On his first tour, Carter would have done this without thinking twice. He remembered one occasion when he had been second dicky and they had criss crossed over Mannheim six times at ten thousand feet until the bombs had been dropped. The game had changed a lot in a year. Going lower now would make you a sitting duck.
Circling, waiting for a break in the clouds carried its own risks. The weather might have been lousy, but a nightfighter could find them in this clag and spoil their night. Flak could still get lucky, firing blind through the clouds. Hanging around a target area was asking for trouble, like a matador trailing their cape in front of a mean bull. Finally, there were one hundred other bombers out there, collisions were not unheard of.
He decided to go in and they’d drop on whatever presented itself. Woods lined up on the fires and he recognised it as the Altona train station, the main station on the north side of the city. As he peered through the sight, a stick of bombs from another aircraft hit the ground, cutting across the tight bunch of rail tracks heading north out of the station. They went off, one after another like firecrackers, blossoms of orange light. Woods lined up on the ridged roof of the main building and selected simultaneous drop for everything.
He passed the corrections to Carter as they got nearer. Jensen rode the controls, feeling the small movements that Carter made. He glanced at his pilot, looking at his hands. Jensen had seen some pilots that gripped the controls like they were clinging on for grim death, over correcting, forcing the plane to behave. Carter held the yoke firmly, but lightly, feeding in small movements and the Manchester responded in kind, gliding along, threading her way through the flak, riding the waves of rough air.
More guns joined the party. L-London was buffeted by the blast waves of explosions. A shell detonated under the port wing and Carter caught it smartly before it flicked them over. Shrapnel peppered the fuselage and punched holes in the skin. One jagged piece went through Vos’ logbook and he batted at the pages with his gloved hand to stop it burning. Woods gave one more correction and then released their load.
“They’re off!” he shouted. The incendiary containers fell away and Carter counted to ten as he held her level, waiting for the camera to take its target photograph. He turned south, easing away from the city. Woods came up from the nose to get back to his navigators station.
“Right on the money, skipper,” he announced when he plugged back in to the R/T. He looked at the compass and keyed his R/T again. “Slight correction, skipper. Go starboard and steer one, nine, five.”
Carter took up the new heading but the controls felt strange. He had to make more input to keep the wings level.
“Somethings up,” he told Jensen. The yoke was stiff as he tried to move it through its full range of movement.
“The ailerons?” Jensen said.
“Must have been that last hit,” Carter agreed.
It was nothing that would stop them getting home, it just meant more work for them to keep her pointing in the right direction. After rounding Bremen, they headed straight west.
Carter did a check of the crew to keep everyone on their toes. He had Vos keep watch in the astrodome. The Belgian was less than thrilled about this. The last time they’d been bounced by a night fighter he’d been flung around like a rag doll.
Murphy yawned and rolled his head around. He blinked twice and then rubbed his gloved hand up and down his face. His eyes were heavy and he was tired. He’d not gotten much sleep the night before and he found his thoughts drifting towards Muriel. He smiled at the thought of smooth thighs and her warm mouth on his. He shook his head, berating himself for getting distracted.
“Idiot,” he muttered. He quartered the sky again, panning his turret right as he resumed his vigil.
The Messerschmitt Bf110 was a sleek, twin engined killer. In 1940 they’d mauled the Polish air force and cut a swath across Holland, Belgium and France. In the Battle of Britain they’d met their match as a fighter but at night, the 110 and the Junkers 88 were the top predator. Armed with heavy cannons and directed to the target by ground controlled radar they were lethal in the right hands.
Northern Holland had a number of airfields and the Germans had built a string of radar stations set inland. Each station controlled a box of airspace and the searchlights and nightfighters within it. The nightfighter prowled around and was directed to attack whatever came through the box. On a filthy night like this with heavy cloud and virtually no moon, the odds were good at getting through, but the nightfighters could reap a heavy harvest when the situation favoured them.
Flying out of Bergen, this 110 had been circling their ground controlled box for the last hour when the first reports of enemy bombers had come in. The pickings had been light tonight. The main raid was further north and only one bomber, a Halifax had fallen to their guns. They were reaching the end of their stint when ground control directed them to the north of their box. There was a contact passing their area of coverage.
They went north east over the Ijsselmeer. A great inland sea, it was often traversed by bombers going to and from the Fatherland, choosing this route as a way to stay clear of flak for a time. It had become the graveyard of more than one bomber crew who thought it was a chance to relax.
A flare of sparks caught his eye off to port. It happened again and he caught a glint of light off perspex. They were below him, just above a bank of clouds a few miles distant. The 110 banked to intercept and descended slowly, ducking in and out of the fluffy tops. Every few minutes he went into the clouds and then popped up, stalking his target like a U-boat captain following a convoy, putting the periscope up occasionally.
He stayed low, playing the cloud cover for all it was worth and accelerated, edging in to the bomber from the port side. He banked hard to make his attack and lined up his gunsight on the fuselage roundel behind the wing. Murphy saw it late. There was no time to shout a warning.
They opened fire at the same time and tracers flew back and forth. The 110’s pilot was startled to find bullets flying in his direction. He thought he had made the perfect unobserved approach. He tightened his turn, pulling away to starboard.
The 110 flashed across Murphy’s line of sight, passing right to left. Murphy traversed the turret to follow, keeping his thumbs jammed on the triggers as he struggled to keep a good lead on the target. The four browning .303’s rattled as they stripped round after round of ammo from the belts.
Before he got the chance to see if he hit anything, Carter dived into the muck and Murphy’s world was reduced to a grey wall.
Carter had reacted instinctively as soon as the first rounds started to lash into L-London’s skin behind him. He shoved the yoke forwards and rolled left. Woods stuck out an arm and Vos grabbed on for dear life as he had his feet taken out from under him. Everything not nailed down, got tossed around. L-London shook fit to bust. The airframe creaked and groaned in protest at the rough handling.
Carter watched the altimeter unwind fast, counted to five and then hauled back on the yoke. As they levelled off, Carter stuck to the clouds that wrapped around them like cotton wool.
“Crew, report!” he shouted over the R/T. Jensen gave him a thumbs up, Woods called that both he and Vos were okay. Todd was next and then Murphy shouted up. His heart was racing, his pulse hammering in his ears from the excitement of the last thirty seconds.
“It was a 110, skipper. The sneaky bugger came in from underneath. Last I saw he broke away to starboard with a bunch of tracer up his backside.”
“Vos, Woody, get back there and tell me what kind of shape we’re in.”
Woods hooked up to a walkaround bottle and both he and Vos clambered over the main spar. Grabbing a torch they explored the rear of the kite.
Air screamed and whistled through various holes down the port side. One hole was as big as Woods fist. Woods waved the torch around, assessing the damage while Vos went aft, squeezed over the elevator bar in the tail and knocked on the doors to the tail turret. Murphy opened one and Vos stuc
k his head over his shoulder.
“All right?” he shouted in Murphy’s ear.
The Yorkshireman nodded; his eyes as big as saucers above his oxygen mask. Vos clapped him on the shoulder and then went back. Murphy buttoned the turret back up and carried on looking in the murk, his eyes trying to be everywhere at once. Woods sat back down at his navigator table and plugged in to the intercom.
“It’s a bit draughty, skipper but it looks like we’re okay. The cable runs are all right and none of the ammo trays have been hit. There are some nasty holes but the frames are intact.”
Carter flicked a glance at Jensen and the pair of them shared a look. They had just burned one of their lives. Woods retrieved his chart from the floor and scrabbled around, trying to find a pencil. He ended up using the reserve he kept tucked into the top of his flying boot.
“Steer three, one, oh. That’ll get us out of here quick and then we’ll head west for home,” He chewed on the end of the pencil, hoping he was right.
On the way back, the engines protested at the abuse and they had to back off on the throttles making them one of the last to get back. When they set foot on terra firma they spent a good ten minutes staring at their ravaged bomber. The port side of the rear fuselage had been peppered.
“Lumme, the mice have been at it,” commented Murphy.
“Good grouping,” said Todd, making light of the damage. There were a few holes in the left rudder too.
Carter stood under the port wing with Chiefy Latimer. They looked up at the hole. Just in from the port wingtip was a jagged rent about twelve inches wide. A rash of smaller holes surrounded it and bare metal was shining where the black paint had been scorched away.
“It might look bad but its really cosmetic sir.” Latimer reassured him. “We can replace the wingtip easily enough. The holes in the fuselage will take a little more time but it’s nothing that’ll keep her grounded. We’ll have her right as rain by the weekend,” he predicted, although he knew Mr Pullen would be breathing down his neck to get it done faster.
At Saint Vincent’s Hall, the place was buzzing with activity. The staff were burning the midnight oil. Any night their squadrons were operating, then the Group staff stayed up as well, monitoring what was going on. The boards in the Ops room were updated as each squadron reported their current status. On some nights the AOC or SASO were there. Some nights both of them did if it was a particularly important target.
They would hang around until the squadrons were on their way, then they would retire to their offices for a while. Paperwork would sit on their desk, they would make some calls, doing the circuit of the stations, finding out for themselves what was going on. Eventually, the pull of the Ops room would draw them back, like tugging on the end of a piece of string.
They had seen action themselves once upon a time. They had flown in rickety biplanes on the Western Front and then weathered the long lean years on the far flung frontiers, protecting the Empire. The Ops room was as close as they got to the action now. Occasionally, they would drop in on a station to see the troops off. Once in a blue moon they would hang around on the fringe of an interrogation, the stench of smoke and cordite and petrol permeating the air, listening to the crews make their report.
Georgette came in on the days shift as the ops staff went for some shut eye. One of her Corporal typists came out as she came in.
“Morning Ma’am,” he said, all bright and breezy. He made her feel one hundred years when he said Ma’am. “I’ve gone through most of the target folders from the 14th. Some of last nights have started coming in but the target photos haven’t landed yet.”
“Thank you, Edwards.”
He left her to it and headed for his bed. She hung her gasmask bag and hat on her peg and parked herself behind her desk. Edwards had been his usual efficient self and arranged the buff coloured folders in squadron order and by date. The clock on the row of filing cabinets ticked in the silence. Her fingers drummed the desk while she chewed on her bottom lip, glancing at the folders.
She’d thought of Carter often the last few days. A thrill shot through her at the thought of his touch, his holding her and his blue eyes looking at her. Something had stirred in her that had lain dormant for a while.
She wanted to call him, to hear his voice, but with ops on there was no way he could call out from Amber Hill. She had flirted with the idea of putting a call through from her desk. A call from Group would be put through straight away but she couldn’t bring herself to do it, that would be going one step too far.
Her left hand reached out for the pile from the 14th but snapped back as another one of her staff turned in. She said good morning and turned to her In-tray. More reports came in from the squadrons and her staff began collating the data. The AOC wanted concise summaries backed up with facts and figures. Damage estimates would come later once the reconnaissance flights were made. Then they could start comparing what was claimed against what was evidenced.
She managed to keep herself occupied for an hour before her eye was drawn back to the folders. She could farm them out to her staff to look at, she knew that, but she needed to see for herself. She dragged one pile in front of her. She sorted through them, 44, 49, 50, 61, 83 squadron and so on until she got to fourth folder from the bottom and it was there, 363.
Her hands opened the folder but it felt like it was someone else doing it. She felt light headed and her fingers trembled as she looked at each sheet until she came to the one she was looking for. L-London, pilot, Flight Lieutenant Carter. The language was brief as most interrogation forms were. It noted the take off and return time, the bad weather and the difficulty in reaching the target with some other comments scrawled at the bottom.
The target photograph was clipped to the back of the report. She lifted the page and looked at the photo. There was not much to see. You could just make out the silhouette of another bomber below heading in the same general directions. A blanket of grey filled the frame and there was little ground detail visible. There were a few brights spots where the glow of flames lit up the clouds from below.
She put the reports back in the folder and closed it, shoving it back into the pile of squadron papers. She did the same with the reports from the previous night. She did well to hide her reaction when she read the account of the night fighter attack and the flight back. He’d made it back alive, that was all that mattered to her.
Carter slept badly. He found it hard to relax and let go from the nights events. That stab of fear he felt when the rounds thumped home had chilled him. It had been that close. He lay in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. It was odd not hearing Walsh snore in the bed across from him but the Liverpudlian had put down at Dalton Bride in south Lincolnshire. He would be back later.
He listened to the sounds of the airfield coming to life. Engines coughed as they were run up, the day shift starting to tend to the kites. As sleep remained elusive he eventually rolled out of bed and went on the prowl.
He found the erks hard at work on L-London in the hangar. The port wingtip was off and he looked at it again in the daylight. You could put your arm through the hole. Carter was amazed to find Chiefy Latimer still up and awake and directing the work. The man was a machine. Carter left them to it and headed to the Mess. He found White in the bar and handed his ex-second dicky a cup of tea and asked how he was.
“Tired, elated,” said White, his eyes shining as he tried to describe how he was feeling. “It’s like when you’ve drunk too much lemonade, sir. My stomach hasn’t quite settled down yet.” Carter grinned. He’d felt exactly the same when he flew his first op in charge. While other things had blurred with time, he would never forget that first operation.
Amber Hill remained locked down and the crews were summoned to briefing once more in the early afternoon. It was a tired bunch of men that shambled in to the briefing room for the third day in a row. Carters thoughts about the op were dark and malevolent. Bomber Command had them going in via the northern track across th
e North Sea once again. It was the same route they had flown the last two nights.
Although L-London wasn’t ready, Carter and his crew were on the duty list assigned to fly the spare, Q-Queen. The afternoon air test showed she was still a dog and Carter promised himself he’d have Woods ditch some of the load as soon as they were over water to give them a fighting chance to get up to height.
He was tempted to break Q-Queen or get stuck on the grass when taxying round to take off to avoid having to fly her. It had been bad enough flying her the first time, he didn’t really want to repeat the experience if he could help it, particularly when they were going back to a target that was bound to be waiting for them.
After all the work and preparation, they were scrubbed at 8pm. The winds were still high and the previous nights raid had shown the havoc a headwind could create. The main force had been scattered and the bombing results had been been poor. In addition, returning bombers had landed all over the place and none of the squadrons tasked for the nights operation had a full complement of aircraft to send up. A late decision was made to cancel the nights efforts.
The groundcrews trailed out to the aircraft to remove the bombs and return them to the bomb dumps. The men got changed out of their flying kit. Carter had been in the middle of pulling on his long johns and extra socks when the cancellation was announced. Carter found himself feeling conflicted at the news and his experience was not unique. After summoning the courage to fly and brave the flak and the fighters and the weather, it was an anticlimax to suddenly find the rug pulled out from under your feet.
Once you had steeled the nerve, it was better to just go. You had to mentally reset your clock to the next time. You had stolen another night of life and payment would be demanded in full at some point. Many found solace in alcohol, drifting out to the local pubs. A few hardier souls went to Lincoln but most stayed close to home.
Carter and Walsh retired to their billet. Wrung out from the last two days of flying they lay on their beds talking for a while. Walsh nursed a bottle of Whisky he dipped into for special occasions. Carter wrote a few letters and penned a note for Georgette. Carter finally fell asleep, propped up by pillows with paper and pencil in his lap.
Maximum Effort Page 27