by Steve Holmes
As they disembarked from the plane and walked towards the mess hall John laughed and joked with the rest of the crew looking and feeling every bit as confident as the rest of them. He showed no sign of nerves anymore, no butterflies in the stomach or dry throat or nausea. He was 100% at ease with the Queen of the Skies.
John was brought back down to earth two days later when for the first time he experienced the notorious take off swing of the Stirling. The day had started like any other, another cross country trip but today would be a little different. It was a little gusty as they approached the plane but John didn’t give it much thought. He remembered thinking to himself that it would take a wind of hurricane force proportions to move the beast he was about to climb into.
How wrong he was.
The crew all climbed in through the rear door and made their way up the plane. Vanrenen was already in place as John took up his position behind him. John completed his checks as did Vanrenen and the rest of the crew and the Skipper took the Stirling onto the runway.
The cross wind could have been described as moderate… no more. Vanrenen had trained for the swing and trained well. As he brought the Stirling to a stop and looked at the trees dancing to the tune of the wind on the edge of the perimeter fence he somehow sensed that this was the day his training would be called into question. It was only a matter of time and as the other pilots had told him, the first one was always the worst, the first swing most likely to end in disaster. It happened during the transitional period between the tail wheels leaving the ground and the tail up position on take-off. If the pilot didn’t correct the swing immediately the aircraft would lurch and veer out of control causing the tall undercarriage to collapse and send the Stirling skidding into the grass at around 80 miles per hour. The wind felt stronger out in the middle of the airfield and for the first time John noticed the Stirling buffering as it prepared to take off.
‘Winds a bit strong today, Sherlock.’ It was Reg Tammas as he stood up and peered out of the cockpit window.
Vanrenen announced to the crew he was on his way.
John Holmes loved every second he was in the Stirling, even on take-off when some crew members quite understandably got a little apprehensive or nervous. Some men admitted in the mess hall that they were positively terrified on take-off and landing and there were more than a dozen aircrew who could tell a story of being in a Stirling as it was written off.
The first John knew of a problem was when he was slammed back in his seat with a jolt and an increase in engine noise.
Reg Tammas cursed. ‘It’s fucking swinging Sherlock, hang on to your hat.’
Vanrenen’s training kicked in as he anticipated immediately the direction of swing and opened up the starboard throttles and at the same time partially closing the port side. Within a couple of seconds Vanrenen had regained the rudder control and brought the tail up. The engines balanced out and he increased the speed of the plane. John’s heart was in his mouth but eventually Vanrenen eased the plane into the air. He felt compelled to offer a little congratulations.
‘Well done Skip… well done.’
Vanrenen looked over his shoulder. ‘It’s a bloody plane Holmes, it catches the wind occasionally and the pilot must counteract that. Luckily you chaps have the cream of the crop flying you around so you’ve absolutely nothing to worry about.’
John didn’t reply and suppressed a smile. That’s Vanrenen for you, he thought as he returned to his instrument panel and completed the next series of checks. A little while later Vanrenen announced he would be taking the Stirling down again. He landed without incident. The wind on the ground had increased and John suspected Vanrenen may call it a day. It was not to be. Vanrenen announced he wanted to practice take off and landings in strong winds. He took the aircraft up and down six times, the wind grew stronger and stronger. The Stirling swung every time both on take off and on landing and Vanrenen mastered each one perfectly. At the end of the day’s exercises the crew ended up in the King’s Head. Vanrenen was conspicuous by his absence. He had better things to do but unknown to him his crew raised a glass to a very special pilot.
‘The very best,’ said Bob Crosby with his glass held high in the air. ‘But don’t ever tell the bastard to his face, his head’s big enough as it is!’
John and the rest of the crew laughed but he couldn’t help thinking that Vanrenen had every right to be proud of his achievements. He remembered reading a quotation somewhere that summed Vanrenen up perfectly.
‘Pride is the recognition of the fact that you are your own highest value and, like all of man’s values, it has to be earned.’
Perfect… thought John, absolutely bloody perfect. I just wish I could remember who said it and where I read it.
Two days later they were back in the air again, this time on low flying exercises. John found this part of the training exhilarating and spent most of the time standing looking out of the cockpit window as he finished the series of checks and calculations. Vanrenen called him into the cockpit for the first time.
‘You can sit here for the rest of the flight, Holmes. Watch and learn. If anything happens to me you’ll need to fly the bloody thing.’
John sat in awe as Vanrenen threw the aircraft round like a balsa wood boat. At times John would have sworn that his pilot was showing off, even trying to frighten the crew as he skirted the tops of trees. He flew out over the sea and followed the contours of the beach at such a low level John could almost make out the grains of sand on the beach. The Stirling handled like a dream. That night, back in the King’s Head, John likened it to a white knuckle fairground ride that pumped the adrenaline around his body. He’d loved every minute of it.
From October 13th to November 15th 1943, Vanrenen’s crew trained over twenty days in the air. Some days they would go up two or even three times, they circuit and bumped, flew cross country and on October 20th commenced night flying.
Flying at night was a whole different ball game as the entire country was blacked out. They relied on the skill of the navigator, Reg, picking out points on a map, rivers and canals that would reflect the light of the moon and give an indication of where the plane was. Reg had flown night flights before but his face was still a picture of extreme concentration as Stirling N6128 pulled onto the runway. The navigator was king on a night flight; he gave the instructions to the Skipper who obeyed without question.
Lofty Matthews and Taffy Stimson had already experienced several night flights and John recalled the stories in the Sergeants’ Mess of a navigator or two getting it wrong. Senior flight engineers and gunners were more than happy to admit being a little scared taking off and landing in a sea of blackness.
As the Stirling lifted off, John fully related to the stories as a mild panic overcame him and he wondered how Vanrenen would bring the plane safely down to earth in the dead of night on an unlit runway. The moonlight was good that night, cloud cover sparse. They shouldn’t have too many problems following a pre-planned route that Vanrenen had given the navigator earlier in the day. His thoughts wandered into the future, above Germany perhaps, on a bombing raid to Berlin or Dusseldorf. What happened if there was no moonlight, if the cloud cover came in thick? What then? Would they make it back home? Of course they would.
Reg placed his faith in his flight engineer and so the flight engineer would place his faith in his navigator the same way he had utmost faith in his pilot, his gunners and his bomb aimer. They were a magnificent crew and each trip they took in their beautiful elegant lady he loved and respected them even more.
John had completed all of his checks and notified Vanrenen. Reg confirmed the route once again, informed Vanrenen he expected a trouble free flight with good visibility from the moonlight and very light cloud. This time they were heading south, down into Kent, skirting the outskirts of Dover creeping a few miles into the English Channel before heading back home. The exercise was primarily for the navigator. Vanrenen had informed the crew they would be doing a series of circui
t and bump night runs over the next few nights and then resume low level flying exercises again. The engine noise increased telling the crew that Vanrenen was just a few seconds away from preparing for take-off. Vanrenen powered the aircraft down the runway into the big black void. John stood and the engines screamed as they reached their maximum torque. There was nothing to see, no trees, no perimeter fence just blackness. John had counted down the seconds until the Stirling lifted from the runway and as always he’d calculated it just about right as the plane gave one final groan and heaved into the air.
John was quite surprised just how much he could see on the ground despite the fact the total country was in darkness. Nature was a powerful thing, the light from the moon stronger than he had ever expected. It was low in the sky, it almost seemed to be drifting above the pine trees, silhouetted on the horizon as they left the airfield far behind.
Reg pointed out the marks he had made along the way, relaying the instructions to Vanrenen each time he changed his course. Bob came across the radio after about fifteen minutes. ‘You’re going the wrong way navigator, that’s the Tyne Bridge down there.’
Vanrenen was quick to admonish him.
‘This is a serious exercise gunner, no one jokes about anything on any of my flights especially when it comes to navigation.’
Crosby apologised to the skipper and promised to remain quiet for the rest of the flight. John looked out of the window, pinpointed the bridge Crosby had been referring too but confessed it looked nothing like the Tyne Bridge.
The flight lasted just under two hours and despite the pitch blackness of Waterbeach Airbase and the surrounding countryside, Vanrenen brought the Stirling down onto the runway with barely a bump. As the crew alighted from the plane Vanrenen even congratulated the navigator on a job well done.
‘Now I’m getting worried,’ said Reg as the crew piled into the Sergeants’ Mess for a quick pint before bedtime, ‘Vanrenen never praises the crew, he just expects perfection every time.’
‘Fairs fair though.’ It was Len’s turn to offer a pat on the back. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Tam. Map reading’s hard enough during the day but in the dark… Jesus it must take some concentration.’
‘Tonight was easy, lads, believe me, no cloud and plenty of moonlight and flying over a country I’m very familiar with. A cloudy Germany will be a different kettle of fish.’
Bob Crosby slammed his pint glass onto the table.
‘Oh brilliant,’ he announced in mock consternation. ‘Our navigator here has just admitted he’s going to get us lost over Germany.’
Reg refused to rise to the bait.
‘I’ll get better, that’s all I’m saying Bob. Tonight was a piece of cake, a few more night flights and I promise you I’ll bring you back home safe and sound every time.’
John slapped him on the shoulder. ‘We know you will Tam, we know you will.’
Vanrenen’s crew undertook more night flying and more than their fair share of low level flying. On 11th and 12th November they practiced simulated bombing runs. They hit the mock target area every time. They celebrated with a heavy night out at The King’s Head.
‘More low flying tomorrow, Vanrenen told me,’ said John.
‘And next week apparently,’ Reg commented. He continued. ‘A little bit too much low flying if you ask me. You don’t drop bombs from less than a hundred feet.’
John laughed ‘Can’t you handle it Tam? Vanrenen make you a little nervous as he clips the tops of those trees?’
Reg had taken a mouthful of beer, returned his glass to the table before wiping the froth from his lips.
‘Not at all Sherlock, I’m with you on the adrenalin trip, I love it but you must have heard the rumours?’
‘Rumours?’
‘Yeah, the rumours about the Stirling not going bombing.’
‘What?’ John Holmes looked at his navigator incredulously. ‘Not going bombing?’
Len chipped in.
‘I’ve heard them too. It’s been whispered quietly in the Sergeants’ Mess, the officers won’t have it but I confess some of the other Stirling crews reckon all they’re doing is low level stuff, dropping loads and paratroopers and you don’t drop bombs from the tops of trees.’
‘But we’ve been bombing today,’ said John. ‘I accept we might have to do a troop drop occasionally but surely bombing’s what these big buggers are designed for. They can take three times the load a Wellington can.’
Len Jones shrugged his shoulders and reached for his pint.
‘Guess we’ll just have to wait and see my friend.’
Although John and his crew didn’t know it at the time the rumours were more than that. The powers at the top had already decided that the Stirling Bomber’s role was about to change. The Air ministry had decided that the Stirling lacked the potential for development as a bomber. The Stirling would be redeployed as a glider tug and paratrooper transporter, hence the regular low level flying exercises. In April of 1943 trials had already begun towing loaded Horsa Gliders and the Stirling’s manoeuvrability and tight turning circle was proving more than adequate for the job.
Vanrenen made the announcement in the Sergeants’ Mess on the evening of 13th November. It was a rare excursion for Vanrenen and as John spotted him walking through the door he had an inclination that something wasn’t quite right. Vanrenen had ordered some drinks at the bar and casually strolled over to the table with a tray full of beers and placed them in the middle of the table but didn’t stand on ceremony. He placed a beer in front of each crew member and a large whisky in front of Bob. He announced that the Stirling Bomber had been redefined as a troop carrier and that already it was being converted for that sole purpose. He placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder.
‘I’m afraid we’re losing our mid upper gunner.’
Bob Crosby frowned. ‘You’re getting rid of me?’
Vanrenen smiled. It was a sympathetic smile, the first John had ever seen from him. It showed a little emotion, a little sadness and a great deal of respect. Bob had worked well with the crew and his shooting results were up there with the best of them.
‘Not through choice Mr Crosby, I can assure you, but you’re going somewhere a little special, almost like a promotion really.’
‘I don’t understand Skip.’
Vanrenen feigned a smile as if the news he was about to deliver would somehow lessen the blow.
‘You’re off to 617 Squadron.’
‘617, Skipper… the Dambusters?’
Vanrenen nodded. ‘There’s no place for a mid upper gunner in the Stirling, they’re ripping the front and mid upper turret out.’
‘What for?’
‘Don’t ask me, I would suppose it’s to do with load capacity, they need to open up the fuselage for more paratroopers, maybe even something to do with the tow ropes.’
‘Tow ropes?’
‘Yes, for the Horsa Glider.’
Doug Handley piped in. ‘We’re going to be towing those bloody glider things?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘No bombing?’
‘None whatsoever.’
The whole crew sat in silence for a minute or two. Vanrenen for once was lost for words.
‘But I want to go bombing, Skip,’ said Len. ‘It’s what I came here for. I could have stayed in Canada teaching if I’d wanted a cushy number. I want to be in the thick of the action.’
Vanrenen eased back in his chair and almost laughed.
‘Oh we’ll be in the thick of the action, Jones, don’t you worry about that. We’ll be flying at less than 3,000 feet when we enter into the drop zone, a sitting duck for Jerry.’
The enormity of Vanrenen’s statement hit John Holmes like a sledgehammer. Vanrenen continued.
‘I’d love to be bombing Germany too, love to be dropping our eggs on the Huns at 16,000 feet; at least we’d have a little bit of a chance.’
It was the eerie silence that ensued that sent a shiver up John’s spine. Perhaps Vanr
enen hadn’t meant to say what he’d just said but now it was out. John looked across the table at his stunned colleagues as Vanrenen’s statement sunk in.
They weren’t going bombing; the Stirling had been redefined as a troop carrier, that’s why they’d been doing so much low level flying. They’d be dropping troops and supplies into enemy territory, flying over the tops of the trees with German soldiers hanging from every branch. If Flight Engineer John Holmes thought it couldn’t get any more dangerous than dropping bombs over Berlin, then he’d just had a rethink of epic proportions.
CHAPTER NINE
Towards the end of January 1944 the RAF dropped an incredible 2,300 tons of bombs on the city of Berlin. Berlin’s western and southern districts were hit in the most concentrated attack of the period and its war industries were decimated. It was the largest raid by the RAF on Berlin and gave an indication to the failing defences of Germany’s most important city. The raids on Berlin would continue until March. The devastation and loss of life was huge. The regular raids killed hundreds of people every night destroying countless thousands of homes, factories and businesses. The Berliners, however, dug deep and despite the devastation and the fact that much of their city lay in ruins, civilian morale did not break.
The raids on Berlin cost the RAF 500 aircraft, with their crews killed or captured, Bomber Command lost 2,690 men over Berlin and nearly 1,000 more became prisoners of war. It was not the result the RAF was looking for.
Later that same month the RAF used a massive 12,000 pound bomb nicknamed ‘Tall-Boy’ in a raid on the Gnôme-et-Rhône works in Limoges, not far from the village of Oradour-sur-Glane.