The crews couldn’t get off the station fast enough. After days of hanging around Amber Hill, they had run out of magazines and newspapers to read and seeing the same four walls was getting boring. They hopped on the trucks and buses and headed to Lincoln en masse.
Carter rang Wilkinson at Group to ask about Helen but there was no answer. He resisted the urge to call Georgette. Ringing her in her office would be unfair and might embarrass her. He had a snooze in his room then went to the Mess for lunch, retiring to the smoking room to let his food settle. He pawed at the magazines but nothing tickled his fancy. The newspapers were days old and he had no energy to read about the continuing advance of the Japanese. He had a wander and found Walsh in the lounge reading a book.
“I’d have thought you’d have gone to town?”
“Skint,” replied Walsh, his voice monotone while he focused on his book. Carter sat down across from him. Silence descended. Carter caught a stewards eye and asked for a beer. Carter heard snatches of someone playing the piano in the bar as the lounge doors opened and closed. The clock ticked loudly.
Carter twisted his mouth and drummed his fingers on the sofa. He levered himself up and walked over to the sideboard. He opened one of the cabinet doors and dug out a chess board and a box of pieces. He walked back over to Walsh. He held up two pawns, one white, one black.
“Fancy a game?”
Walsh looked over the top of his novel. There was an obvious pause while he thought about it, then he closed the book with a snap and put it on the side table next to him.
“Why not?”
They began laying the board. Carter pointed at the side table.
“What were you reading?”
“Detective novel.” Walsh glanced back at the spine to remind himself of the title. “The Case Of the Screaming Man.” Carter grunted.
“Never heard of it.”
“Neither had I.”
“Any good?”
Walsh shrugged. He had been reading without really absorbing anything. He would have been pushed to name the main characters if Carter asked him.
With the board set, Walsh moved first as white, advancing a pawn two spaces. Both of them played without really concentrating. They were like two house cats. Bored, but too lazy to expend any energy doing anything else. Even walking from their billet to the Mess had been an effort. The wind cut through you and it reminded Carter sharply of his little stroll in the countryside on New Years Eve.
They won two games each. The hands wound round the clock. A few people turned up, said hello and went through to the bar. It got dark outside. As they were setting up for another game, Saunderson came rushing into the lounge like scalded cats, buzzing with energy as he looked this way and that.
“Drop the game, chaps. Bit of a flap on,” he said in a rush.
That got their attention. Kent’s head appeared round the double doors. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Come on, Harold. I’ve got them from the bar.”
“Follow me,” Saunderson told them. “There’s a rush job on.” Without waiting for a reply he was already heading for the door. Carter and Walsh were hot on his heels. In the time it took them to get their coats and caps, Saunderson was well ahead, waiting for no one. They skipped to catch up as the tannoy crackled into life calling all available aircrew to report to the briefing room immediately.
Church and Everett were waiting for them. Group Captain Etheridge arrived in his staff car the same time Carter and Walsh got down from their truck. They quickly snapped to attention and fired off a salute as Etheridge went straight past them in the gathering gloom, his face set, his attention focused elsewhere.
Saunderson disappeared in the trucks in a cloud of blue exhaust smoke. Fish Salmon rounded the corner leading a pack of Flight Sergeants. A few more bodies trailed across in the distance. Some jogged, one or two rode bicycles across the snow encrusted grass, the wheels leaving a dark trail behind them, like slugs on a patio. They sat down, the atmosphere in the room electric as Etheridge took the stage.
“Gentlemen. It would appear that Jerry has been getting a bit cocky. Not content with trailing their coat tails under our noses a few days ago, it would seem that Prinz Eugen has been gadding about again. The only difference is that this time, a submarine has slammed some torpedoes into her fat behind and she is now sheltering in a Norwegian fjord near Trondheim.” There was a rustle of interest. “The Royal Navy are going in for the kill and will strike using aircraft from a carrier.” The buzz of excitement ratcheted up a few more notches. “We are going to clear a path for the Fleet Air Arm and make diversionary raids on Luftwaffe airfields.” The excitement became consternation. He looked at the assembled throng and nodded to Church. “Carry on.”
The room came to attention as Etheridge left the stage and strode down the central aisle. Church stepped up, looking at the men. There was not one complete crew in front of him with most of the squadron off the station doing god knows what. He thought someone had been kidding when he answered the telephone in his office. Rounding up the men was going to be difficult, they had a few hours head start and could have scattered all over the place with money burning a hole in their pockets. He’d had to move fast. The groundcrews were getting the aircraft ready while Saunderson had been tasked to round up whoever he could lay his hands on as quickly as possible.
“Listen. We’re going to attack the fighter airfield at Stavanger.” His voice dropped into a pit of silence.
After Etheridge had said Prinz Eugen was in Norway, the navigators in the room had done some maths in their head and the sums didn’t come out too well. It was a long way, not far off the limits for the Manchester. What was worse was the long run over water there and back. If anyone had engine trouble they’d be ending up in the drink and they all knew the odds of surviving in the frigid waters of the North Sea at this time of year.
Kent saved the final touch while they were getting ready. They had to attack Stavanger before first light, shortly before the fish heads were due to launch their raid. Under no circumstances were they to attempt a daylight attack over a fighter airfield. He made his instructions very clear. If they couldn’t make it in time they were to dump their bombs and come home.
Woods thought about that as he sat on the bench in front of his locker, making sure he had everything. Although Carter flew the plane, it was his job as navigator to get them there and back; a lot would depend on him. The thing was, there wasn’t much he could do this time. There was no big dogleg they could cut short, it was straight out and straight back. A lot would depend on the predicted winds, particularly on the way out.
He shoved a few spare pencils into his navigators bag and two more down the side of his left flying boot. He emptied his pockets of personal items and chucked the bits and pieces into the locker before closing the door. He clumped down the aisle and went outside. The cool air was refreshing and he unzipped his jacket slightly, letting the cold get in.
Carter looked around the crew room as he dressed. No one had a complete crew and everyone was talking over each other wondering what they were supposed to do. Kent and Church walked into the middle of the babble and shouted for quiet.
“We need to hustle on this chaps. No point waiting around to make up your regular crew. Get your heads together, sort yourselves out and get down to the kites as soon as you can.”
The noise started again as they tried to organise. It was like being back at OTU, when they had stood in hangars and got together. People shouted, “need a nav here. Gunners, we need gunners!”
Order came out of the chaos and Carter picked up two gunners from the room. He went out the door with Jensen and Vos to stand by Woods. Vos had his jacket under one arm and his parachute harness over his shoulder. He dumped them on the ground and checked the pockets on his short battledress, hunting for a packet of cigarettes. Woods gave him one and the Belgian cupped his hand to shield the match from the breeze.
A truck took them out to dispersal and
Carter looked across at his two new additions. One of them, Anderson was casually smoking a cigarette, completely calm. A ten op man, he had flown with three crews already so this was nothing new for him. He was a journeyman who bounced around from one crew to another.
The other, Paulson, had been Dickinson’s tail gunner. This was his first time going back out on an op and he was quiet with mixed feelings of guilt and relief that he was still here. When the Flight Commander had gone down over Brest, Paulson had been in a warm hospital bed with a bad cold and swollen glands.
Vos stared back at him with his usual laconic expression, passive blue eyes hooded, guarded. Woods looked fed up. Carter arched an eyebrow at him but the big Canadian just shrugged and moodily stared at the floor of the truck, shuffling his feet. Jensen was the only one who seemed eager to go. Carter marked that up to his inexperience.
L-London was still being bombed up as they arrived. Latimer and the erks were rushing around, doing the final checks. Snow had been brushed off the wings and fuselage and the canopy was being polished as they got down from the trucks. Carter turned as Walsh called over to him.
“Hey, Alex.”
“You ready?” Carter asked his room mate. Walsh’s mouth twisted and he looked genuinely worried. He only had Nicol with him, the rest of his crew had gone to town so he had a real pick and mix. His gunners were two first timers fresh out of OTU and the navigator had only done two trips. Walsh looked around to see who was in earshot but everyone else was too busy.
“Look, no blame on the lad but a rush job like this with no prep is not the way I want to find out if my man is any cop as a navigator. Can I tag along after you?”
“Sure. Just follow me in.”
Walsh looked visibly relieved and they shook hands before going to their respective aircraft. Latimer was waiting for Carter under the nose. Fresh snow was starting to fall and the wind was beginning to rise again. Latimer blew into a handkerchief.
“Sorry, sir.” He wiped his nose. “She’s all ready for you.” He held out the form 700 on a clipboard. Carter took it and began his walk around. He peered into the long bomb bay while the armourers were still in the process of winching up the last bomb. He left them to it and walked towards the tail.
They took off ten minutes later. Latimer blew into his handkerchief again as he watched them go. The snow was getting heavier.
They took off into the night. It was just under five hundred miles to Stavanger in a straight run which left very little in reserve in case of problems. The crew was silent as they flew on. Murphy and Todd scanned the inky black sky, occasionally seeing a shower of exhaust sparks from another aircraft heading in the same direction as them. Some elected to go high but Carter kept them at 4,000ft. Linkletter had told them there could be heavy clouds on the way over and the last thing he wanted was to ice up the wings and props.
Heading east as they crossed the coast, Carter looked left over his shoulder. Walsh was still there, a few hundred yards away keeping loose formation on him. The atmosphere on board was grim. Everyone was unsettled at the rushed nature of the raid. Being given a point on a map to go to and told to figure out the rest yourself didn’t fill a chap with much confidence.
They picked up a headwind and were surrounded by flurries of snow. Woods started tapping a pencil off his teeth as he did some sums on a scratch pad. He had Jensen get the readings off the fuel gauges so he could figure out their consumption. Jensen was wary as he watched the engine temperatures slowly climb. They could keep the engines going full belt for a while but sooner or later they would have to back off and give them a break.
They flew on in the dark, the thick clouds stacked up ahead of them as the headwind increased. Carter peered through the gloom and could see the dark sky starting to lighten. The deep blues and blacks were tinged with purple as the first rays of day were creeping over the horizon. It got slowly lighter as each minute passed. Carter glanced at his watch.
“Talk to me, Woody.”
The silence was agonising. Woods checked his sums, crossed one set of figures out and added them up again.
“Can I flip a coin?” he asked, his voice tinged with strain. “It’s going to start getting light at 0540 hours. If the headwind doesn’t get any worse we can just make it, but it’s going to be close.”
“Five to one,” Paulson muttered, voicing what everyone else was thinking.
“Cute, but keep the R/T clear please,” Carter admonished.
They carried on while Carter considered what to do. Ultimately it was his decision. He never held with polling opinions on this sort of thing. He was the aircraft commander, it was up to him.
It wasn’t just the attack he was concerned with. He wanted to drop his bombs in the dark and be on his way home before the lightening sky left them standing out like a pair of Bulldogs bollocks. Going in late, the defences would be stirred up, and if fighters managed to get airborne they were dead. He hated turning back but there was pressing on and there was pushing your luck. He waggled his wings to let Walsh know what he was doing as he gently guided L-London round the turn.
As they were briefing at Amber Hill, Todd and Murphy were playing darts in The Crown. Near to closing time, the pub was heaving. It felt like all of 5 Group had descended on the place. Murphy kept looking over to the bar, seeing Muriel moving back and forth, serving drinks. Every so often she looked over to him when she had a moment. He checked his watch. Another half hour or so and he could have some fun.
Todd stubbed out a cigarette and lit another one. He took a long drag on it and then threw his three darts. Fifty five, pathetic. Murphy marked it up on the blackboard to the left of the dart board. They changed places. Murphy fired off his three darts in quick succession, one after another. Two double tops and a twenty. Todd grimaced and added one hundred to Murphy’s score.
“You going to tell her?” he asked Murphy.
“Nope. No plans to change anything.” He gave Muriel a little wave while he stood leaning against the wall, his left hand on top of the dart board.
Todd’s mouth twisted in disapproval. He shot a look towards the bar, caught Muriel’s eye and tried to give her an encouraging smile. She scowled at him in return.
Todd sighed and fired off a dart which hit the board well above the scoring area, a mere inch or so from Murphy’s hand. Murphy tugged his hand back in reaction.
“Hey,” he warned.
“Sorry,” muttered Todd. “My judgement must be a bit off.” He threw another one well wide to the left, not far from where Murphy was standing. His third one went into the bullseye. Murphy glared at him. Before he could make a cutting reply there was some shouting at the bar.
Flanked by some SP’s, Kent was stood on the bar shouting for attention. When he got a modicum of quiet he called for any 363 squadron aircrew to come forward. Todd and Murphy pushed through the press of bodies to make themselves known.
“Here, sir.”
“Outside,” Kent said brusquely. “Trucks are waiting.” This was his fourth stop so far and he was in no mood to explain himself again and again. Murphy leaned over the bar and planted a quick kiss on Muriel’s lips.
“Save me a drink, love, I’ll be back later.”
“Hey, lover boy,” said Kent. “Move your arse.”
As soon as they got back to Amber Hill they were taken straight to the crew room to get ready. Fish Salmon was waiting to tell them what was going on. They sorted themselves out as they got ready. Murphy ended up with Tudor’s crew. Todd got lucky and was going out with Salmon.
Carter watched from the interrogation room as big fat flakes of white settled on the ground and started to pile up. The iron grey clouds moved in, driven by heavy winds and visibility dropped even further. He didn’t completely relax until Todd and Murphy appeared. Murphy got back with Tudor just after 8am. They had got within twenty miles of the coast before deciding to turn back.
Fish Salmon got in not long after. He made a nice three point landing, flaring on final appr
oach and putting his Manchester down with finesse even in the lousy weather.
The atmosphere at Amber Hill was odd, not at all like normal operations. Everyone was hanging around waiting for people to get back. Everything had been so rushed and so piecemeal, no check had been kept of who was flying with who. As each aircraft came in, they waited to see who got down from the trucks to get changed.
Saunderson rang round to see if anyone put down elsewhere. No one had. By the end of the day only Archers aircraft was missing. The press on man had perhaps pressed on once too often. Walsh felt the loss keenly, but not because Archer was gone. He couldn’t care less about Archer, but his wireless op and tail gunner had been flying with him. Walsh stayed up well past time in the Ops room waiting for a phone call that never came.
33 - New Broom
Prinz Eugen had gotten away with it again. In The Channel she had been shelled by coastal batteries at Dover but they had just caused a bunch of big splashes in the water. Some MTB’s had a go but the escorts had driven them off. Five British Destroyers were next but had missed with their torpedoes.
Getting torpedoed by a British submarine had been a bit of bad luck, but the navy had been hampered by the same bad weather as 363 and the Fleet Air Arm strike sent to finish her off was an abject failure. Prinz Eugen sat in her fjord, blowing raspberries at them, daring them to have another go.
After such a panicked mess, Bomber Command had a halfhearted stab at Wilhelmshaven that same night. There was a floating dock there the Germans might use to repair Prinz Eugen when she got back to home territory. The clouds got in the way again and most aircraft bombed blind, dropping their loads all over the place.
363 had no part of that so Church used the lull of the next few days to consolidate his squadron. After the chaos of the run to Norway, he had the crews up on training flights to settle themselves back down and return to the normality of routine.
Maximum Effort Page 40