Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  “Helen will be thrilled,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get her out of the house for weeks.”

  “Tell her it’s a mission of mercy,” Carter told him. “My Wireless Ops girl is pregnant, a few months along and she’s just a slip of a girl. She could do with some words of wisdom.”

  “We’ll see you then,” he assured him.

  “So we’ll be free that day?” Carter asked pointedly, fishing for information.

  “You know everything I do, old chap,” Wilkinson replied, dodging the question and put the phone down.

  56 - Command Decisions

  Located at High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire, Bomber Command Headquarters had been built away from London to avoid the expected enemy raids. Located amongst thick Beech trees, it was more like a village than an RAF station. The Air Staff Block was built in the style of a town hall. The Officers Mess looked like a country manor. All of the buildings were interconnected by underground tunnels. The key building was the Operations block. Fifty five feet underground, it was protected from bombs by three layers of reinforced concrete with a cushion of earth between them.

  The Operations room was not hugely different from the briefing room at Amber Hill, it was just bigger. On the far wall was a huge map of Europe with the known flak belts marked out and key targets highlighted. Other large map boards stood either side of it and it was from here that Harris would sit and direct Bomber Commands efforts. Each day, Harris would be given the results of the previous nights operations. He would hear a precis of the raids, what went right, what went wrong and would be shown recce photos of bomb damage.

  The meteorologist would report on the expected weather for that night. Harris was always concerned with two things, how clear things would be over the target, but also, what the weather would be like on the return. There was no point sending his squadrons out if England was blanketed in fog when they got back making landing impossible.

  Of course, forecasting the weather was not an exact science. The weather over England could be predicted with a high degree of accuracy, but the weather forecast for Europe was more subjective. Sometimes the wind did what you least expected and created problems, but Harris didn’t like risking his men unnecessarily. As much as he was driven by results, he was also careful to husband his force strength as much as possible for future operations.

  When deciding on each nights operations, Harris had a number of competing demands. Air Ministry Directives listed his priorities. Sometimes, he had to go for what he called ‘panacea’ targets, a sop to political reactions or the other services requirements. Harris avoided them whenever he could but it was not always possible. He would hear the weather report, consider the list then issue orders for ops, sending his force to places with codenames like Grayling, Chubb, Trout and Spratt.

  A keen fly fisherman, Air Vice Marshal Saundby, had used the names of types of fish for each target. Hannover was Eel, Cologne was Trout. Berlin was Whitebait which Harris found amusing. The capital of Nazi Germany and Saundby had called it after the immature fry of fish that were small and insignificant.

  Lately, Harris had been wanting to expand operations. There had been great hopes for Gee to assist in that regard, but the early raids had produced mixed results. Rostock had shown what could be achieved, but as a coastal target, it was not the same proposition as one of the big industrial cities.

  Having flown extensively at night himself during the Great War, Harris knew how difficult it was to find your way. Add in decoy targets, blackout, wind, adverse weather, flak and nightfighters, it was a wonder any of his boys made it to a target at all; and they were his boys. Harris felt losses keenly and had to balance his natural urge to protect his men against the tactical and strategic requirements of Bomber Command’s role.

  Harris’ thoughts often turned to casualties. On an average raid, the loss rate usually ran between three and five percent. Harris disliked turning anything into a numbers game but three to five percent was a manageable, acceptable rate. He was pained when he heard the butchers bill at morning prayers. Five of our aircraft are missing might not sound so bad on the radio, but each one was five, six, seven men; never to return. Raids like the recent one on Warnemunde had caused palpitations. It had required a fraught phone call with Portal to smooth things over and assure him that it was a fluke.

  His mind turned, as it often did, to reducing that figure. The problem was that the German defences were growing stronger in parallel with the incremental improvements in aircraft, heavier bombloads and better techniques. If the defences could be overwhelmed, it would be a different story.

  The German had built themselves a defensive line of radar controlled nightfighters. Intelligence said it was called the Kammhuber Line. The sky was divided into boxes and inside each box was a nightfighter that was directed to its target by ground controlled radar. Any bomber crossing the box was like a fly getting caught in a web. It was very clever, Teutonically efficient and deadly in the right hands.

  What they needed to do was flood the system; so that so many aircraft crossed a box that one nightfighter couldn’t cope. Similarly, if lots of aircraft went over the target together, the searchlights couldn’t be everywhere. There would be a risk of collision of course, but the boffins could figure out the odds on that one.

  Since he had taken command, he had begun to lay the groundwork to achieve that, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the Luftwaffe responded. He pondered the idea of some kind of knockout blow.

  Harris went to London in bullish mood. After months of being under a cloud, Bomber Command was moving forward. He had good headlines and with the new Lancaster starting to come into service in greater numbers, he finally had the weapon he needed to win the war.

  He went to London and argued for more aircraft and a buildup of strength. The Minister of Aircraft Production was away touring some aircraft factories up north so Harris had to content himself with a mere deputy of department. The man sat behind his desk and dug his heels in.

  “Bomber Command has hardly covered itself in glory,” he said with that nasal air of disdain that civil servants do so well.

  “With inadequate aircraft, inadequate numbers,” Harris shot back.

  “Last autumn, you lost the equivalent of your entire first line strength in a few months.”

  Harris snorted. Second guessing other peoples decisions was easy. He was not about to rubbish his predecessors and play armchair general on tactical decisions to satisfy some civil servant.

  “I wasn’t in charge then,” he snapped. “We’re delivering results now. Bomber Command can win the war, but not without proper aircraft and not without aircraft in numbers.”

  “I understand,” said Llewellin’s deputy smoothly. He steepled his hands in front of him, “empire building,” he murmured. Harris almost exploded. He leaned forward on the desk, anger rising.

  “I couldn’t give a fig for power,” he said hotly. “I spent years before the war advocating for better aircraft, better training and better navigational aids when everyone else’s eye was off the ball! Miracles don’t happen overnight.” He stepped back and clamped down on his temper. “My boys are going up night after night on a wing and a prayer. The Navy get the best ships, the army get their tanks. I will not let my boys go off with yesterdays cast offs.”

  Harris went for the door, but a final remark made him stop.

  “You can’t wish for the moon.”

  “No; just the stars,” he bit out as he slammed the door.

  A few days later he was invited to dine at Chequers. A few miles from High Wycombe, Chequers was northwest of London and had been the countryside home of the Prime Ministers of England since 1921. As Downing Street was a cramped, terraced house in the middle of London, it lacked the grandeur and space to lavishly entertain foreign dignitaries, Chequers provided that.

  Harris had driven over there in his Bentley and talked into the night with Churchill. The Prime Minister had been his usual garrulous self and Harri
s sparred with him verbally, their conversation sweeping across a vast range of subjects. Harris used the opportunity to expound on his idea of breaking Germany with bombing, advocating his theory of total war.

  Harris argued there was no need for an invasion; bombing could win the war on its own. If Bomber Command could put their cities to the sword, it would weaken the morale of the German people and destroy their industrial infrastructure. Their armies would be starved of weapons and the tools to wage war.

  Churchill was not oblivious to the arguments. Bombing Germany would destroy factories, displace the population and at the very least force the Nazis to divert guns, planes and men from the front to defend their homeland. He was also well aware that the Russians had been calling for some time to relieve the pressure on their own forces, advocating a second front.

  “We are the second front,” Harris insisted. “Forget the invasion. There’s no need to risk hundreds of thousands; millions of men in a land invasion if I can break the Nazi at home.”

  Churchill looked at him, his eyes slitted in shrewd appraisal.

  “How long would it take?” he asked finally.

  “If I get the aircraft I want, I could finish the war in a year,” Harris replied with crisp certainty.

  “With the Americans on board?” Churchill asked pointedly.

  Harris paused to consider his answer.

  “Bombing around the clock, them by day, me by night; six months,” he said with confidence.

  The Prime Minister sat by the fire, cigar in one hand, brandy in the other. He swirled the dark liquid around in the glass, watching it catch the light of the flames. There was some appeal in what Harris was saying. The slaughter of the Great War was not something Churchill wanted to see repeated. The Somme, Gallipoli, First and Second Ypres were all battles that were going to win the war and instead they had become a slaughter. He pondered the conflicts that were to come. A land invasion of Europe could be risky, the casualties could be frightful.

  He had people from every theater of war clamouring for bombers. Japan was running rampant like a toddler in a nursery and knocking on the gates of India and Australia. Rommel was yet to be beaten in North Africa. Malta was still besieged and the Russians needed as much help as could be given.

  Churchill knew the Dehousing paper provided some support for Harris’ arguments and he agreed with the general principal. He had seen first hand the effect heavy bombing could have on civilian morale and infrastructure when he visited Coventry and London’s East End. To do the same thing to the Germans would be poetic justice indeed.

  Sir Archibald Sinclair, Secretary of State for Air also approved of the Dehousing Paper, but Churchill knew there were others who were opposed to it. Portal had voiced concern as Bomber Command were not likely to get ten thousand bombers any time in the near future. More vocal was Sir Henry Tizard on the Air Council. He was pressing very strongly for Bomber Command to concentrate specifically on shipyards and the submarine pens to support the Navy. The Admiralty had seized on that and added their own voice to the growing noise. As inter-departmental bunfights went, it was a classic.

  “Prove it to me,” Churchill said quietly. “Show me Bomber Command can do it. Show me you can do it to some big target, not some grubby little town on the coast. Give me a knockout blow.”

  “Give me a little time, Prime Minister.”

  “Go to it, Bomber.”

  During the drive back to High Wycombe, Harris’ mind was whirring with plans and possibilities. The following day, after morning prayers, he called his senior staff to his office and explained what he wanted. Saundby went off to do some sums. Harris had known Saundby since the 1920’s when they had flown together in Iraq. He was one of the few men who had his ear and could talk to him frankly. He reported back in the afternoon with the bald figures.

  “If we put everything on the line in the Groups, we can scrape up over five hundred aircraft,” Saundby told him.

  Harris was impressed and at the same time disgruntled. It was an impressive number to be sure, but it lacked sparkle. He needed something that would grab headlines, something that would put everyone on notice that Bomber Command meant business. They needed a magic number.

  “A thousand. Get me one thousand aircraft, Sandy,” he told Saundby. “I don’t care how you do it. Twist arms, bully, sweet talk, whatever it takes.”

  Saundby blinked, the only outward sign of reaction. Inside, his brain ran a million miles an hour while it did some rapid mathematics.

  “It won’t be easy, sir. We could take aircraft and men from the OTU’s,” he suggested, “but it would mean interrupting training schedules. If we could have some aircraft from Coastal Command as well I think we can do it.”

  “I’ll sort that out,” Harris assured him. “God knows, the Navy have nabbed enough of my squadrons, the least the fish heads can do is loan some of them back for a few trips.”

  Harris went to see Portal and put forward his idea of a knockout blow and pressed for a contribution from Coastal Command. Portal made enquiries and reported back that the Prime Minister warmly approved of the plan and had received the Admiralty’s support in principal. With that assurance, Harris got to work. He wanted to take advantage of the next moon period so there was little time to get ready. He signalled all Groups to prepare for a massive attack on a scale previously unseen from the 28th May onwards as soon as the weather was suitable.

  57 - The Measure Of A Man

  While Bomber Command moved into gear, normal operations continued. On the 19th, the squadron was sent to Mannheim and did well. The press lauded the raid as another precision effort. ‘Knocking the Hun for six!” one headline had read. Carter read the article, it was the same old fluff, upbeat and heroic; it turned his stomach.

  The Lady ran sweet as a nut and took them there and back without any fuss. All but two aircraft reported bombing the city and losses were light. One gunner was killed and one aircraft was missing. Two others had bailed out of B-Bravo during an attack by a nightfighter. Carter heard the story during interrogation. With one engine on fire, the Lancaster had dived over six thousand feet almost straight down before shaking off the pursuit. Under those circumstances, Carter wasn’t surprised they’d bailed out. He would have done the same.

  Etheridge gathered the station staff for a meeting after lunch. Something big was brewing because Group had passed the word that 363 needed to make sure they could provide every available aircraft when required at some unconfirmed future date. If it had wings, an engine and could carry bombs, it was to be made operational. Pullen had scowled when Etheridge announced the requirement. His workload had just increased exponentially with no set end date in sight.

  Regarding personnel, a glance at the squadron roster showed that they had enough spare odds and sods and people recovering to make up another three crews. That was the easy part, but they still needed aircraft for them to fly. They were stuck with what to do about that until Carter remembered they still had the four Manchester’s they’d been using for training. Two were down for maintenance but it wouldn’t take much to get them on the line. Church reluctantly agreed that they could be made ready to make up the numbers.

  Carter had no idea what it was about, just that it would be soon. He had visions of going after the Tirpitz again and shuddered at the thought of fumbling around Norway trying to find the right fjord she was berthed in.

  As was usual, nothing stayed secret for long and the squadron was soon buzzing that something was going on. In the Mess, Woods and Vos collared Carter when he put in an appearance.

  “What’s it all about, skipper?” asked the Canadian. Carter looked at them over the top of his pint and shrugged.

  “Beats me,” he replied. “I’ve told you lot before not to listen to idle gossip. It beats me how these rumours get started in the first place.”

  Busy men would have less time to gossip, so in the afternoon, Church had the squadron assemble for parade in PT gear. During the football games on the Su
nday, he felt the men had been a bit flabby. He told them they lacked some zip and needed perking up a bit. He had them run round the perimeter track twice.

  The next day, he had them paraded after breakfast to do it again. Nine of the men decided to chance their hand and stay in bed. Once everyone else had done their run, Church had the offenders turfed out of their pits. Stood to attention in their vests and underwear, Church tore them off a strip for being slackers and then had them do the run in full flying kitn. To his dismay, he had Carter follow them to make sure they went all the way round. Carter borrowed a bicycle as there was no way he was going to do that run twice.

  Carter was stiff as a board the following morning. The backs of his legs were tight and he groaned when he sat up in bed. It was murder just to lift his legs and get his socks on. Woods felt no better. He’d not ached like this since basic training.

  This time, there was no run but they had tug of war, short sprints and an hour of calisthenics, bouncing up and down on the grass doing star jumps, squat thrusts, sit ups and press ups. Church finished them off with another game of football. That seemed to satisfy him and the men were allowed to slink off and die for the afternoon.

  On the Saturday morning, Carter went to the station church. The chapel at Amber Hill was nothing special; it was just another Nissen hut. Inside, it could have doubled up as the briefing room on a smaller scale. There was a central aisle with rows of chairs either side of it. Instead of propaganda posters on the wall there were quotes from scripture, painted in a flowing script. The altar at the end was on a raised dais with the cross standing on top of a snowy white cloth draped over it.

  Carter went halfway down the aisle and stopped. He eyed the altar, started to genuflect and then stopped himself, feeling a bit of a hypocrite. He slid onto a chair to his left. The silence hung heavy and Carter wondered why he had bothered coming in. He was about to leave when a voice stopped him.