lost a friend, someone close to him. Up till then, losses on the squadron had just been other people.
Walsh had been the last one back. Long after many others had faded away, Carter had stood and waited at the control tower, head cocked, ears straining to hear Walsh’s plane come in. They had been all set to rub his name off the ops board when he landed.
Carter cadged a lift in a Tilly over to the dispersal to watch Walsh taxi up. F-Freddie was a mess. There was a gaping hole in the bomb aimers dome up front and the wings were peppered with holes.
Carter got the full story back at their billet as they turned in.
“One minute we were flying along, the next, a gale was blowing in through the nose,” Walsh told him. “A piece of shrapnel, this big,” he held up his fist, “nearly took, Blake’s head off. Gave him a nasty shock though.” Walsh giggled inanely as the adrenalin was beginning to wear off. He giggled some more when he remembered that Blake had asked for permission before jettisoning their bombs.
While Carter’s flight back had been relatively uneventful, Walsh’s had been a nightmare. The icy gale blowing in from the nose had numbed every part of his body and shaved a good twenty knots off their speed. Coming down to five thousand feet and warmer air had made little difference. His hands and feet became blocks of ice and his handling of the controls became increasingly jerky and hamfisted.
It had taken him a good few hours of soaking in the bath to get any real feeling back in his body. They slept like the dead and didn’t wake up until one. Punchy from the previous nights efforts, they gradually became human over toast and tea in the Mess. Walsh found his fingers still tingled slightly and he wondered if he ‘d gotten frostbite.
There was a buzz when the first word came through of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour in Hawaii. There had also been attacks on the Philippines and Malaya. Even more startling was the news that Churchill had declared war on Japan in support of the Americans. Suddenly the intelligence officer, Kent was incredibly popular as they pumped him for information. He fended off most enquiries with a polite smile or a shrug.
“Look chaps, there’s not a lot I can tell you. The Japs have bitten the Yanks on the arse and they’ve attacked other places in the Pacific. Beyond that…” His voice trailed off.
They were glued to the radio for the evening news but the situation was very confused. There was even a report that a British gunboat had been sunk in Shanghai. Carter and Walsh picked and pawed at the newspapers and then retreated back to their billet for another snooze before tea time.
The Mess was jumping when they came back. Everyone else had surfaced and the bar was buzzing with conversation, swapping stories from the previous nights raid and speculating about the Far East. After three weeks of inactivity, their tails were back up. Asher listened as he circulated round the room, talking to each man in turn.
Only one Manchester had aborted due to mechanical difficulties and it had been a hydraulic issue rather than an engine problem. Three crews gone was a bit of a blow but considering most of the squadron had ended up over Essen, it wasn’t a surprise. Scattered due to the winds, the main force had gone over piecemeal, giving the flak gunners a chance to concentrate their firepower.
He’d spent the afternoon at Group dissecting what had gone wrong and what could be learned for next time. He also had the word that ops were off for a few days. The cold front that hung over Europe was likely to last until the end of the week. Bomber Command would wait for better weather. Asher didn’t mind, a pause would give him time to replace his losses and then they would be in at the start of a new dark moon period, which made for much better operating conditions.
There was no official announcement concerning a party, it just sort of happened. Drinks after dinner turned into a proper session and soon they were off and away. Walsh was paraded around the room on a chair for being the last one back. They managed one full circuit with him carried at shoulder height before he lost his balance and they all collapsed in a heap. Pulled out of the tangle of bodies, he stood on one of the sofas and held up a pint of beer.
“Gentlemen, I am touched.” He gave a mock bow to the room. “It takes a special kind of skill to bring up the rear but I will endeavour to be equal to the task.”
There were cheers and boos as he upended his pint, downing it in one. A bread roll fizzed past his ear. He batted the next one away, spotting it zipping towards him out of the corner of his eye; then he was inundated with a barrage of crumbs. He got down from the top of the sofa, empty pint glass held high, bits of bread in his hair.
Someone thrust another full pint glass in his hand and he polished most of that off as well. When he came up for air his nose was glowing and his cheeks were flushed. He retreated to the bar where Woods, Carter, Vos and Nicol were deep in conversation. Woods turned round at his approach and leaned against the bar surveying the crowd.
“Well done, sir.”
Walsh parked next to him.
“Well done to both of us after that mess.”
16 - On Their Way
In their billet, the Poker school was in full swing. Run out of Todd’s hut, you could get a game most nights, ops depending. This particular evening, a Canadian Flight Sergeant, Donovan was doing quite well. He was six shillings up for the night but it was a vo
latile game with new players coming in and out all the time as their funds fluctuated.
Donovan was dealing. He expertly shuffled the pack and then started going round the players, cards flicking out onto a blanket spread on the floor. A freshly minted Flight Sergeant with a gunners brevet frowned as he looked at his cards. He was Archer’s latest gunner. Blonde, blue eyed and rather cherubic of face, his name was Winsor but he got called Queenie a lot. Another replacement, Tucker was sat next to him. They had been on the same gunnery course together.
Todd sat on one of the beds watching the action. He had a piece of grease proof paper on his lap with a block of cheese and some cream crackers and a bottle of beer to wash it all down with.
Conversation ebbed and flowed like the game. Topics ranged from across the board but they kept coming back to Pearl Harbour and the goings on in the Pacific. It had electrified their interest in life outside of Amber Hill. No matter how the sanitised news articles were phrased, it was pretty clear the American fleet had been given a drubbing.
Lord Haw Haw had announced that the British Battleships, Prince of Wales and Repulse had been sunk after a Japanese air attack. Everyone had dismissed this as the usual German lies but the BBC confirmed it the following day.
The biggest news was that Germany had declared war on America. There was an almost collective sigh of relief at this announcement. With America coming into the war in Europe and not just the Pacific, they would no longer be on their own.
“With the yanks coming in, we might not even finish a tour,” said Winsor with some enthusiasm. “The war could be over by next summer.”
There was a lot of laughter at that comment. Todd didn’t bother saying that there were plenty of other ways that you might not finish a tour. He cut a piece of cheese with his knife and stuck it on a cracker.
“Look what happened in the last show,” he cautioned. “It took them ages to get troops across the Atlantic to the Western Front. You watch, it’ll be this time next year before we see any change. A lot can happen in a year,” he said with meaning.
In North Africa, the fighting around Tobruk was still going on with nothing certain either way. Malta was getting hammered. There was not much to cheer about at the moment. If things carried on like this, there would be nothing for the Americans to rescue.
Donovan started another hand. Tucker folded. Winsor was about to throw tuppence into the middle to call the ante when he showed his cards to Tucker to elicit an opinion. Tucker shook his head and the young lad mucked the hand, tossing the cards onto the pile of coins.
“No good there, pet,” Tucker advised, his Yorkshire accent strong. “Wait for something better to turn up.”
The mood in the room was buoyant. A couple of days of mild activity, a chance for sleep and some runs to the pubs in Lincoln was always good. With Christmas coming up, thoughts were turning to happier things in this time of war.
The rumour doing the rounds was there was going to be a station dance. Those with girls talked about having some fun and a dance. Those without tried to think about how they would manage to get a girl between now and Christmas.
Winsor asked if there would be any leave. Considering they had just been given some, no one thought that a likely prospect. One or two of the married men might be allowed to go but it was odds on they’d be flying ops anyway.
Tucker pondered aloud when that next op might be and Todd tutted and coughed into his hand as the conversation stalled. Like the Sergeants Mess, talking shop was generally frowned upon but he was feeling generous, Tucker was new so he may not be fully aware of the rules just yet. He had yet to fly an op so his eagerness could be understood.
“One step at a time,” Todd cautioned. He moodily chewed on his cracker and cut off another bit of cheese. He took a swig from his bottle of beer and then put it back under the bed so no one could knock it over.
The hand ended and there was another deal. Money flew into the pot and the Canadian scooped another hand. He grinned as he stacked the coins in front of him on the blanket.
“I don’t know what to do with you guys,” he said. “It’s like taking money from children.”
“Belt,” said Tucker. He fiddled with the pile of pennies and shillings in front of him. “I’ve been watching you. You can’t be lucky forever.”
“Who said it was luck.” Donovan shrugged in good humour, not in the least offended. He was ahead and money talked. He split the pack in two and riffled the cards back into a single pile. He neatened it up and started dealing. “Poker, my friend, is a game of skill and math.” Donovan had helped fund his college education with poker. To him, it was almost a science. He span a card to land in front of Tucker.
“Maybe that’s it. Gunners don’t have a head for figures.” He made a pistol of his hand, forefinger stretched out, thumb back like the hammer of a pistol and then pulled the trigger, blowing on the end of his finger.
Todd shook his head. Cribbage was more his thing. He polished off the cheese and munched on a cracker as he brushed the crumbs off his lap. He went over to the stove in the corner to find it had burned low. He was about to add some more coal when he found the tub almost empty. In the bottom there were three sorry looking lumps of coal and some coal dust.
“What happened to all the coal?” he asked aloud. Conversation around the game came to an abrupt halt and faces looked in his direction. “That was supposed to last us till the end of next week,” he said sharply, extremely annoyed to find there was none left.
He fixed each of them with a hard stare, focusing particularly on the guests and newcomers. Murphy and Walsh’s lads who also lived in the hut knew the state of play. A burly Yorkshire wireless op called Martin chest stood up.
“I think that might be us,” he said, apologetically. He nodded to Tucker and Winsor. “It was cold when we got here earlier so we got the stove going.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Murphy was unimpressed. New lads they may have been but everyone knew when you got somewhere new, the last thing you did was just avail yourself of the facilities.
The station Quartermaster was notoriously tight with supplies and he guarded his stocks with an iron will. If word got around that he let one hut have some more, everyone else would want the same thing.
“Right, dead simple,” said Todd. He picked up one of the pieces of leftover coal from the tub and tossed it to the Yorkshireman. “You used it, go get some more.”
“I will,” came the response. Martin tossed the coal back to Todd and the Australian caught it in one hand. “You’ll have to show us.”
There was a challenge there. Todd didn’t back down from any challenge.
“Fine, but you’re carrying it. If the MP’s turn up, I’ll deny all knowledge we’ve ever met.”
With coal in short supply, there were a limited number of choices at Amber Hill to get extra fuel for the billet stoves. Being in the countryside, they could go foraging in the woods, either cutting down some branches, or if you were really lazy, you could pick up twigs. It might not have been seasoned wood but it was better than nothing.
On this occasion, Todd didn’t fancy wielding an axe in the dark, he might chop something important off. Besides, it was a bit late to be signing out at the main gate. That left the more risky option of snaffling it from another hut or store.
They slid out in the dark. Todd led the way, threading his way round the Nissen huts. With it being late, there was no chance of busting into one of the other huts and not being noticed. Everyone was indoors keeping warm, so Todd headed for the stations admin buildings. The SP’s did the rounds occasionally, but provided you timed it right there was little risk.
As they walked along, Winsor was telling Tucker about a girl he’d met in Lincoln.
“Her hands were all over me. She kept kissing me on the neck, I didn’t like that,” the youngster complained.
“Well where did you want her to kiss you?” Tucker asked. Todd looked at Winsor in amusement as the lad just shrugged and
threw his hands up.
“I dunno, she tried putting her tongue in my mouth as well. ‘Orrible it was.”
“What happened after that?” Tucker asked.
“She took me outside and was all over me like a python.” Winsor shuddered at the memory. “She kept putting my hands on her chest and rubbing up against me.”
“Sounds to me like you were doing pretty well,” Todd commented.
Winsor blew a raspberry, suddenly embarrassed at mentioning something so personal.
They stopped at a junction in the road and had a cigarette break. Todd was wreathed in smoke as he lit up. He leaned against a sign board that pointed left for Ops, right for Supply and the Motor Transport Section. He asked the new boys what they’d do if they saw a nightfighter in the dark. The response was reflexive and entirely expected.
“Shoot at it, naturally,” said Winsor as Tucker nodded in agreement.
“Wrong,” replied Todd. “Unless he goes for you of course. Otherwise you should leave him well alone.”
“That doesn’t seem right to me,” muttered Tucker. “What if he goes for someone else? Surely we should do something about that?”
“Luck of the game mate,” Todd replied flatly.
Winsor and Tucker shared a look, shocked at Todd’s attitude. In the weak moonlight he could just glimpse the mix of disgust and revulsion on their faces.
“Look chum, he’s got cannon, we ain’t. You open up with your popguns and all you’re doing is letting him know where you are. You leave him to it and pray he passes you by.”
There was a long pause while this distilled wisdom was digested.
“Well I won’t,” said Winsor stubbornly. The thought of leaving another plane to the mercy of a nightfighter didn’t sit well with him.
“What can I say?” Todd’s voice dripped sarcasm. “You got all the answers.” He carried on walking.
“It’s not the decent thing,” Winsor announced suddenly. Todd snorted in derision.
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