“Over two hundred fifty aircraft are going to attack the Renault works at Billancourt in the western suburb of Paris.” The murmurs from the assembled crews went up again but he spoke over them this time, raising his voice, pitching it to carry without having to shout. “We are going to go over the target in two hours.”
Voices got louder. Some shouted an objection to packing so many aircraft into such a small amount of airspace in so short a time. Everett held up a hand for quiet and came back to the front of the stage.
“Now I know what you’re thinking. One hundred twenty aircraft an hour over the target area means there’s a good chance of a collision, but the risks have been considered.” Someone snorted at the back and Everett shot them a steely look, his usual casual demeanor absent. “It’s nearly a full moon tonight, so you’ll have bags of opportunity to see whats going on around you.”
He cocked his head, seeing the doubt on some of their faces.
“Maybe this will help,” he told them. “The attack will be staged in three waves. We will be going in as part of the second wave.” He let that sink in; then unleashed the final surprise. “And we’ll be going in at four thousand feet.”
The room erupted in consternation again while Carters mouth went dry. He was appalled. Even on his first tour, he had never bombed lower than seven or eight thousand.
“Yes, that’s not a mistake, four thousand feet. Like I said, casualties is a concern. Going in low, means getting a good sight on the target. To help things along the first wave is going to be preceded by aircraft dropping flares to improve visibility even further.”
That quietened them down a bit. Flares had not been used before, but it made sense. Air dropping a bunch of flares to illuminate the target should make this easier.
“I cannot impress upon you enough, that if you cannot get a good fix on a target. Do NOT drop your bombs. That is a direct order from Bomber Command HQ. Am I clear?” He was clear and no one said anything.
Everett handed off to Kent and the intelligence officer took them through the plan in more detail. 363 would start taking off at 9.30pm at one minute intervals. Church reminded them to watch where they were going, he didn’t want the schedule getting screwed up by someone straying off the peri track and getting stuck.
Kent showed them enlarged photographs of the factory complex, the equipment sheds and the main factory buildings. Carter could see why there was a concern over casualties, the place was surrounded by residential buildings. A few stray bombs would cause havoc.
“The factory makes trucks, thousands of trucks for the Wermacht and Luftwaffe. If we can go in and knock it flat, we’ll put a massive dent in their war production. There are very few flak batteries in the area so there shouldn’t be much to worry you. Defences should be light.” For once that failed to attract the usual chuckles of good humour from amongst the crowd. The mood was brittle and a joke about flak was no laughing matter when you were going in at four thousand.
“I bloody hope so,” Walsh half hissed, half whispered to Carter. “At four thousand they’ll be able to pick us off like bloody pigeons.”
“Coconut shy,” murmured Carter, echoing their previous conversation.
“Har bloody har,” said Walsh, genuinely worried. Over Brest, the flak had been stiff, but at ten thousand feet, a bomber weaving back and forth was hard to hit. At four thousand feet, coming over in a more compact group, there would be little point in jinking. The mood lightened slightly when someone at the back asked what the Michelin guide rated the canteen at the factory.
Linkletter did his usual skit. He showed them the weather charts. To everyone but him they were just a bunch of lines and he got the usual applause when he said the station would be open on their return as long as they were back by midnight.
Church came up last. He was stern and serious. This was a big thing tonight, the biggest raid yet but there was a lot of risk attached. The chatter was loud when he walked from the room; a staff car outside was waiting to take him to Group.
Conversation on the truck out to dispersal was spirited.
“I always wanted to see Paris,” said Murphy.
“You’ll certainly be doing that this time,” replied Jensen. Flying over the big city at four thousand feet, yes they would be seeing a lot of Paris. “We just might be seeing more of it than you thought,” he cautioned. “We won’t have much time to bail out if anything goes wrong so make sure you have your chutes close to hand.”
That killed the conversation for a moment while they thought about that one.
“You’re full of good news, boss.” complained Todd. “It’s alright for you. I’m stuck in my turret.”
Jensen clapped him on the shoulder, exuding bonhomie.
“You’ll be fine digger. Knowing your luck you’ll jump out, crash through someones skylight and land in a brothel.”
“They’d keep you there for the duration and you could breed lots of kangaroos,” said Murphy.
There was much hilarity at that, they liked that. Even Todd smiled, cheered by the thought of lots of plump French pigeons wrapping their thighs around him.
“That would be nice,” he said dreamily.
Only Carter kept himself apart. He couldn’t bring himself to participate in the bravado. He felt sick to his stomach at the thought of going in at four thousand feet. If ever there was a night for L-London to behave, this was it. There would be no buffer of altitude to get them home.
The truck dumped them off at dispersal and they got aboard. Jensen christened the rear wheel and then fastened himself up. He had started to do it since that run over Brest and this was his little tradition now before the engines were started up.
Carter couldn’t believe it. The sky was devoid of explosions as the bomber force droned over the city. He was tense on the controls, straining forwards in his seat, expecting the guns to open up at them at any moment. L-London bobbed around as he over corrected the controls.
Ahead of them, the factory was burning. They came in from the north, following the line of the Seine, the water glittering silver in the moonlight. All around them were other aircraft and Carter felt hemmed in. He’d never flown with so many bombers in such close proximity before.
He stayed above four thousand feet. With so many bombers in the air, the last thing he wanted was someone dropping their load from overhead and a stray bomb smashing into them.
Up in the nose, Woods was enjoying the view. He hadn’t bombed from this low since training school in Canada and England. One searchlight waved back and forth but all it did was help guide them in. The factory was easy to find anyway. The first wave had done their work well and the centre of it was burning quite nicely by the time they turned up. He opened the bomb doors and fused the bombs.
He called out the corrections, sighting on a big triangular area filled with long sheds to the left of the main fire.They passed over the racecourse and he picked up his sighting, a long boulevard that led right to the factory.
L-London rocked in the turbulence of someone ahead. Carter caught it and smoothed out the ride, his hands working the yoke back and forth, softening the undulations. Woods voice was a dull monotone as he called out the corrections.
“Steady, steady. Almost there.”
L-London droned on. The crosshairs passed over the sheds and he hit the release.
“It’s away!”
Carter peeled off, circling east to go round Paris and then head north before handing control over to Jensen.
“You take her,” he said through clenched teeth, his head pounding fit to burst.
It was straightforward after that. They went north, passing over the places that were famous from the first world war, Arras, Bethune, Saint Omer. They crossed the coast between Dunkirk and Calais and stayed over the water until Norfolk was behind them. Their first flak of the evening was off the coast of Lowestoft when a Destroyer opened up at them. Rocking in the shockwave, Murphy ducked down from his turret and fired off the colours of the day.
He had to do it twice before the idiot sailors stopped.
They followed the coastline, crossed The Wash and passed north of Skegness before turning left. Jensen was surprised when Carter let him land. He brought the Manchester in over the fence, flared to perfection and put L-London down with hardly a screech of rubber. He taxied to dispersal and shut down.
At debriefing, the squadron was jubilant. More raids like that would make them very happy indeed. The only casualty was a tail gunner who’d caught a piece of shrapnel from the Lowestoft guns in a very embarrassing place. He was whisked off to hospital but he wouldn’t be sitting down for a while.
During interrogation, Woods tried to catch the eye of the red headed WAAF but she was busy with another crew. He hung around afterwards but couldn’t summon up the nerve to say anything to her. Feeling like an idiot he went back to his billet to get some sleep.
Still feeling rotten, Carter went sick for the first time in his RAF career and went to see the MO. The doctor shone a light in his eyes, looked at his tongue, asked him to balance on one foot and then told him to sit down. Taking the top off his fountain pen he made a few notes.
“How long have you felt like this?” he asked, his voice abstract, almost disinterested.
“A day or two. It was just a headache at first.”
He winced when the doctor shone his little torch in his eyes again. His nose stung and his eyes were sore.
“Been anywhere cold?”
“You mean apart from the billets?” Carter asked sarcastically.
“Yes, apart from the billets.” The doctor waited patiently for him to answer.
“I went to the coast a few days ago.”
The doctor tapped the pen off his teeth. He cocked his head to one side and looked at Carter again with an appraising eye. Pressing gently with his fingers he touched either side of his patients nose. Carter flinched and pulled his head back.
“That might do it. Did you get cold?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I was well wrapped up but I was out for a few hours.”
“Hmmm.” The pen scratched on paper. The doctor reached for a shelf above his desk and handed over a small glass bottle of pills. “Take these. You’ve got very swollen sinuses, Mr Carter. Painful?”
Carter hesitated, his natural contrariness coming out. He nodded.
“A bit.”
The doctor grinned. In aircrew parlance, a bit equaled, a lot; probably very much. Typical air crew, toughing it out. He’d heard from an MO at another station that one pilot had flown three ops in a week while suffering from pleurisy. Stupid, but brave. He nodded in sympathy.
“Well you were flying pretty low weren’t you? I assure you it’ll be a lot more painful up at twelve thousand feet, or fifteen thousand even. You’d be screaming your head off then. You’ve managed to get a sinus infection, maybe picked up a cold at the same time, so you’re grounded for a few days.” He finished writing in Carter’s notes. “Come back in three days time and we’ll see how you are.”
37 - Fingernails
Being grounded on an active station was hell. Carter spent two days in bed, his head aching fit to burst. It hurt to sneeze, his throat was dry and he had no energy at all. He managed to beg a few lemons from the cookhouse so he could sit up in bed, sipping on hot water with slices of lemon in.
He spoke to Georgette on the telephone and she was full of concern but he talked her out of coming over. For one, it was no easy trip for her coming over from Grantham, secondly there was not much she could do. Besides, he didn’t really want her seeing him like this. It was stupid, but he had an awful bedside manner and he knew he’d be no fun.
His crew came to see him. No one brought grapes, Murphy brought a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. Carter let Walsh eat them later. With his throat feeling like it did, it would be like eating razorblades.
Walsh regaled him with tales of the Mess party the night after the raid on Paris. Everyone coming back in one piece was a good enough reason to celebrate, not that they needed much of a reason for a party. Lord Haw-Haw decried the bombing, claiming hundreds of French civilians had been killed but they dismissed the broadcast as blatant propaganda. Church had read out a letter of congratulations from Bomber Command HQ passing on the thanks of the French government in exile.
On the third day, he went back to see the MO. The examination was cursory, the doctor could see he was no better. His nose was an angry red, his eyes were mere slits and he was running a slight temperature. The doctor gave him some more pills and told him to come back again in three days.
He spent the morning in the bath. He ran the water until it was just under his chin and he let the steam work its magic. His headache eased and he lay back, eyes closed. Walsh came looking for him to make sure he was all right.
“Bloody hell, you alive in here?” he asked, wafting his arms at the clouds of steam that cascaded through the door.
“Oi!” Carter objected as the draught rushed into the room. “Yes, I’m alive.” Walsh left him to it, telling him he was going to Lincoln for some liquid relaxation.
After soaking for an hour, he felt slightly more human. All pruney and wrinkled, he got dressed and went off to see Georgette. There were no ops on and with it being a Saturday, she had the day off. The drive over was hell. He took his time with the window wide open, his eyes streaming.
Mrs Lloyd let him into the parlour and Georgette almost flew down the stairs to see him. She was full of concern as soon as she saw him. He looked grotty. His eyes were puffy and there were dark circles underneath them. She went to kiss him and he turned his head so she ended up kissing his cheek.
“Darling, I was worried about you.”
“I’m okay,” he sniffed and tried not to wince at the pain. “The doc says it’ll be a few more days.” He shivered at the cold in the parlour. Georgette would have taken him up to her room, but Mrs Lloyd had very strict rules on that. There was no chance of sneaking him up there without getting caught.
They went out in the car to the pub a few streets away. They could have walked but Georgette didn’t want him getting any colder than he had to. She almost dragged him into the back room and parked him nearest to the fire. She came back from the bar with a horlicks for him, a cup of tea for her.
The drive over might have been hell, but Carter was pleased he had made the trip. It was good to see her, especially since their walk along the Fens the previous weekend. She held his hands and was amused to see him feeling so sorry for himself. He had slumped in his seat and there was something almost endearing at how pathetic he looked.
They discussed their upcoming leave. Carter asked if she minded his changing where they went. Rather than go north, he wanted to see White which meant going south of London. Georgette wasn’t bothered where they went, she was just happy to spend some time with him. Besides, if they went to London they could stay a few days with her family. She was looking forward to her sisters reaction when she introduced him.
He dropped her off at her digs and returned to Lincoln. Worn out by the excursion he went straight to bed and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
The following day, he felt marginally better. His nose still hurt, but the sore throat was on its way out. Feeling vaguely human he took his time over breakfast and then retired to the lounge in the Mess. He sank into an armchair, his eyes shaded with sunglasses while he consumed cups of tea.
He surfaced after lunch and went for a walk. It was mild outside, the cold of the last few weeks banished by a warm front moving in. The sun feebly poked through some clouds, perfect weather for ops. Carter’s suspicions were confirmed when the crews were called to briefing. He shuffled in with them to find it was a run to Essen.
Like the raid on the Renault factory, over two hundred aircraft would be going and Carter got a feeling that this was how operations were going to be from now on. Gone were the days of them going here there and everywhere in small penny packets. This was the big leagues now, with massed raids to b
ig targets. The main target was to be the Krupps factory with lead aircraft going in to mark the way for everyone else to follow.
Still grounded, Carter was concerned when he saw his crew were listed to fly. He went to see Fish Salmon who informed him that Jensen would pilot L-London and a new second dicky, fresh from training would fly the right seat. Carter was about to object when Salmon reminded him that he himself had recommended that Jensen was ready for his own crew now.
“Look on this as a dry run,” his flight commander had told him evenly.
Time dragged. Normally he would be busy, geeing himself up for the coming op, getting some rest, sorting his stuff out before that final walk out to the aircraft. Grounded, there was none of that, just a looming pit of time that needed to be filled. When it was time he caught the flight truck out to dispersal with them and watched them get on board. Jensen did a thorough walk around and got on last. He seemed very young all of a sudden. Carter shook his hand warmly.
“See you when we get back, sir?”
“See you do,” Carter told him.
He stepped back and joined Latimer at the edge of the hard standing. Jensen gave him a thumbs up out of the side window of the cockpit. Latimer pointed at the port engine. Jensen shouted, “CONTACT!” and the engine coughed and spluttered as the prop started turning. It caught and blurred into life with a roar. L-London taxied out and never did Carter feel more bereft than at that moment. That was his crew going off to war and he wasn’t going with them.
Walsh followed them out and he stood watching as the two Manchester’s disappeared into the dark, the blue stab of their exhaust flame the only thing visible. As the noise of the engines receded, a Tilly drew up alongside him. Church wound the window down on the drivers side.
“I thought I would find you here. Come on, no point moping, get in.”
Carter opened the passenger door and got in. Church pulled away before he even shut the door and drove to the control tower. Church went straight up to the second floor and went out onto the balcony with Carter following silently behind. Group Captain Etheridge was already there as was Everett.
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