101 Nights

by Ray Ollis

  ‘Some sprog pilot has written a book in which he says: ‘And so, taken by and large, it is still the captain who looks after fifty percent of the navigation.’ And as for the story that pilots make or mar accurate bombing … it’s nonsense. It’s true that a bad pilot can ruin a bombing-run, but a bad bomb-aimer still couldn’t hit a target even with the best pilot in the world. It’s true that a bad pilot can spoil good navigation, but at night a good pilot still knows less about where he is than the worst navigator.8 It’s true that a bad pilot can ruin a gunner’s sight but even the best bomber pilot couldn’t shoot a damned thing on his own.’

  ‘Should the journalists confuse everybody by mentioning each man in turn, then?’

  ‘Not at all. They could simply write ‘the crew’ instead of ‘the pilot’. Everybody would understand and it would be much more accurate.

  ‘But surely the pilot is the most important crew member?’

  ‘Why? In a combat the gunner is the most important crew member. In finding the target the navigator is most important, and if the bombs miss the target they’ve all wasted their time so you can say the bomb-aimer’s the most important. You might as well say the rudder bars are most important because if they stopped steering nobody could get anywhere.’

  ‘But the pilot is captain.’

  ‘Not always. I’ve know pilots who lost their captaincy and others who requested that their observer be made captain. The pilot is in the best position to be captain and so, usually, he is captain. But he’s not in a position to navigate at all; that’s why this pilot-turned-autobiographer is writing bullsh. He might live long enough to learn better. If he does I’ll be he regrets the day he ever wrote such rubbish.’

  ‘We’ve flown home three times with a dead navigator,’ Joe said to Vincent. ‘And once with a dead gunner. And we missed ’em. Other times, like Remsheid, we’ve lost the intercom. Not one person or one instrument can be allowed to go wrong or the whole system suffers, or even breaks down completely. A bad crew member, or just one loose nut, can kill a crew. Is a quarter-inch nut more important than I am, or than the pilot? Sometimes it is! So you see, this whole argument proves nothing.’

  ‘Except that journalists and sprog pilots often write rot.’

  ‘You might have to eat your words. This sprog pilot is called Leonard Cheshire, isn’t he? If he’s the same chap I’ve heard about, he’s certainly lived long enough to learn better. It just shows how much experience teaches. A certain Leonard Cheshire, at twenty-five, is now the RAF’s youngest Group Captain and he’s won a DSO and a DFC. And he’s still going strong. If we ever have to fly with a bad pilot I think we’ll discover pretty quickly just how vital a reliable skipper is.’9

  ‘And so is a reliable navigator and wide-awake gunners. And I still say newspapers shouldn’t say ‘pilot’ when they mean ‘crew’.

  ‘Okay then! Write a letter to the editor and he’ll think you’re one of the chairborne troops from rear hindquarters.’

  Wanting to change the subject, Bill turned to Joe and asked; ‘What else does it say about Nürnberg?’

  ‘Losses were very light; less than one percent. And it quotes a German report that civilians in central Nürnberg were trapped in a ring of fire and those who weren’t burnt to death were suffocated because all the oxygen was burnt out of the air. Gosh! We could save a lot of bombs that way.’10

  The armourer sergeant had joined the group earlier, and now he tapped Joe on the shoulder. ‘Did you have a combat last night?’

  It was Yarpi who replied; ‘Did he have a combat! We shot down a Ju 88, man!’

  ‘Must’ve been a mighty short combat,’ said the armourer. ‘You only fired nine rounds. Three rounds from one gun and two each from the others.’

  ‘Yes. It was a short burst.’

  ‘Just brrrp … and he blew up, man,’ added Yarpi.

  The armourer shook his head almost in disbelief. ‘That’s a mighty fancy piece o’shootin’, pardner,’ he said. ‘Even a half-second burst would be thirty-six rounds.’

  Magnetic took the armourer by the arm and whispered in his ear confidentially; ‘As a matter of fact he didn’t fire those rounds at all. He took them out of the ammo-belts one at a time and threw them at the fighter. You know as well as I do that to fire a nine-round burst out of four guns is quite impossible.’

  ‘My corporal says it is impossible.’

  ‘Well, that proves it then.’

  Something of the new elation that thrilled the Squadron could be felt in the surrounding villages. Although most of the locals divorced themselves from the disrupting aeroplanes and the rowdy youngsters who flew them, they could not disregard the Squadron altogether. When things were bad and losses heavy, the villagers said it was none of their business and no more than the RAF might expect, teaching schoolboys to fool around at hundreds of miles an hour. But deep in their hearts the villagers were sad and sympathetic. Now, when times were quite suddenly better, the villagers wondered aloud what devilry the new high spirits might be up to next, but in their hearts they rejoiced.

  The villagers’ loyalty was put to the test about this time, and passed with flying colours. The Luftwaffe raided Ludford, an attention the village would have escaped had it not been for 101 Squadron.

  While Vincent, Johnnie, Bill and Magnetic were walking together from the mess of their barracks, there came a wail of sirens and, almost immediately, the growl of engines and the grumble of guns as a German aircraft swept low overhead. There was a scramble into the slit-trenches.

  ‘The cheeky bastards,’ said Magnetic. ‘Raiding us!’

  ‘Anyone see what it is?’

  ‘There he is! Another Ju 88.’

  ‘As it passed over them the men could see it quite distinctly against the moonlit sky.

  ‘I can see now why we aren’t flying tonight.’

  From surrounding aerodromes, also being raided, came flashes of bombs and quick exchanges of gunfire. At this extremely low level, in fair visibility, the Junkers would be quite vulnerable to light flak. But nothing yet seemed to have been fired by Ludford’s ground defences.

  The Hun flew back over them again, guns roaring once more. No shells seemed to be landing nearby. Johnnie stuck his head out of the trench and shook his fist at the retreating aircraft. ‘We’ll get you for this. Wait till tomorrow night! We’ll knock the …’

  Suddenly Johnnie turned and, with a shouted; ‘Look out! Here he comes again!’, dived back into the trench, hotly pursued by the sounds of firing.

  There was comparative quiet for a minute. The men were already leaving their shelter. And then the bombs came. Six of them in a neat row. They sounded like only 500-pounders, but the earth trembled.

  ‘Where did they hit?’

  ‘I think they fell between Flying Control and the village.’

  ‘Good. That’s open field.’

  Again the fighter was swooping over them, guns awake.

  ‘He’s got guts, this bastard. Why don’t RAF Regiment shoot him down? They’ve been training for this chance for years. Now they’re all in bed, I suppose. Or the corporal’s got the key to the armoury.’

  ‘Look! He’s making a run on the clothing store. He must think it’s a hangar.’

  The fighter zoomed towards the store. Then, like lazy bubbles in a glass of beer, fire-balls flickered up from the ground. They seemed to pass right over the fighter, but as they appeared, he flicked down. A wingtip touched the ground and for three seconds the fields were filled with flames and noise. Then the aircraft was still, burning with a fierce crackle and the noise of exploding ammunition.

  From all over the aerodrome faces watched the flames. The gunners cheered. The ground staff grinned. But the aircrew watched a little grimly. In that Junkers had been a crew; men like themselves—flyers—proud of their wings; confident of their skill. Now they were mashed to pulp, or maybe burning to death. It was almost as though it was a crew of their own in that inferno.

  The feeling was not lessened
next day when it was announced that the German navigator was only sixteen.11

  While 101 Squadron were still dazzled by Gee and PFF, another new idea was put forward and once again the Air Vice-Marshal was at briefing to tell them about it.

  ‘PFF,’ he explained, ‘is to be improved. Though most of their markers have been accurate some have fallen wide and attracted bombs which have been wasted. So tonight your attack will be directed by R/T. A master bomber will be sitting upstairs at about thirty thousand feet and he will tell you which markers to bomb and see that the whole area is plastered.’12

  ‘It is terribly important that we do plaster the whole area. We’re going to Peenemunde with six hundred heavies. It is the site of Hitler’s secret weapon. We must get it. The safety of London and perhaps the very advent of the second front could depend on your success tonight.’13

  H-H had news for them at this briefing, too. Since the German introduction of female radio operators, 101’s Specials had not spoken to confuse German fighters but had been content to jam. Now H-H announced that ‘some clot’ had invented long-range radio with which German-speaking Waafs could broadcast to the German fighters from England.

  ‘So if this succeeds there’ll be no Waaf flyers.’

  A moan went up from the aircrew.

  It was an unusually short and undramatic trip. Peenemunde lay only a hop across to the shores of the Baltic. PFF found the target area with ease. There was little to see: no city, no factories, no bridges or railway marshalling yards—just countryside dotted with solid, blockhouse-like structures and a maze of roads and ramps of steel girders.

  The area was heavily defended, both from the ground and in the air. But then, the area was heavily attacked, too. Good though the much-vaunted German defences that Goering proclaimed impregnable were, they could not stop all of six hundred bombers flown with determination and guarded by window and XYZ. The Germans did their damnedest but the attack succeeded. The PFF markers covered the entire target area. The master bomber directed the main force on to the best placed markers, then moved the attack from point to point until the whole site was mangled and smashed.

  It did not look like a spectacular raid from above. There were bomb flashes and gun flashes but no great fires or explosions. It was simply a process whereby many 4,000-pound bombs smashed a lot of plant and equipment that had been built to withstand 2,000-pound bombs.

  Hyde was called early next morning to the Wing Commander’s office. H-H was there when he arrived.

  ‘You chaps will parade at Buckingham Palace at eleven hundred hours on Thursday next,’ the Wingco announced. ‘You can take just forty-eight hours’ special leave or, if you prefer, you can have your week’s due leave and tack the forty-eight on to it. Which will you have?’

  The Wingco was being pleasant enough, but Hyde noticed a certain heaviness—almost a sadness—about him.

  ‘Two leaves are better than one, sir,’ H-H said. ‘I’d rather a forty-eight now and normal leave later.’

  ‘What about you, Parke?’

  Hyde thought a moment, heavy brow massive with wrinkles. ‘I was going to say we’d take the lot, sir. But I suppose two leaves are better than one.’

  ‘Well, make up your mind.’

  ‘Two leaves, thank you sir. A forty-eight now and the remainder later.’

  ‘Right. I’ll have Orderly Room prepare your passes and take you all off the bloodsheet.’

  It was the end of the interview. H-H was about to leave, but Hyde was worried by the Wing Commander’s manner.

  ‘Er, excuse me, sir, but any news of Peenemunde? Has Hitler still got a secret weapon to chuck at us?’

  The Wingco frowned, then looked up brightly.

  ‘No, he hasn’t, Parke.’ He smiled and added: ‘We wrecked the joint. We won’t see that secret weapon for a while.’

  ‘Oh, good, sir! And it’s one in the eye for your opposite number, Hans what’s-his-name.’

  The Wingco looked up quickly; all the sadness had returned. ‘Hans Jeschonnek? Yes. Rather too much for him, I’m afraid. Having failed to defend Peenemunde so soon after our success against Nürnberg, he’s committed suicide.’ The Wingco looked into the distance. ‘I’m going to miss him,’ he said.14

  — 6 —

  ‘Squadron Leader Hyde, sir,’ said Joe, eyes a-twinkle. ‘if you had arranged for us to take leave at a time like this, I for one would’ve castrated you with a bread-knife.’

  ‘You’re durn right,’ agreed Krink. ‘After even a forty-eight we might return to find the war’s over.’

  ‘I know you chaps aren’t serious,’ Hyde laughed. ‘And I do know you could do with some leave.’

  ‘I can certainly use it,’ said Bill.

  ‘Maybe we’re not absolutely serious, skip, but surely you don’t think Germany can take much more punishment? At this rate we can just wipe the whole place out; city by city.’

  ‘Germany might still fight on even if we did. But what is more likely is that Germany will find counters to our new tactics. Don’t think I’m pessimistic. I’ve known the Hun longer than you chaps have and he doesn’t take a beating lightly.’

  Hyde threw a mischievous glance at Joe and added: ‘Anyway, Command are playing safe; they’re still posting new crews to the Squadron.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ groaned Joe. ‘Vincent’s gone and lost his table-tennis title to some sprog officer. First time the title’s left our mess in years.’

  ‘He was far too good,’ Vincent apologized, ‘I could never hope to beat him.’

  ‘Fair dinkum, skip, said Joe. ‘I couldn’t bear to watch the slaughter. You’d think Bill O’Reilly or Larwood1 or somebody like that had blundered into a village match. It was murder. What a tussle: twenty-one-seven, twenty-one-three. Oooh!’ Joe took his sport very seriously. It was as though the Allies had lost a great battle.

  ‘Well,’ laughed Hyde, ‘he can recuperate from this grim but glorious defeat starting Wednesday morning. I’m catching the earliest train. I’ll have a staff-car to the station, so anybody else who’s coming on that train can have a lift. Okay?’

  There was a general chorus of acceptance.

  ‘Hey!’ warned Hyde. ‘It’s only a little Hillman, it can’t take the bloody lot of you.’

  As it happened, all the Parke crew except Bill wanted to catch that first London train. And to make up for Bill, who had already left for Rotherham, H-H joined the party. They found another driver and with Krink’s car ‘formating loosely’ on the Hillman staff car, the party arrived with plenty of time and noise at ‘Grimtown steamworks’.

  As they showed their passes at the barrier the ticket inspector spoke to Hyde. ‘Is that your dog, sir?’ Trotting confidently beside him was a little black scotty.

  ‘He’s not mine,’ said Hyde.

  ‘Whose is he, then? He can’t travel without a ticket.’

  The men looked blankly from the dog to the inspector and back at the dog again. ‘Come on, now! Which one of you owns him?’ The scotty stood so cockily beside them that they felt sheepish and guilty as they shook their heads and denied ownership.

  ‘Then he can’t come in here. No dogs without tickets.’

  Scratching and whimpering, the dog ran along the barrier as the group walked away.

  Immediately they settled in their carriage they heard an excited barking. The scotty had squeezed between the bars of the barrier and was rushing towards them as the train began to move.

  ‘’Ere! Grab that dog, Bert!’, the ticket-collector yelled at a porter. ‘It can’t travel without a ticket.’

  But the porter was too slow. Vincent swung open the door as the dog bounded alongside and with a leap it landed in the carriage. Unashamed, and none the worse for his dangerous athletics, the scotty looked at the men, panting through open mouth, red tongue wagging and black eyes gleaming.

  ‘That was a true One-o-one squadron take-off you made,’ Hyde addressed the dog.

  The scotty licked its nose, closed its mo
uth and whimpered pertly in reply.

  ‘He’s the most airborne dog I’ve ever seen,’ said Krink.

  ‘He’s a real RAF dog,’ said Joe.

  ‘What say we call him that, then?’

  ‘Raff!’

  ‘Right! Raff it is. Hey!’ Vincent said, ‘Hey, Raff! How do you like being a Raff dog?’ Raff jumped on to Vincent’s knee and licked his ear. It did not occur to any of them that he should not be, as from this moment, their very own dog. Had you asked them, they would have assured you it was not acquisition by theft. Theft? How preposterous! It was a sort of mutual legal adoption.

  The wartime train that takes a soldier on leave is a magical thing. No matter if it be crowded or slow. Even if there is a bomb on the rails ahead and the train must be diverted; it is heading home, back to Mum and the family and the girlfriend. Even to the man from overseas—men like Joe and Krink and Johnnie, thousands of miles from home—the leave train is his brightest company.

  As they rumbled south they passed an airfield where American Flying Fortresses were taking off for a daylight raid. One Fortress swooped so low over the train that they saw the face of the belly-gunner. Joe waved out of the window.2

  ‘Fly, you bastards, fly!’ he yelled happily.

  ‘A pity they can’t fly a bit further,’ lamented H-H.

  ‘And carry a decent load of bombs,’ added Hyde.

  High flying, plus the weight of a crew of eleven and many guns with the necessary ammunition, cut the Fortress bomb-capacity to less than half of a Lancaster’s bomb-load. The RAF, as might be expected, had an uncomplimentary song about it; they sang it to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body’ and Magnetic launched into it now, quickly joined by the others.

  ‘Flying firkin fortresses at forty thousand feet,

  Crew and guns they’ve got on board enough to sink a fleet.

  They’re only bound for Calais so we know they won’t retreat