In the nose, Flynn did his best to steady his jangling nerves. That had been worse than he imagined. He couldn’t imagine doing this another twenty nine times. He got into the nose turret and tracked left and right, scanning the sky ahead. It was colder in the turret, but right now he needed some fresh air to keep himself focused.
Coming up to midnight, the moon was high in the sky but it was only a thin sliver of light. Flynn continued to pass sightings of rivers and lakes and Woods got a decent fix at last. With the tailwind pushing them along they were ahead of schedule. Once clear of the known flak belts they turned north and headed home.
The rest of the trip was the usual monotony. Carter did regular checks to make sure everyone was awake and alert. Vos picked up some stations on the DF loop and passed fixes to Woods. Todd continued to fuss in his turret. The condensation on the perspex had turned to a thin sheen of ice and he was resigned to sorting it out once they got back.
They returned six hours after leaving Amber Hill. There were isolated clumps of ground mist but nothing to cause any issues in the circuit. They touched down and taxied to dispersal. Latimer was waiting to see them in and he directed them to their hard standing. Byron closed the throttles and shut the engines down once the chocks were wedged in place.
After being battered for the last six hours, Carter worked his jaw to clear his ears. They assembled under the bomber all smiles, that was another one chalked off. Carter patted the left mainwheel.
“Good girl,” he said. “Mark it up,” he said to Latimer. He signed the form 700 and they clambered wearily into the waiting truck to be taken to interrogation.
Cullen was waiting for them at interrogation. Sat with Kent, he listened to the crews make their reports, writing furiously in his pad. He yawned as he took a moment to refill his pen. It had been a long night for him. He’d talked with Wheeler for hours in ops. He found the man’s story fascinating; perhaps he would get to tell it another day.
Etheridge and Church circled the room slowly, listening to what the crews were saying. It was becoming clear that tonight had not been a good night. The heavy cloud and high winds had ballsed everything up. Aircraft had bombed all over the shop and they’d have to wait for the target photographs to get an idea of how the squadron had done. Back in ops, Wheeler was fielding reports of three Lancasters landing at other fields in the south.
Carter noticed her across the room when he picked up a tray of tea for the lads. He’d forgotten she’d be working tonight and he was amused to see Woods reaction. He looked very nervous and started hopping slightly from foot to foot, almost as if he needed to go the toilet. Yvonne was one of three WAAF’s that were doing the interrogations with Kent so it was a coin toss that she would be free when it was their turn. Of course, fate being fate.
“Next,” she said, without looking up from the table. She checked the form, made a correction and then signed the bottom of it. She put the sheet on the top of the pile. Carter and the rest of the boys slumped into the chairs in front of her. He had to admit she was good. She hid her surprise well, a mere widening of the eyes and a slight upwards pull to the sides of her mouth when she saw Woods.
“Crew?” she asked, her voice neutral.
“L7585, L-Lady,” said Carter
“Lady? You mean London?” she corrected him.
“He means, L for Lady, L-A-D-Y,” insisted Todd, watching carefully as she wrote down the serial number and letter, ready to pounce if she wrote London.
“Did you hit the target?” she asked and so the questions went on.
The biggest controversy was trying to pin down exactly where they bombed. Woods had been trying to figure that out on the return trip, backplotting once they’d got a fix. He gave up in the end. The Ruhr was too built up and places blended into one another. She wrote, ‘Not Determined’ on the form. Maybe the target photograph would provide the answer later on.
They passed the information of the aircraft they had seen going down, one over the target and two more on the return trip. She made a note of the approximate positions in a separate box. There were the usual questions after that regarding flak concentrations, enemy air attack and any other remarks. Woods said little, he just shifted in his seat, praying for it to end.
They went to the Mess for breakfast and Cullen went with them. It was his final step on the raid, the journey from beginning to end. He watched as tired meant ate, their reward after a long night full of danger. Woods wolfed down bacon and eggs. Vos had his hard boiled and was fastidiously cutting buttered toast into sticks so he could dip them into the yolk. Cullen asked how often weather interfered with operations.
“One in three? One in four maybe,” Carter informed him while munched on some toast. “I remember on my fist tour we used to go out on some filthy nights.”
“But if you go out on filthy nights, that makes bombing difficult right?”
Woods nodded.
“It’s not like throwing practise bombs in Canada,” he assured the reporter. “You’ve got to see something to bomb it.”
“Then why-”
“Because nightfighters love bright moonlit nights.” Carter cut him off, getting irritated by the questions. He was getting a little too tired to humour the man. “They roam up and down, hunting for targets. They can’t shoot down what they can’t see.”“
He nibbled on some toast. His stomach was playing up. He wanted to get to bed, get some sleep and then see Georgette.
While the crews trailed off to bed, Church sipped tea in Etheridge’s office. He was slumped in a chair, his backside perched on the edge so he could stretch out, his legs extended in front of him, the cup balanced on his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, fatigue washing over him. As he drifted off, he snapped awake. He twitched and the cup jumped in his hands. Tea slopped over the sides all over his hands and the top of his battledress. Church sat up, flicking tea off his hand.
“Goddammit,” he cursed. He drank more tea and then pushed the half empty cup onto Groupies desk. He looked down at his top and wiped feebly at the damp with his hanky. He ran his hands up and down his face, rubbing away the tiredness, stubble rasping on his chin. He was tired after flying last night, he wanted a bath and he wanted to sleep but there were things to be done. He had eight letters to write.
Flak had slashed the throat of the rear gunner in F-Freddy. The crew got to him an hour later after they had bust open the jammed doors to the turret. It was like a slaughterhouse inside, blood had gone everywhere. It was surprising just how much mess a few pints could cause.
The other seven letters were for Salmon and his crew. It was long past the point of no return and there was no report of him landing anywhere else. The Home Guard had not reported any crashed aircraft and there had been no mayday received either. Salmon’s letter was going to be the most difficult. Church had met his wife a few months before and she was a lovely woman. It was going to be hard, getting news like that with two children to look after. He reminded himself to organise a car so he could go and see her. He slumped back into the chair, his eyes heavy.
Families had it hard enough as it is. They would get the standard form telegram from the Air Ministry, with its cold, clipped and efficient language, The Air Ministry regret to inform you that your husband is missing after operations on 10th April 1942. The Air Council express their sympathy, blah, blah, blah. He thought Salmon and the others were worth more than a few sentences on a telegram.
The door opened and Etheridge came in, settling himself behind his desk, looking as fresh as ever. Church wondered how the old man did it. He seemed to have boundless energy on ops nights, going to briefing, seeing the off, spinning over to Group and then putting the boys to bed. The routine never changed when ops were on. A Corporal came in with a cup of tea and Etheridge pointed to his desk. The Corporal put it down and left the office quietly.
“How much longer are we going to have the reporter?” Church enquired quietly.
“A few days. I would imagine he’ll
want to see another raid before he goes. In fact, after the results tonight, I’d rather he stayed to see a good one, go on another training flight maybe.” Church was not over the moon about that prospect. Reporters asking questions made people nervous.
“And if he asks to go on an op?”
Etheridge thought about that.
“No,” he said flatly. “Definitely not. Can you imagine what Group would say if we lost a reporter on a raid? No, he stays on the ground.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him the good news,” said Church, feeling a little better.
“Bad luck about, Salmon,” Etheridge said, changing the subject.
Church simply nodded, there wasn’t much else to say. People came and went, that was the way things were on ops. He wondered if one day someone would be saying the same thing about him. The big question now of course was, what to do about it.
“The boys did well tonight,” he said. Etheridge nodded. That was fair. First time out with a new aircraft on ops, things had gone well. The fact the bombing had been poor was no ones fault. Sometimes the weather got the better of you and that was that.
“I wanted your view before we looked at bringing in an outsider.” Etheridge looked at Church as he slowly stirred his tea. “How do you think the boys would react?” He drank the tea. It was nice and strong, the way he liked it. Church pondered the question before answering.
“I’d rather promote internally if we could. Maintain some continuity.” Etheridge considered that. 363 was still a young squadron. Its bank of senior men was getting a bit thin on the ground. Only Everett and Church were left of the original starting cadre.
“I don’t object, but who did you have in mind?”
46 - Baby Steps
Carter sat in the office; his office now, feeling uncomfortable. He still felt a little surprised at the suddenness of it all. He knew he could call one of the clerks in the office outside, but he had no idea what he would ask them to do.
He cast his mind back to late yesterday morning when he had been having some toast in the Mess. He woke up five hours after the raid, stiff and sore. He’d thrown a pillow at Woods to wake him up and they had shambled to the Mess, the taste of rubber in their mouths from their oxygen mask.
He’d just settled himself at the table when a white jacketed steward came over and told him the Group Captain wanted to see him. Woods looked across the table at him with some concern. Carter stopped by the bathroom to splash some water on his face before he went over there. The summons had said immediately so he had no time to tidy himself up.
He had felt a certain measure of deja vu when he went into Etheridge’s office. The Group Captain was behind his desk as before. Church was stood next to him. Carter half expected to see Cullen behind him in the corner.
“Sit down, Carter, sit down.”
Carter settled himself.
“How was your evening?”
“I got back, sir.”
“We’ve had to come to a decision, Wing Commander, Church and I.” The hairs on Carters neck stood on end. That statement had an ominous air to it that set his nose twitching. “I’m afraid, Squadron Leader Salmon is overdue.” Etheridge let that sink in for a few seconds.
“He’s a good man,” Carter said, filling the silence.
“Yes, he was. I’m sure his wife would say the same,” Church chipped in, a little irked at the comment. He didn’t care for Carter’s talking in the present tense. “Saunderson’s been ringing around all night but there’s been no word. You know how it is,” he said offhand.
“Wing Command Church feels that you’re ready to make the step up.” Etheridge said as he opened a buff coloured folder. Carter couldn’t see what it was, but he could make a good guess. Etheridge glanced at the top sheet of the folder. “A two tour man, DFC. I think your record speaks for itself.”
“Thank you, sir.” Carter was suddenly nervous, seeing where this was going. Clearly the wingtip incident was forgiven.
“I just wanted to see you for myself first before I make the decision.” Carter felt like a bug under a microscope. Etheridge sat back, fingers steepled in front of him. Church lit up and was soon wreathed in smoke, the acrid smell of the Turkish tobacco filling the air. “Do you think you’re ready? Ready to lead men, look after them?”
“I think so, sir,” Carter replied with certainty. His time at training school had given him administrative experience, an appraising eye. It had taught him the cost of making decisions, deciding who was ready and who wasn’t. A lot of his pupils were dead now, some were prisoners, he would have to live with that. Yes; he was ready.
Etheridge gave him a long appraising stare, looking at the little things. The hands in the boys lap were steady, a good sign. Carter looked back at him, his blue eyes not flinching. Etheridge nodded. He liked to think he had the measure of a man. He stepped round from his desk and held out his hand. Carter shook it.
That was it, the decision was made and Carter was now acting Squadron Leader, commander 'B' Flight, 363 Squadron (Heavy). Georgette was over the moon when he told her the news over the telephone that evening. She couldn’t give a fig about it only being an acting rank. it was the advancement that was key, the rank could come later. Even Mrs Lloyd was visibly impressed when Georgette imparted the news at dinner to the other girls in the boarding house.
He’d helped Saunderson pack up Salmons stuff from the office. All those swimming trophies and the framed photos went into a box. The walls looked depressingly empty so Carter had a big copy of the squadron photo put into a frame and hung it on the wall. It was more neutral and when he went west, there would be no need for his successor to redecorate. If he lasted long enough he might add a few more knick knacks of his own.
The only personal item he did have was the clock from the cockpit of L-London. When Latimer had replaced it after the Cologne raid, Carter had asked for it. It was a reminder of just how close he had come to death, he needed something like that to keep him grounded. He thought it was better facing something than ignoring it.
He had the clerk move the desk. He hated having a desk in the middle of the room that was a barrier between him and anyone else. He moved it to the corner and rearranged the chairs so he could sit facing someone more informally.
He left everything behind with a flight test after lunch. His crew took the edge off when he turned up at the equipment hut. They were sat on the benches getting changed when he came in. As soon as they saw him they got to their feet, clicked their heels together in unison and gave him a jerky Teutonic bow.
“Ve are deeply honoured, mein Kapitan!” barked Todd with irreverence. He gave another mock bow and bent forward, reaching for his hand to kiss it like you did with a Catholic Priest. Carter managed to snatch it back in time.
“Congratulations, skipper,” said Woods, crushing his hand as he shook it. Even Vos seemed pleased, his dour face smiling like he had won a teddy bear at the fair.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he asked them, “let’s go.”
They rode out to The Lady, cock a hoop, buzzing at the promotion, genuinely happy at Carters good fortune.
“I’m not confirmed yet,” he warned them, his tone cautioning. “The CO could wake up at any time and realise he’s made a big mistake.” They snorted at his scepticism. They got down from the truck to find Latimer and the erks were waiting for them outside their hut at dispersal.
“We just wanted to say congratulations, sir,” said Latimer, pulling off a crisp salute. Feeling a little sheepish at all the attention, Carter returned the salute and then shook Latimer’s hand. Beaming, Latimer walked him round the Lancaster to do the pre-flight check.
He was back in his office two hours later; reading. Aside from the flight crews, Carter had also acquired responsibility for some of the ground staff. Saunderson came to him after tea with some leave requests and other matters to discuss. Carter fastidiously went through each one, letting Saunderson fill in the blanks when he didn’t know the person conc
erned. He needed a stiff drink at the bar later on in the evening to wind down.
A quick drink turned into a party when word came through from the Red Cross that Asher was a prisoner of war in Germany. There was no detail about how he’d been shot down, but it was confirmed that he was in good health. That really was something to celebrate and Carter sang with gusto with the best of them. The Mess games were a little more energetic that night, and the following morning Church had to authorise some squadron funds to make good the damage and replace the pillows.
Carter rolled his neck, his head still light from the evenings merry marking. The sun was getting warm and he reached over and opened the window. The usual airfield sounds leaked in from outside. He could hear a Lancaster in the circuit, the engine note fading away as it went down the runway. Nearby he could hear a tractor chugging down the road.
Dickinson had told him once that he could never wait to get out of his office and do an air test. Carter understood now what he’d meant when he glared at the piles of paperwork on the desk waiting for his attention. If Carter thought he was used to administration after being at Training School he was sadly mistaken. He had ten crews under him now. Seventy men to look after and get home if he could. He knew most wouldn’t make it on his watch despite his efforts. The first thing he did was pull the records of each crew and he spent the remainder of the morning going through them.
His reading was interrupted when orders came through from Group ordering them to make ready for another raid that evening. As 'B’' Flight commander, Carter now had a lot to do before the tannoy called the crews to briefing in the afternoon. He went to see Kent to discuss the target. It was the Krupps factory again and the route varied little from the last raid. For the first time, Carter saw references to Gee, a navigational aid. There were no specifics as to what it was, but the lead elements would be using it to mark the target with flares for the two hundred fifty bombers going out tonight.
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