by Ray Ollis
The speakers at the reception, like the social writers, made their dramatic most of that morning’s investiture, the wartime rush of impetuous youth, the courage and sacrifice of the wartime bride in facing the dangers and forgoing the pomp. They said, in short, everything most likely to embarrass and upset the bride and groom. They spoke of children and of heroes and of better worlds to live in; one even mentioned widows. H-H’s mother vowed that that was unforgivable ‘especially in the complete absence of French champagne’; yet the condemned couple, setting out on what had been made to appear a hazardous and gruelling ordeal, contrived to face it gaily, even, it seemed, with relish.
They left with the dusk to drive to Ludford in Barbara’s Riley, the whereabouts of the night stop en route a furtive secret.
‘As soon as it’s dark,’ said H-H, ‘we’ll find some spot beside the road where we can stop, strip off these clothes, and rid ourselves of every possible shred of confetti.’
‘For one moment, darling, you gave me quite a thrill. But then your intentions were shown quite the opposite: decorum to the last.’
Fifty miles north they pulled into a charming country inn where H-H had booked a large room noted for the famous occupant two centuries before, and of its massive four-poster. Barbara wore slacks and sweater and was hatless; H-H wore unpressed flannels, duffel coat and cap and carried a small leather case. Neither their attire nor their manner could betray this as their wedding night to even the most intuitive inn-keeper; but was that not a smirk upon Mine Host’s plump face?
The honeymoon door closed heavily behind them; they switched on the light and turned to kiss, then fell into each other’s arms laughing. In their hair were handfuls of confetti.
— 7 —
‘Are you Vincent Farlow?’
Even his pilot officer’s uniform did not make the speaker look old enough to be in the service; his pink, beardless cheeks and boyish eagerness still smacked of the schoolroom. ‘Because, if so, I believe you’re the bounder I have to beat for the table-tennis title.’
‘I was a week ago,’ said Vincent. ‘But not any more. I lost it to a F/O bomb-aimer called O’Brien.’
‘Yes, I know. But O’Brien got the chop. Went missing Wednesday I was told. I’m all for retiring when you’re at the peak but that’s carrying it a bit far, what?’
He laughed shrilly. Vincent wondered if his boyish mind comprehended what he was joking about.
‘So you’re champ again, Farlow old thing.’
‘Well, any time you like,’ said Vincent, eager to end the conversation.
‘Now?’
‘If you wish.’
‘Oh, topping! I’m flying second dickie tonight with that South African fellow Lieutenant Cahill; he’s screening me, it’s my first op. So we can just fit it in before bacon and eggs.’
Vincent looked at the pink cheeks and pubescent pimples and listened to the childish drivel.
‘This creature is to be in charge of eight lives and more than L70,000 worth of aircraft’, he reflected. ‘And, who knows? He might do wonders. Perhaps he can fly like a swallow and the playing-fields of somewhere-or-other may have made him frightfully brave.’1
Something had certainly made the P/O a very good table-tennis player. He won the first game and was well on the way to winning the second when the Tannoy called new and earlier meal times and the game had to end straight away. But Vincent was so obviously beaten that he conceded the set and became ex-champion for the second time in a week.
The P/O was thrilled in every fibre of his body. ‘Oh, this is ripping; quite my lucky day. Now for those bacon and eggs and my first op.’
He turned to Vincent and asked; ‘Are you flying, too? I suppose not, being straight off leave.’
‘I’m afraid we are,’ said Vincent. ‘Off leave one is supposed to be fit.’
‘Oh, wizard! I’ll see you over the Third Reich!’
‘If this cloud clears.’
Vincent scowled at the sky. ‘If it doesn’t, neither of us’ll see a damned thing.’
‘Tonight’s weather,’ said the met officer, ‘is likely to be tricky. We bomb beyond and land between two cold fronts. Visibility at take-off will be poor but you will fly quickly into good weather and over the target skies should be clear. Winds will be strong westerly—perhaps exceeding seventy mph—so you’ll have a fast trip in and a slower trip home. As you pass through the first cold front en route home watch out for icing. But cloud-top wouldn’t exceed twenty thousand except in isolated places so stay high and you’ll keep above it. Forecast wind at twenty thousand over Nürnberg is two-eighty at sixty-five mph so bomb-aimers will have to be snappy. Don’t waste time coming home because visibility will be deteriorating.’2
Hyde leant towards his crew and said, ‘I prefer Wendy’s briefings to this boy’s. She always gives herself away if she thinks the weather’s shocking. But this chap is so confident you don’t know whether he’s being careful about an average set-up or light-hearted about something bloody awful.’
‘I wish we’d taken a week’s leave instead of just a forty-eight. I don’t like the look of this trip.’
‘Who’s the cloth-headed maniac who puts off-leave crews on the blood-sheet?’
‘The Flight-Commander,’ Hyde said, coldly.
The first part of the met forecast was accurate; visibility at take-off was poor indeed. Heavy rain in big drops flattened blindingly against the perspex and, to make matters worse, the wind was not straight down the runway. It was so strong that even a few degrees of cross-wind forced them to drift off the ground alarmingly. To take off in such conditions was bad but to do so with full bomb and petrol load was hair-raising.
Hyde felt clumsy tugging and struggling at the controls; was it because he had been away from aeroplanes for a while? Years of flying should accustom one to flying, but it was never so. After a few days away nothing seemed automatic any more; every action had to be thought out and made deliberately.
Or was it because he was in a strange aircraft? Q-Queenie had been shot up the night they went on leave and was still unserviceable. Tonight they were in V-Victor, an almost new aircraft; this was only her third trip. Well, she didn’t leak, anyway. If she did it would have been apparent in this filthy rain. Hyde would hardly have thought it possible but the rain seemed to be getting worse. ‘No wonder they put the time forward’, he thought; ‘another half-hour would make flying impossible.’
‘Nav to skipper,’ said the intercom. ‘Terrific wind, skip. It’s dead abeam and we’ve got seventeen degrees of drift.’
‘What!’
‘That’s right, skip. Seventeen degrees. Alter course eight degrees starb’d to two-eleven.’
‘But we’re only at two thousand. What’ll it be like at height?’
‘I hate to think. I’ve checked with Gee four times. When we turn east with this wind behind us we will go too fast to maintain timing.’
‘But we’ll fly out of this weather when we turn east.’
‘I doubt it. Winds have backed ninety degrees from the forecast, which means the system is further east than they expected, and moving faster. It makes good sense meteorologically. So we’ll be in this weather almost to the target; and I hope it’s only almost.’
‘Okay, nav. But you’d better be right.’
Bill spoke and his voice was strained, almost a scream. ‘We could still be on leave now.’
‘Shut up!’ Hyde was worried about Bill. Ever since the night his bombs had blown up that aircraft Bill’s nerves had been deteriorating. Hyde was not going to let Bill infect the whole crew with his fears.
Outside, the world was liquid grey. Grey swirls of cloud and squalls of rain and chunks of hectic sky. Great cumulo-nimbus curls of cloud whirled about them, shocking and jolting the battling aircraft as rapids toss a slight canoe. The wild west wind was not a highway but a writhing, tossing road to war. They looked out upon it with startled eyes; some cursed, some trembled.
‘Nav to skipper. Wi
ndspeed at sixteen thousand feet is ninety-two mph. We have a twenty-eight degree drift. Alter course now, thirteen degrees starb’d, to two-two-four true.’
‘Surely that’s impossible, nav!’
‘Work it out yourself. Windspeed is more than half our airspeed while we’re still climbing.’
‘Are you sure, nav?’
‘Positive.’
‘Christ!’
It was difficult to estimate which prospect was blacker.
If Vincent were right then all the timing of this raid would be hopelessly out. Those aircraft without radar would arrive over the target perhaps an hour early and fly beyond it at astonishing ground speeds. At an airspeed of 230 mph, they would expect to cover the ground at 295 mph. But, in fact, they would be doing 330 mph, or more. It would be chaos.
It would destroy the precious concentration that was their defence over Goering’s Germany. It would be tragedy.
And if Vincent were wrong? Then, instead of the force being an hour early, V-Victor would be an hour late. They would be the straggler marked down for easy destruction. It would be murder.
‘Nav to skipper. Windspeed at eighteen thousand feet is a hundred and three mph. What about going down to sixteen thousand, skipper? Even throttled right back we’ll still reach Nürnberg forty minutes early unless we dog-leg at twenty thousand feet.’
Hyde did not answer for a moment. When he did he spoke very calmly.
‘Nav. Are you certain you are right?’
‘Certain.’
‘Gee couldn’t be wrong?’
‘No. Gee is either very wrong or dead right. And the synoptic situation makes sense. Our track runs dead straight from alteration to alteration. Gee is right.’
There was another pause while Hyde pondered.
‘Nav. Check every figure and every fix you’ve plotted.’
‘I have checked, skipper.’
‘Well, check again! And are you sure you’re using the correct Gee channel?’
‘Yes, you clot! I couldn’t plot the readings otherwise.’
Vincent was not being kind; Hyde’s doubting his skill riled Vincent’s vanity.
‘Bomb-aimer,’ called Hyde, ‘go back and check the log and chart with the navigator. I’ll carry on up to twenty thousand feet and if winds really are too strong then we’ll come down a bit.’
Navigators do not like having their logs and charts checked. Especially by those who know less about navigation than themselves, such as bomb-aimers or pilots.
Hyde knew Vincent would not be pleased. But Hyde could not assume a remarkable situation were so until he had made every effort to disprove it and it had stood that test.
‘Nav to skipper,’ said Vincent smugly. ‘Log and chart checked by bomb-aimer and self and found correct. New wind is a hundred and twelve mph and we’re still not at full height.’
‘Okay, nav. I’ll take her right up to twenty thousand while you check windspeed there, though.’
‘Well, let me know soon. I’ll have to compute a different course depending which height we fly and we turn east in a few minutes.’
At 20,000 feet the wind-speed was 117 mph. With that tail wind they could have tracked into Germany, throttles wide, at over 400 mph. If only Met had known, and were sure the target would be clear, what a raid this might have been. What anguish to pursuing fighters, what speeds to leave the puzzled flak behind! They could have flown out of the cold front, bombed in clear skies, and popped back into the sheltering clouds again within a score of miles and half a dozen minutes.
But they had not known. Met’s ignorance was a grievous fault and grievously must the flyers now answer it.
Hyde had decided. V-Victor would fly at 16,000 feet at their slowest speed—115 mph—almost stalling speed. They arrived few minutes late over Beachy Head, yet would still have to dog-leg time away in order not to reach Nürnberg too early.
Wearily, resigned to God-alone-knew-what, they turned eastward for Germany.
Already the bomber force was scattered and baffled. Many lacked the tools to measure their plight and flew unheeding into chaos. Others, distrustful of themselves, refused to believe the things their instruments told them. Those who had measured, checked and swore that they were right still flew with the fear that the might be wrong; that such weather really was impossible.
So the force split into three: the unknowing in front, speeding further and further from safety; the unsure next, tortured by doubts of their actions and their future; and finally the few, the unhappy few who knew and staked their lives upon their knowing. Spreading ever thinner and more vulnerable across Europe they straggled like leaves upon the breeze, powerless before their airy executioner—the wild west wind.
German radar pierced the widespread cloud of window and the shells came crashing up into the liberal target. Most XYZ aircraft, having Gee, were with the rearward forces so fighters homed upon the leaders unmolested. Gunners below had never known such a night. Usually the bombers came, remained in range some few minutes, then were gone. If one fell during those minutes the gunners cheered. Tonight their targets droned across their eager sights for an hour or more, and each few minutes claimed another victim.
Then, already past the target, the leading bombers flew out of the bad weather. Now for a pinpoint!
Gradually, one by one, they saw their error; discovered where they were. Many were slow to believe and blundered further from safety. Many died before they discovered; died fighting their way to a target they had gained and passed. Those who lived to learn turned, now, into the teeth of the wind that had beguiled them, a few to crash head-on with others puzzling still. The wind that had sent them hurtling over Germany now buffeted them back to keep them near to danger. Before, they had fluttered east at five miles a minute; now they battled back no faster than a car.
Some overshot Nürnberg by 150 miles. By the time they regained the target they were almost two hours late. It was hopeless. Suppose they survived the guns and fighters, what then? In four hours, still far from home, their petrol would run out and, if they lived, they would be taken prisoner.
‘And all because the weather man was wrong’, thought Hyde. ‘Then wind, invisible wind, had played the Germans’ game. O cruel west wind! How many men? How many hundred men this night had learnt to
… know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O, hear!3
‘Five minutes to TOT,’ said Vincent.
‘Can’t see a bloody thing,’ said Bill.
‘Watch out for the markers,’ ordered Hyde. ‘They might show through this muck.’
Keen eyes stared into the night but saw nothing. Nothing but whirling mists and curling cloud. By the time correct TOT was reached, Nürnberg had been swallowed up by the cold front. All that indicated that Nürnberg was below them was the flak. Exultant, the gunners were making this an opportunity for revenge. V-Victor, now down-flung by the storm, was as suddenly hurled upwards by fierce flak.
‘Can’t see anything, skipper. Will we bomb on ETA?’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to.’
‘Bomb doors open.’
Vincent counted out the seconds, Bill pressed the tit, and V-Victor lurched with added lift as each weight dropped.
Their bomb-doors were just closing when a sparkling triangle of shells surrounded them. There was a gritty, crackling noise above the roar of engines and of wind, then two distinct thumps which made V-Victor shudder. Blast caught the empty, open bomb-bays and sent the aircraft reeking up to heaven, her vitals filled with the smoking stench of war.
Hyde felt fire strike into his thighs; as shrapnel bit into his buttocks his body lifted, flinging his feet from the rudder bars and wrenching the control column from his hands. He did not scream or cry out or make any sound; his mouth remained tight-clenched, as were his hand and eyes in pain. Then his harness pulled him back into his seat and once more, not knowing how, he was flying V-Victor.
&nb
sp; The Lanc had leapt, startled, into the sky as if she meant to vault the clouds above her. When Hyde recovered after the first agonizing moments of his wounds he found V-Victor there, off-trim and straining up to the stars.
He did not think ‘I have been hit, what of my wounds?’ but, like a robot, saw a task before him and set about it urgently. V-Victor must be flown. What blood he lost would be but little—he hoped—compared to that which he would bring home, later to pound with passion and not pain through happier veins.
He tested the controls. Movements were sloppy and the trim was rough. Flying surfaces were in shreds somewhere and there was a great hole in the nose where cloud and cold came gushing in.
Hyde called over the crew on intercom and no one was hurt. Each had a little grouch; Bill was getting wet, Magnetic thought he could smell petrol, Vincent said some flak came through his desk and burnt a jagged hole in his protractor, Krink’s oxygen pipe was severed but he guessed he could fix it with insulation tape. The gunners complained that the draught through the nose was freezing them but their guns seemed all right.
Nobody thought to ask the skipper how he was. Why should he be anything but fit? He was speaking to them, as normally as might be expected after such a shaking on such a night. He did not sound particularly worried. He was still flying V-Victor. He did not tell them of his wounds.
He would not have known how to speak of them had he chosen to; he did not really know himself. When he was first hit he had been numbed by the solidness of it. It did not feel like being pierced with sharpened steel but as though a hard, flat bat had whacked him. Solid force was its first impact. Then came the pain. Anti-aircraft shrapnel, when it hits, is red-hot. It burns as much as it gouges. Hyde’s flesh and bones and nerves had clamoured with the agony of it. What simile can tell the woundless how wounds feel?
Then suddenly he had seen, with his tradesman’s eye, his work in jeopardy. His mind flashed from his wounds to grapple with familiar things.
Now, with V-Victor back in trim and routines checked, with life a normal thing again he could take stock. How did he feel? Strange, yes; yet not incapable. His legs and thighs, where he had been hit, performed the little tasks he set them. The turning of a rudder bar caused him no special pain. Indeed, the pain was gone; all that remained was a shocked numbness. All he could feel that was strange was the warm, sticky ooze in which he sat. Perhaps his wounds were just a scratch. To mention them at all might earn men’s scorn. No; it seemed more than that. But minds do fiendish things: imagine gaping wounds and gushing blood where baby cuts and little trickles might exist; minds kill the spirit fretting over wounds less mortal than cool fever. Hyde thrust these worries from his mind; decided that his wounds were slight and not to be considered, and gave his full attention to his work.