“He doesn’t know yet. And don’t you go telling him either,” Georgette said sharply. “That’s not our story to tell.”
“I know.” He put the car in gear and pulled away. He shifted up through the gears and went a bit faster. “Well this is a fine old situation,” he muttered.
45 - With Great Power
Two days later, Group put them on the line. First time out, half the squadron was going and there was a crowd at the notice board outside the briefing room when the list went up. Carter was down to go. Cullen floated around in the background, picking up on the mood of the men, the elation at being chosen, the disappointment at missing out.
He watched as the squadron went to war. He went to the dump and saw the armourers getting the bombs ready, fitting the tails and fuses before loading them onto the trolleys. He rode one out to dispersal and watched the erks winch the bombs up into the cavernous bomb bay. Bowsers trundled round the peri track and each kite had its tanks topped up.
He sat in on the briefing. Rather than sit at the front, he picked a seat amongst the crowd so he could soak up the atmosphere. The mood was grim when they were told it was going to be another run at the Krupps Works at Essen. Flak city again. The Ruhr was something Cullen only read about in press releases or heard about in the news. Seeing the reactions of the crews made it seem more real.
He tried to think about how he could phrase what it was like. He thought about his own experiences on those raids in the desert and his time in France. That gave him some of the flavour to make the comparison. Briefings in the desert were very similar. The hushed quiet as you waited to hear what the target was going to be, then the details about bomb loads and take off times.
What struck him is that it was the scale that was different. Here, this squadron was just one of many that were going out this night. It was a long way from a single squadron of Blenheims and Wellingtons going out to bomb an encampment, or a vehicle park in North Africa.
Carter felt buoyant. He had every confidence in the Lancaster. They were going to be able to get a lot higher than they could in their Manchester so they’d be able to avoid a lot of the flak. He glanced across at Byron and Flynn. This would be their first time out. Flynn grinned back at him. In contrast, Byron looked sick to his stomach.
Cullen rode out with them to dispersal. He sat next to Carter watching him, trying to gauge his mood. Carter said nothing. He was starting to think about the mission ahead of them, picturing the route. Flynn and Byron said little. Todd and Murphy on the other hand were very chatty, joking away, trying to get a reaction from Vos who sat quietly chain smoking, lighting the next off the remains of the last.
Murphy was talking about a new conquest of his, a WAAF in the parachute section. He’d already had a secret assignation with her in the packing shed out of hours. It turned out silk parachute canopies made a wonderfully comfortable mattress.
“Of course, I told her she needed to be careful,” said Murphy, drawing his story to a close.
“Is this the blonde?” Todd asked. Murphy nodded. “I know the one you mean,” said Todd. “She’s a magnet that girl.”
Murphy’s brow scrunched up while he thought about that.
“I don’t get it,” he replied, his face showing his confusion.
“A magnet mate,” Todd prompted him. He paused for effect. “Attractive from behind, bloody repulsive from the front.”
The truck erupted in laughter, they loved it.
“Yeah, yeah,” moaned Murphy, trying to shake it off. He banged his head when the truck stopped with a sudden jerk.
“L-London!” shouted the driver.
They got out and Todd took it upon himself to correct the driver.
“That’s L for Lady mate, and don’t you forget it!”
The groundcrew were waiting for them. Todd nabbed some cotton waste and shoved it into the front of his leather flying suit. Byron sat at his station, the row of dials swimming in front of him. This was it. He felt a thump on his shoulder and he turned to see Woods smiling at him.
“You’ll be fine,” the big man told him. Byron nodded, not trusting his voice.
Carter climbed up the ladder into the nose and came into the cockpit. He stowed his parachute pack and settled himself in his seat, working the rudder pedals back and forth. He pulled back on the yoke and then plugged in the R/T.
“Crew check in.” They were prompt as ever.
The engines started up. Todd sat next to Murphy, leaning against the rear spar. He closed his eyes and murmured a silent prayer to himself. Last time out they had a roller coaster ride for free. All he wanted tonight was a nice easy mission with no surprises.
Cullen stood next to Latimer and watched quietly as the Lancaster moved off. The four engines roared like banshees, the bass rumbling in his chest. The sounds battered his ears as the tang of the exhaust washed over him, the smell stinging his nostrils.
The truck dropped him off at the control tower. He went up to the second floor and joined Etheridge at the rail. Linkletter and Kent were there as well as Pullen. Tonight was a big night. As only the third squadron to be operating Lancasters, a lot of eyes were turned in their direction. After the Manchester’s had been such a disappointment, Group, Bomber Command HQ and the Air Ministry were anxious to see how this new bomber would perform.
Carter lined up at the end of the runway. He dabbed the brakes and brought the big bomber to a stop. He pulled the yoke back while Byron advanced the throttles, running up the engines, looking for mag drop. The airframe vibrated. Carter looked at him and Byron nodded, they were good to go. Carter released the brakes and advanced the throttles, Byron’s hand riding behind, ready to take over.
The Lady ran straight, Carer putting in a bit of rudder to offset the torque from the engines. The tail came up and he held her poised on her mainwheels. Byron read off the airspeed. Fully loaded with fuel and bombs, Carter held her down, used to the Manchester and her little ways. He needn’t have worried, the Lancaster almost leapt into the air as they climbed away into the night. Flaps up, wheels up, throttles set to climb, piece of cake.
No one got stuck on the peri track and there were no aborts. Etheridge went down to ops once they were all on their way. Wheeler was in his usual place, fielding phone calls from Group while the Corporal updated the blackboard with the takeoff times for each aircraft. In six hours time Etheridge wanted to see that board full with everyone back home. He saw Cullen sat in the corner with a cup of tea, nibbling on a biscuit. He walked over to him.
“What did you think of that?” he asked. Cullen stood up, brushing crumbs off his front.
“Impressive, sir. It wasn’t like that in the desert.”
“I’m sure,” said Etheridge smoothly, preening at the compliment.
“A lot less sandy too.”
Etheridge was good enough to laugh. He sat down next to the correspondent.
“It’s a game of patience. It’s not like the fighters who dash around and are up and down in an hour and back to see their popsie. We play the long game here. You might find it’s a bit boring for a while now the squadron’s on the way.”
Cullen patted the pocket of his battledress tunic. He tugged out a pad and a pencil.
“I’ve got some notes I can start writing up, sir.”
“I think we can do better than that,” Etheridge told him. He gestured towards a WAAF Sergeant. “Can we get Mister Cullen a typewriter and some paper please?” He pointed to a desk on the floor next to the big map table. “There okay?” he asked. Cullen nodded.
The WAAF went through the door in the corner down the corridor to one of the empty admin offices. She came back a few minutes later lugging a typewriter.
Etheridge went over to the bank of tables on the stage. Wheeler was sharpening a pencil, putting a sharp point on it. He carried on updating entries in the squadron book.
“I’m off to Group,” said Etheridge. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” Wheeler nodded.
Over The North Sea, The Lady was cl
imbing like she was on rails. Carter thought about poor old L-London. At this point they would be straining for every foot. Now, it seemed effortless. He relaxed and rolled his neck. The only thing with the Lancaster having no second pilot was that he couldn’t hand off to Jensen to take a break. With some trepidation, Carter turned on George, the autopilot. He could never quite bring himself to completely relax when a machine was running the plane. He watched the yoke as it moved on its own, twitching back and forth.
So far, the good weather Linkletter had predicted held. The sun had gone down two hours before but the western sky was still purple on the horizon, the rest a cloud streaked darkening blue. Stars twinkled in the gathering dark. Carter looked over the big expanse of wing, seeing a thin sheen of ice glistening in the weak moonlight. The Lancaster was purring along.
In the tail, Todd tugged the cotton waste out of the front of his heated suit. He polished the perspex on the inside of his turret but he wasn’t happy with it. There was condensation starting to freeze on the perspex which could affect his view.
In the mid upper turret, Murphy span his turret slowly one way in a complete revolution and then the other, very happy indeed. It was a relief to no longer have to scrunch up his shoulders like he’d had to in the Botha turret.
They crossed the coast on track, it was when they turned inland that they ran into a headwind. Gusting between twenty and thirty knots, it was like pushing against a pack in the scrum.
“What’s that going to do to us?” Carter asked his navigator.
Woods, did some quick calculations. He took a mean average and assumed that would remain constant on the outward legs. He clicked on his R/T.
“Puts us about fifteen minutes behind, skipper.”
“Roger.”
In the nose, Flynn was calling out landmarks for Woods. With a full time bomb aimer, they had an extra pair of eyes to help with the navigating for which Woods was eternally grateful.
He stood up from his navigating table and went to the astrodome to stretch his legs. He saw Vos twirling the dials, searching the frequencies for any snatches of German. Looking down the gloom of the fuselage he could just make out Murphy’s legs dangling down as he sat in his turret.
Going back to his station he dug into his navigators bag and pulled out a thermos flask. He poured a cup of tea and nudged Byron on the shoulder. The Flight Engineer looked at him and Woods nodded towards Carter. Byron understood and he held the steaming cup up for his pilot. Carter took it and cradled the mug in his lap, sipping from it slowly as they cruised along.
Murphy saw another bomber off to the right. It was a Lancaster and he edged in, careful in case the gunners took a sudden shot at them. He saw the letter M on the fuselage. It was Fish Salmon’s aircraft and Carter advanced the throttles slightly until they drew level with him.
Salmon rocked his wings. Carter rocked his back and they flew like that for a few minutes, as if they were the only aircraft in the sky. Carter saw Salmon waving in the cockpit. He waggled his wings one last time and then closed the throttles, letting Salmons Lancaster slowly draw ahead.
They turned south at Borken. At least Woods hoped they were. The cloud cover Linkletter had predicted had moved in and played havoc with his dead reckoning. Carter climbed to take them over the clouds to avoid any icing conditions. Even with Flynn up front, he could only pass on sightings if he could actually see anything. There were occasional breaks in the clouds but that didn’t help very much if there was nothing identifiable underneath.
As they got closer to their time on target, something had obviously been bombed, as the horizon was glowing with flames. The usual trick with the Ruhr valley was whether or not it was the right place. Aside from hitting the wrong town, there was always the possibility that decoy fires were drawing attention away from the actual target. Flashes on the horizon showed the flak had started.
In the cockpit next to Carter, Byron looked over the edge of the canopy, his eyes wide like saucers. Minelaying with a scratch crew in a tired Stirling at OTU was nothing like this. This was what it was all about, the big leagues.
Flak went off above them, bright sparkles in the darkness. Carter started weaving left and right, putting in gentle turns either side of their track. He told the gunners to keep an eye out for nightfighters.
Murphy and Todd acknowledged and redoubled their efforts to sweep the skies around them. Todd muttered and cursed under his breath. He wiped at the perspex again with the cotton waste, pissed off that he couldn’t see properly. A 110 could get within fifty yards and he’d probably miss him. That wasn’t how he wanted to go out.
Up front there was a three way debate between Carter, Flynn and Woods. The Canadian had come up to the cockpit beside Carter and was looking outside, trying to pick up any landmark. Flynn peered below at a sea of white. They were close, but close wasn’t good enough for Woods.
When they turned south, the headwind had become a crosswind. Woods had laid off a course allowing for that deviation, but without a fix, he had no idea if they had drifted west or east.
The clouds were lit up from underneath by the flashes of gunfire and the beams of searchlights. Whiteout. Up ahead there was a sudden flash and one big streak of flame was followed by three others. A bomber had blown up and the petrol tanks were consuming themselves during their rapid descent.
The flak intensified and The Lady rocked in the turbulence of another bomber ahead of them. Carter sideslipped left to find some clear air. In the next moment there was a massive flash a few hundred yards ahead and for a brief instant, Carter had a glimpse of a twin tailplane, silhouetted against the explosion as its bomb load cooked off. Carter climbed to get over the flying bits of wreckage.
“Jesus,” muttered Flynn. “You could walk on this.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” replied Carter, “wait till we’re over Berlin.” Flynn held a hand in front of his face as they were suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree. A blue master light fixed them in its glare and two other searchlights began moving to cone them.
“Hang on everyone,” Carter shouted over the R/T. He shoved the throttles through the gates and Byron appeared at his shoulder, ready to take over just in case. The Merlins screamed at full power and the Lanc bucked through the hailstorm of shrapnel as the flak guns zeroed in.
Carter banked right and the world went sideways. Byron sank almost to his knees as his weight increased rapidly, his feet glued to the floor. Carter reversed the turn, banked left and then used the speed gained in the dive to haul the nose up to claw back the altitude he’d lost. They left the searchlights behind, the sky filled with bursts of flak. For a moment, Carter thought this must be how U-Boat Captains felt when they were being depth charged by Destroyers.
“Everyone okay?” he asked. Flynn and Vos responded rapidly. Murphy replied next. Todd took a moment as he wiped vomit off his front. His head was spinning and his skin was clammy. He used the cotton waste to clear the crap from his oxygen mask.
Byron managed to make his voice sound normal while his stomach tried to tie itself in knots. Woods was the last to respond. He had fallen over during the evasive manouveurs and unknowingly tugged out his intercom connection.
“Make your mind up Woody. I don’t want to stooge around here tonight.”
Woods went back to his station. He picked the chart up off the floor and smoothed it out, peering at it under the small lamp.
They could be over Essen, Gelsenkirchen, Duisburg or even Dortmund. He couldn’t believe they were further south than that, but if they were they could be over Dusseldorf. He did some quick calculations and scratched his head as he pondered the possibilities. He erred more towards Dortmund or Gelsenkirchen himself. Both Duisburg and Dusseldorf were on the Rhine and even with the heavy cloud they should have been able to see the winding river.
His stomach lurched as a burst of flak went off underneath them. The Lancaster reared up and then dropped again as Carter fought the controls.
“Bollocks,�
�� he muttered to himself. There was no way they were going up and down tonight to find the right place. The Ruhr was filled with bloody factories. He was the captain, it was his decision. “Flynn, find something that looks like a factory and get cracking.”
“Yes skipper.” Flynn looked through the bomb sight. Find a factory the man had said. That was easier said than done. The clouds were thinner to port, they should have a look over there. “Come left twenty degrees,” he ordered.
Carter duly obliged. He saw the gap in the clouds himself and realised what Flynn was doing.
Flynn settled himself. It was only a partial break, but at least he could see the ground. There was no water in sight, but apart from that there was little else of note. The wisps of cloud at least let him have a stab at guessing the wind strength and allowing for drift. He adjusted the sight and blinked, trying to pick up a feature.
Even at altitude he could see a row of large flat roofed buildings and some tall chimneys that belched dark smoke into the sky. There were a few fires down there and he sighted on the biggest clump.
“That’ll do me,” he murmured. He looked at the smoke, watching it move to adjust for drift. “Left a bit, left.” The cross wind was pushing them right and he ordered more left to counter it. Flynn selected to drop everything with a half second delay so they could straddle the buildings. “Steady now. Keep on this. Steady.” He jabbed the release.
“Bombs gone!” he shouted.
Carter waited for the camera to take its pretty picture.
“Course Woody?” he shouted.
“Steer one seven five!” said Woods. “Then in five minutes come to two six five magnetic.”
“Roger, one, seven, five then two, six, five. Eyes peeled everyone, there might be fighters waiting for us on the run out.”
A few random bursts of flak went off near by, but nothing came in their direction. Byron relaxed when they left it behind. He kept himself busy with his instruments, making sure the engines were behaving. After a few minutes they turned and headed west, pushed along now by the wind. The heavy cloud began to thin and Carter climbed back up to their starting height.
Maximum Effort Page 52