Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  “I did explain that, sir,” Saundby said, keeping his voice neutral. Harris clenched his hands in his lap, his knuckles going white.

  He knew what this was; dirty politics, plain and simple. Beyond spite, there was no reason why they should have changed their minds at this late hour, especially after they had been two faced enough to assure the Prime Minister of cooperating. Harris knew he could force their hand by going to the Prime Minister but the Navy had timed it well. Sorting this mess out would take time and it was time he didn’t have. He knew he would win the argument in the end, but once their hand had been turned, the Navy would say there was insufficient time to get ready and Harris would miss his chance for this moon period.

  “Right. Well there’s nothing we can do about it now. I’m not going begging to the fish heads and I’m not running to Portal or the PM telling tales in school.”

  As soon as he was informed of this development, Saundby had gathered the latest availability figures which the Groups were reporting daily. Despite the assurances given, Saundby was an old campaigner. He had seen the RAF struggle on throughout the twenties and the service infighting that had denied them needed aircraft and resources. He had anticipated this possibility and you didn’t climb the ranks without knowing a few ways the system could be made to work in your favour.

  He knew that most squadrons had one or two aircraft available as ready spares. When aircraft were unservicable, they could be called upon to fill in the gap or make up for losses on operations. Surreptitiously he had ordered all of the squadrons to indent the supply chain to provide two new spare aircraft from the factories and air parks. That would give them nearly one hundred more aircraft right off the bat. Crews to man them could be made up from spares every station had lying around and there were always some screened crews who’d just completed their tours who could be pressed into doing one more trip.

  In the three days since the requirement had gone out, Saundby had the Groups reporting daily availability figures. In that time, the squadrons had already made nearly fifty extra aircraft available and there would be more to come.

  Even with this contribution, Harris knew they were still short and without outside help, there was only really one other option left but it carried an enormous risk with it. They would have to send raw crews that were just beginning their training to make up the remaining numbers.

  In the past, they had always sent trainee crews on nickeling jobs and minelaying. It was seen as a good way to give them a bit of experience and seasoning. It also freed up the main force for operations, but these were normally crews close to the end of their training. It was a big difference asking raw trainees to go on a raid.

  If things went badly wrong, it could cripple the training system, perhaps catastrophically. Churchill had told him at Chequers that he was willing to lose up to one hundred aircraft or more. Harris wasn’t, but he was also realistic enough to admit that it could happen.

  “Get me the AOC’s of 91 and 92 Group and the head of Training Command. If I’m going to be, Oliver Twist, the least I can do is make the call personally to explain the situation.”

  Training Command promised to supply forty nine extra aircraft. They were clapped out Hampden’s and Whitley’s, but every aircraft counted. By scraping the barrel and including every training and conversion flight, 91 and 92 Group could raise another eighty or so. Even three Wellington’s 109 squadron had sent to 26 Signals Group were borrowed back to make up the number. When the final tally was made, Harris had his magic number.

  The following day, a revised Operational Order went out to the Groups, bringing the planned date forward by twenty four hours. With the weather being so unsettled over the last few days, Harris wanted to give himself some more flexibility as the operation depended on a clear moonlit night.

  Security was paramount. If the Germans caught one whiff that a load of additional aircraft were being used for operations it could be a disaster. As a result, on the 27th May, when the aircraft from 91 and 92 Group and Training Command deployed to forward airfields it was done under the guise of a training exercise called Operation Banquet. Banquet was a response to a German invasion on the south coast where all available bombers would be deployed to counter it.

  Eight Hampdens from 91 Group flew in to Amber Hill. Pullen had the erks check them out and found some of them lacked items of equipment they would need. Stores were pillaged and the groundcrew slaved to prepare the aircraft.

  Confined to camp, everyone was encouraged to enter into the spirit of things and prepare as if an invasion was imminent. Taking that sentiment to heart, some of the crews wanted to draw sidearms from the armoury and take potshots at bottles on the range. Appalled at the prospect of aircrew filling themselves with holes, Church said no. When someone noticed the OTU aircraft were loaded with incendiaries, even the dimmest bulbs in the box knew something special was going on.

  Berths were found for the newcomers and the Mess was cramped that evening as the new men speculated how long they would be there. Some of the veterans delighted in telling lurid tales of operations in front of the greenhorns to provoke a reaction.

  Of course, after going to all the trouble to get things ready, they had to wait on the weather to oblige them. With such a large raid, the conditions would play a critical part in the operations success. Harris knew that the weather over central Europe was always questionable. He could hope for good weather on perhaps one day in three. Now, when he needed it the most, it seemed like the gods were conspiring against him.

  A persistent front of heavy cloud moved in, covering Hamburg and the surrounding countryside. There was no point going, only to drop blind because they couldn’t see the target. Hamburg was the preferred choice. Like Lübeck and Rostock, Hamburg was on the coast making it an easy navigation problem. The alternate target was Cologne. Well within Gee range, Cologne had been attacked before with mixed results. A large raid could be the knockout blow to make the difference.

  Harris became increasingly agitated as the days went by. He had ordered there be no operations the day before the big raid so that his crews could be fresh and rested but by the 29th, the situation had still not improved. He became very conscious that the Germans might suspect something was up if there were no operations at all during a clear moon period.

  Reluctantly, with the weather clear over the Channel and France, he sent a modest force after the Gnome et Rhone aircraft factory on the outskirts of Paris. Other spoiling attacks were sent to Dieppe and Cherbourg and there was the usual gardening around the Frisian Islands and the Baltic to grab the Germans attention.

  Finally, things came to a head. Portal had been asking for progress and Harris knew he couldn’t keep the aircraft in reserve for much longer. Everything came down to that days weather. At morning prayers, the forecast for northwest Germany was far from ideal. Thundery cloud was hovering over north west Germany but the prediction was that it would clear southwards during the night. This was far from ideal but it was the most promising forecast of the last few days.

  The Meteorologist, Magnus Spence, blinked while he waited for Harris’ response. Morning Prayers was always a brisk affair. Harris would breeze into the room and sit down at a natty little chair that looked like it had come from a servants room. Smoking heavily, he would ask sharp questions concerning casualties, aircraft availability and the results of the previous nights operations. The staff were always prepared and had the answers to hand. The light relief usually came at the end, when Harris jousted with Spence, challenging his predictions and pushing the Met man as far as he would go.

  Today, the boss had listened to a summary of the raids on France with his usual attention to detail but everyone was aware of the elephant in the room. Harris fished in his pocket and produced a carton of American Lucky Strike cigarettes. He tapped the pack with his thumb and extracted one. He lit it and jammed it into a short cigarette holder. He studied a map of Europe on the desk in front of him. All eyes were on him as he ruminated in sile
nce. He traced a finger over the map, resting it on Germany. It moved down and pressed hard on Cologne.

  “Cologne,” he said, “tonight.”

  Like that, ops were on.

  59 - Trout

  The orders went out to the Groups and from there on to the squadrons. At Amber Hill the aircraft were air tested and by the early afternoon, every member of aircrew on the station was called to briefing. The stage was full when they took their seats. Church went first and grabbed their attention from the get go.

  “Since the Germans started this war, they’ve bombed Rotterdam, Warsaw, Coventry. They blitzed London and a whole host of other places. Herman Goering once made a speech. He said this in 1939, I’ll read it to you.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He looked at it although he knew the words by heart. “No enemy bomber can reach the Ruhr. If one reaches the Ruhr, my name is not, Goering, you may call me, Meyer.” A throaty chuckle rippled around the room. “I’m not the kind of person to let an opportunity pass us by. Tonight, is the night Bomber Command delivers a knockout blow to the Nazi war machine,” he said, his voice full of vim. He was positively crackling with energy. “Tonight is history in the making. We are going to be part of the largest airborne raid ever mounted.”

  “Every single aircraft Bomber Command has is going. It’s a maximum effort in the true meaning of the word. Over one thousand aircraft are going to burn the black heart out of Cologne and deliver the biggest blow to German morale since the war began.”

  That rocked the room into a hushed silence. The number was mesmerising. One thousand bombers.

  “The entire force will go over the city in ninety minutes.” That caused a further sensation and Church did his best to play down the risks. “I am assured that the chances of collision are very low, perhaps only two aircraft” he said, which brought a laugh. The room erupted when some wag at the back asked, “which two?”

  The briefing room buzzed with excitement, something Carter had not seen since the early days of his first tour. Each specialist took their place on the stage. The gunnery officer warned them against shooting each other down.

  Church waited a moment for them to settle down. He told them the route they would be going in. There would be no wandering back and forth over the target like the old days. Any idiot doing that tonight would blunder into someone else and make a very bright flash in the sky. 1 and 3 Group would go in first, using Gee to locate the target and mark with flares. Everyone else would follow them in.

  “There skies are going to be crowded tonight, so watch it you gunners. Only shoot if you’re sure of your target.” Murphy and Todd shared a look. They knew where he could stick that.

  Kent went into detail of the nightfighters based near Cologne and the defences. The rumour was over four hundred guns ringed the city but Kent assured them that tonight, the flak gunners would be overwhelmed by the numbers of aircraft.

  The weather forecast was mixed. The Navigators paid particular attention when emergency fields were mentioned. If the weather changed, the skies were going to get awfully crowded when they got back with everyone hunting for somewhere to land.

  Etheridge took the stage at the end to round things up. He looked across the crowded room and cleared his throat. The noise echoed in the hush.

  “I have here, a signal from the CinC, which I’m going to read to you.”

  He smoothed out the piece of paper in front of him and began reading.

  “The force of which you are about to take part tonight is at least twice the size and more than four times the carrying capacity of the largest Air Force ever before concentrated on one objective. You have the opportunity therefore to strike a blow at the enemy which will resound, not only throughout Germany, but throughout the world. In your hands be the means of destroying a major part of he resources by which the enemy’s war effort is maintained. It depends, however, upon each individual crew whether full concentration is achieved.”

  “Press home your attack to your precise objectives with the utmost determination and resolution in the full knowledge that, if you individually succeed, the most shattering and devastating blow will have been delivered against the very vitals of the enemy. Let him have it, right on the chin.”

  He looked up, every eye was fixed on him, the atmosphere electric.

  “Good luck gentlemen.”

  The chairs scraped back, everyone stood and Etheridge walked from the briefing room.

  Each man got ready in their own way. Woods took Merlin for a walk, throwing a ball and watching the Labrador streak after it. Todd had a snooze before dinner, he wanted to be properly rested before getting into that cold turret. Byron wrote a letter and left it on his bed, a strong sense of foreboding hanging over him.

  Carters response was a little more measured. He thought about having four more to go, the prospect of getting off ops. He knew he was chasing the odds now and was on borrowed time. The closer the end got, the more nervous he became. He had more to lose now. He thought about Georgette and for a moment, he was back at the lake with her under the afternoon sun, remembering that perfect moment of holding her in his arms.

  At nine he went to get changed. He sat on the bench seat in the equipment room as he put on his flying boots. He glanced up and caught Todd looking at him. He nodded slightly and the Australian gave him a lopsided smile in return. He remembered that Todd had already finished his tour. He could be sitting this one out, but here he was, going again, like it was a walk in the park.

  On the way out to the kite, Carter steeled himself for the raid ahead. The lads talked quietly amongst themselves, conscious they were part of something really big. They went through the start up routine with practised ease. The tanks, pumps and brakes were checked. Byron edged the throttles forward and set the radiator and supercharger controls. Carter and Byron went back and forth, their voices a constant like a metronome.

  “Ready to go, skipper.”

  Carter slid back the cockpit window and gave a thumbs up.

  “Contact! Starboard inner!” he called. He flicked the cover off the starter button and jammed it down hard. A big flash of flame belched from the engine exhaust stacks. It caught straight away with a throaty roar. The Lady thrummed with the power of the Merlin engine.

  Within five minutes, all four engines were running. Carter disengaged the booster coil and waved from the window. He watched the battery cart get pulled away and he waited until Latimer reappeared and waved back to tell him it was clear.

  The engines idled as they warmed up. Byron watched the oil and coolant temps like a hawk.They checked the superchargers and the prop controls, ears tuned listening for the slightest deviation from the norm. Tonight was not the night to have a problem. Byron eased the throttles forward to the stops while Carter checked boost and revs.

  The starboard outer showed a slight drop on the magneto test but it was within normal limits. He told Byron to make a note of it. They were ready. He checked his watch. He nodded to Byron and the engineer slipped out of sight. He sat back down a few minutes later.

  “Hatches secure, boss. Okay to taxi.”

  Carter leaned out of the cockpit window and banged his bunched fists together. Latimer nodded and gestured to some erks. They dashed underneath the big wings and tugged and pulled on the big wooden chocks. Latimer held two hands in the air once they had been pulled away.

  Carter released the brakes and Byron edged the throttles for the two inner engines forward. The Lancaster started to move, wobbling on her undercarriage. At the end of the peri track, two aircraft were ahead of them and Carter slowed down, not wanting to stand idle and have the engines overheat. The Lancaster went, then the Hampden and then it was their turn. Byron gunned the starboard throttles and Carter kicked the rudder to swing the nose round. He dabbed the brakes to stop the swing and then released it, letting the Lancaster roll slowly foward until they were lined up on the runway.

  He double checked the trim controls, giving it a bit of nose down. He dropped the
flaps fifteen degrees and rattled through the checklist for the prop controls, the fuel tank selection and superchargers. Pulling the brakes on, he checked the crew. Everyone was ready.

  “Here we go,” he said on the R/T. He eased the throttles forward. As he felt the Lancaster lean against the brakes, he released them and she started rolling. The airspeed picked up quickly. The tail lifted and Carter kept her there, balanced on the main wheels as they rolled along the runway. Byron took over the throttles and called out the increasing speed.

  “Seventy five, eighty.” He pushed the throttles the rest of the way, hard up against the gate.

  “Ninety, ninety five.”

  Carter kept the nose down. Flame stabbed from the exhausts as the Merlins screamed at full power.

  “One oh five. One ten.”

  Carter moved the yoke ever so slightly and the Lancaster flew. Byron put the throttles through the gate and the Lancaster surged forward. Carter kept the nose level, letting the speed build up for a few more seconds before climbing away. The undercarriage came up and there was a slight bump as they locked into their nacelles.

  Woods noted their take off time in his log. 2359 hours. It was a forty minute run to the coast. They steered one four five to dog leg around the wash and crossed on track between Southwold and Orfordness in Norfolk. As England slid into the darkness behind them, Carter laid down the law.

  “Forget all that shit, Ackroyd said in briefing,” he told Todd and Murphy. “If you see something, you shoot. Anyone who hesitates gets killed.”

  “Don’t worry, boss,” replied Todd. “We already decided to do that. I haven’t come this far to get my arse shot off.”