101 Nights

by Ray Ollis

  The night whirling about them, tossing them easily on its powerful way, had continued to rage. Their throttles were open now, straining against the storm. Hyde checked his petrol, checked his watch, cast a troubled glance over his shoulder looking for the dawn. If this weather strengthened, the day might find them still over Europe.

  A cloud raced by, and for an instant they could see it was one cloud and not a cloud-filled sky. And then another, and soon they saw a star. Quickly the cold front cleared; within ten minutes they could see the world. Earth! Sky! Each set in its right place. How good it was to see these standards and know they were still fixed!

  ‘How’s the wind now, nav?’

  ‘Three-five-two at eighty-five mph.’

  ‘Isn’t it dropping?’

  ‘Not significantly.’

  ‘Would the wind be much less if we went down, nav?’, Hyde asked.

  ‘The winds would, skip. But we’ll hit that next front soon and there’ll be icing below twelve thousand feet.’

  ‘But we’ll have to descend through it over England.’

  ‘We’ll probably be okay going straight down through it, it only occurs round about freezing-level, but if we fly in it for an hour it’ll be our lot.’

  Vincent added: ‘She sounds pretty mushy; could she stand much ice?’4

  ‘No, not much,’ said Hyde. ‘She’s flat out now and only crawling. You’re sure we’ll ice-up if we descend?’

  ‘I’m certain we will.’

  ‘You’d better be right.’

  ‘You said that once before.’

  ‘Yes, you bloody Jonah, you. And I wish you hadn’t been.’

  ‘Sorry, skip. But even this wind is better than ice.’

  The leading bombers in the race for home met the second cold front just west of the Rhine. Most of them, still wanting to trust the briefing forecast, had expected clear skies and lessening winds all the way to England. As they droned, exhausted, towards more friendly France, cloud rose like a cliff to bar their way. Some realized their danger quickly; realized the full threat of icing and frenziedly started to climb. Throttles full and nose thrust high they strove to out-climb ice before it smothered them.

  Others saw the danger but either failed or refused to recognize it. Wind—fog—petrol—ice? Their choice of executioner! He could but kill them once; what did it matter? Resigned to face the nearest foe to hand, they flew straight on to meet the storm.

  Of the two groups, the ones who chose to climb fared better. But even they fared ill.

  The crew of V-Victor saw the cliff of cloud from four miles high, and still it seemed to tower above them. Hyde searched the far horizon for some gap and thought that he could see one. Even gaps in cumulo-nimbus can mean danger—danger from hailstones that hit swift-moving aircraft at hundreds of miles per hour, bullets of ice. But danger and this night were one, so Hyde turned V-Victor towards the misty pass. Vincent plotted the new course and estimated their ETA Ludford Magna.

  ‘Nav to skipper. We’re going to be ninety-four minutes late at Base.’

  ‘Ninety-four minutes, check,’ said Hyde. Then he asked: ‘How will we be for petrol, engineer?’

  ‘We’ll have enough for twenty-six minutes.’

  ‘Just pray we find somewhere to land.’

  Hyde spoke with feeling. His crew noticed it but put it down to fear of weather. In fact it was more than that. Hyde felt himself growing weak and immeasurably tired. The flight home he had braced himself to endure. He rallied his spirit to stand as much as that. Then he saw the cloud ahead and his spirit quailed before it. Faint qualms were now becoming pressing doubts and soon true fear was nagging at his mind. To last the distance was ordeal enough. But this looming weather signalled battle; Hyde and V-Victor, both faint with wounds, would need to battle every inch of the way. The test was at hand and he feared that he would not endure it.

  There were moments when he floated, detached from solid things. These moments he found himself enjoying and that was why he feared. For now the numbness was going and in its place pain was spreading from hips to knees.

  ‘If I could only float,’ thought Hyde in that calm, detached mind he had just discovered, ‘if I could just fly with you, O wild west wind …’5

  ‘Nav to skipper. What’s your course, skip? Off a bit, aren’t you?’

  Vincent’s voice snapped him back. Hyde looked at his compass. He pulled Victor around, back towards the misty pass.

  ‘Sorry, nav,’ he said. ‘I was watching the weather.’

  Well might he watch. The cloud-tops lay beyond V-Victor’s power. Hyde felt the tug of the first curled cloud and braced to meet the task. The threat he had feared to face now spurred his spirit. His mind was clear again and full of fight. The pain he felt he would use to goad his actions.

  So much an enemy was weather, so ever-present, that the lesser enemy was almost forgotten. Yet, this other enemy, the Hun, had never been more deadly. The force was now his toy. He had targets far and wide, high and low. All semblance of concentration was lost. Suddenly the rocking, roaring storm would lighten into twinkles of steel and make men remember that there was still an Earth.

  Hyde hardly knew the fight he fought. Time was no longer real. Perhaps he had flown through the storm for an hour, or perhaps it had been a day. One thing seemed certain: that it would never stop.

  But it did.

  With the coast of France the weather cleared. With the coast of France the guns were left behind. They had survived this dreadful night. With the coast of France the dawn came faint behind them, turning the tumbling clouds into a maze of beauty: deep chasms of purple, of darkest green and black: as clouds are seen only from above. The wind dropped down as if by magic. there was calm beyond belief. The soft sun rose out from the vanishing storm and they looked for England.

  What they saw was mist. Flat, blank fog. Endless and complete. Hyde looked and trembled.

  Vincent spoke. ‘That’s unlucky. Visibility behind a cold front is usually good.’

  ‘Tonight nothing is good.’

  The men gazed listlessly at the low, flat motionless layer. For a minute nobody spoke. ‘I’ll try to home you in on Gee,’ said Vincent.

  ‘Okay, nav.’

  Hyde’s voice was resigned; as flat as the fog. He could no longer feel. There was not pain or fear or even will to live. Vincent’s voice droned on with constant directions. Hyde flew them like an automaton.

  Other aircraft were flying port circuits above the hidden runways. How battered and wretched they looked! Some flew on three, or even two engines. Some had shattered perspex and jagged holes in their metal skin. The aircraft going in on radio beam6 as they arrived was trailing smoke. They were over base and still all danger had not passed. Beam landings were never fun. And every aircraft was short of petrol. The air-to-ground radio buzzed with emergency calls. Flying-control was trying to sort them out into priority order and hurry them through the tedious drill of beam approach.

  Lieutenant Cahill’s voice was heard to say; ‘Z-Zebra on two, wounded on board, request immediate landing and ambulance.’

  Control called him straight in and he flew the long, slow, flat approach on beam then sank into the fog. Immediately there came a tiny twinkle of orange flame, then a mushroom of smoke billowed up through the flat fog-top.

  There was a long silence on radio while the airborne crews flew around and around, looking and wondering. Then control announced; ‘All Brylcreem aircraft divert to nearest beam approach ’dromes.’

  That meant Z-Zebra’s wreck was blocking the beam runway. The ether jammed with protests about fuel shortages and damaged aircraft. Hyde knew there was nothing Ludford could do.

  ‘There must be general chaos down there for them to give such a loose diversion order,’ said Magnetic.

  ‘Want a course for Binbrook, skip?’ asked Vincent. There was no reply. Magnetic glanced at Hyde and noticed how pale he was.

  Vincent spoke again. ‘Nav to skipper. Where do you want to
land?’

  ‘We’ll land here.’

  ‘But beam’s busted.’

  ‘Bring me in on Gee.’

  There was a long pause. It was a strange order; given tonelessly and utterly without emotion.

  ‘You want to land on a Gee homing?’ Vincent asked, almost in disbelief.

  ‘Yes.’

  Doubt echoed in Vincent’s voice but he replied; ‘Homing on Gee, skip. Fly one-six-five true.’

  Again they droned along the curving radar pulse. V-Victor sank into the fog. Gently they floated down … and at the same time Hyde felt himself go floating up, up, up. Hyde’s spirit could not be goaded by this passive fog. He longed for turmoil again. This nothingness was a vacuum, void of life. He yearned to plunge again into the wild west wind; to float and whirl and fly with it …

  O, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

  I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!7

  Then V-Victor struck; mushed down on her belly into soft meadow. They had got down; they had been lucky.

  But not completely; just before she stopped, V-Victor hit a fence and slewed round, ripping her giant port wing apart like so much tinder.

  ‘She’s on fire!’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘Fire! Out! Quick!’

  The men tumbled from their places and rushed the exit while flames spread quickly up the crumpled wing, lapping at the fuselage.

  Hyde felt the cabin heating up as he struggled weakly to undo his harness.

  They leapt over each other out of the rear hatch (strangely near the ground with the wheels up) and each man landed running, running from the explosion which was sure to come.

  They piled into a ditch beside a nearby road and looked back through the fog at the crackling, spluttering plane.

  ‘Where’s Hyde?’, asked Magnetic.

  The men looked around with sickly fear.

  ‘He must be caught inside!’ shrieked Bill, staring at the flames now engulfing the cabin.

  ‘Perhaps he’s hurt,’ said Magnetic. ‘He was looking terribly pale.’

  Vincent clambered out of the ditch and ran towards V-Victor. The door was on the starboard, away from the fire. He flung himself up into the fuselage and coughed at the billows of smoke. He had not removed his helmet when he fled and fixed upon it were his goggles. He pulled them down to shield his eyes and peered forward.

  Flames filled Hyde’s cabin and Vincent could see them lapping around his body. Vincent groped forward and grabbed Hyde’s arm. It was so hot he could not grip it. A yard away at his nav desk was his bag, and from this Vincent snatched his gauntlets.

  Protected, now, from both heat and the fire itself, he grasped Hyde beneath the armpits and tugged. But Hyde’s harness still bound him to his ticking pyre. Vincent grappled with the quick-release, fascinated to watch flames licking his own gauntlets and sickened by the smell of burning flesh.

  The harness snapped free and Vincent pulled to hurry Hyde from the flames. But Hyde’s left hand was set round the controls; held deep into the flames, hidden by fire. Vincent summoned all his fortitude and strength. With a mammoth effort he dragged Hyde from the seat and down the fuselage. At the doorway Magnetic met him.

  Between them the two men carried the unconscious Hyde away. They laid him in the ditch, then stared in horror. His face and hands, unprotected from the fire, were gone. Those strong, capable hands that they had come to trust so much; the broad forehead and the powerful jaw were all just gore and bone, blackened with smoke; the face made ghastly by the grin of white-bared teeth.

  Hyde’s sightless, lidless eyes stared up at them.

  ‘Has anyone gone for an ambulance?’

  There was a roar as V-Victor blew up. The men dived into the ditch until the flaming fragments had ceased to fall.

  ‘That ought to fetch them,’ said Vincent.8

  — 8 —

  Squadron Report: Nürnberg

  101 Sqn aircraft engaged: 28. Missing: 9. Damaged: 19.

  Flight or Sqn Commanders missing: 0. Other aircrew missing: 71.

  Flight or Sqn Commanders wounded: 1. Other aircrew wounded: 6.

  Command Report

  Total aircraft engaged: 413. Total missing: 96 (22.76%).

  Squadron Commanders missing: 3. Wounded: 1.

  Flight Commanders missing: 12. Wounded: 2.

  Other aircrew missing: 665. Wounded: 231.

  Aircraft lost over UK (not included in total missing): 67

  Aircrew killed in UK (not included in total missing): 268

  Total aircraft damaged repairable: 237.

  Photo reconnaissance shows 26% of bombs landed in primary target area. Further 16% in secondary target area. Ball-bearing works, missed on previous successful raid, destroyed. To this extent the attack was a success, but this force was scattered by exceptional weather which was unforeseen, and encountered very heavy opposition due mainly to loss of concentration. Only thirteen aircraft (3.1%) returned undamaged. In the 96 aircraft lost over Europe plus the further 67 lost over UK on return, total casualties were 1,255 aircrew, including 949 killed. Many aircraft ditched, having run out of petrol, and Air-Sea Rescue were unable to meet the demand on their services.

  This unfortunate raid teaches us two things:

  Even with radar, window, PFF and XYZ, Bomber Command cannot operate in all weathers.

  Some method of landing in fog, more reliable than radio-beam or radar homing, would have cut losses by 41%.1

  Hyde was alive.

  And he still had eyes.

  His face was gone but doctors said they could build him another face. What worried the doctors was his left hand. To rebuild that, they said, they would need not a surgeon but a creator.

  From nine wounds in his legs and buttocks they removed four and a quarter ounces of shrapnel.

  ‘Nasty, of course,’ the MO told the anxious crew. ‘But none of it important. Pity about the flak. Without it he wouldn’t have been burnt, and those burns are going to be terribly tricky.’

  ‘Terribly tricky!’, exclaimed Joe. ‘This man is burnt till he looks like a gargoyle and you’re upset because you might find it ‘terribly tricky’!’

  The MO sniffed and looked at Joe icily. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘it’s your own fault. From what I can see, that hand was damaged after burning. Whoever pulled him out just wrenched him free. The fingers should have been unwound gently, one by one. We keep telling you chaps that how a burnt man is handled immediately after burning makes or mars successful treatment. And still you bring in cases that appal me. Surely you are taught first aid?’

  ‘We can’t all be Flight Lieutenant doctors, you know, and face the horrors of the operating theatre.’

  The MO turned on his heel and walked away.

  ‘I’m afraid you didn’t make a firm friend there,’ said Joe. ‘He’s the joker I saw about being sick. He as good as said that I was LMF.’2

  ‘No doubt doctors meet more than their share of malingerers and become suspicious.’

  ‘And have you noticed which medics become suspicious?’ asked Joe pugnaciously. ‘Never the experienced ones. Only the young upstarts just through exams. They read a few books and trudge behind some house physician for a while, then Air Ministry bung two rings round their sleeves and send ’em here. They know all about diseases and nothing about people. Hear this bloke talk about Hyde’s burns. He won’t treat Hyde. The big gen-boys will; and you won’t hear them blaming somebody’s foolishness.’

  Vincent was looking upset. ‘I did have to wrench him out,’ he said. ‘I suppose I am to blame.’

  ‘Balls!’ said Joe, growing more and more annoyed. ‘I wonder how carefully our Flight Loo-bloody-tenant chum would’ve unwrapped them? If it had been him instead of you in there Hyde would’ve burnt to death. It would’ve saved him a ‘terribly tricky’ patient.’

  ‘Take it easy, Joe.’

  ‘But I get real wild inside.’

  ‘Well, relax. You’ll finish up flak-happy.’


  Many of the squadron were more than a little flak-happy. Every crew had experienced trouble on the Nürnberg trip. Every aircraft was damaged. Everybody had lost good friends. Aircrew wounded had left their crewmates standing around incomplete and inactive. Lieutenant Cahill, with flak in a tyre, had ground-looped on touch-down, killing two of his crew and the pimple-faced second dickie, and breaking his own back. Cahill would be in plaster for many months. For a few days the squadron could not fly, and during that time Bomber Command operated without XYZ cover.3

  It was a setback for both nerves and morale. It came as more of a shock following on recent successes.

  An unusual casualty of the Nürnberg fiasco was Wendy Marlborough-Jones. Two aspects of this raid caused her pangs of conscience when awake, and dreams of horror while she slept.

  That the whole tragedy should be caused by her department—meteorology—she felt as a personal failure. In her inner mind she felt she had foreseen the possibilities and done nothing about it. Of course her self-reproaches were foolish; what should it avail if one junior met officer, and female at that, cried ‘Halt’ to a dozen of Europe’s best meteorologists?

  A seemingly impossible situation had arisen and had been misjudged. It was unfortunate. But Wendy took it to heart like a mother who had lost her child.

  All the affection she felt for Hyde now rekindled in sympathy for his hurt. She was a serious, tender-hearted woman living a sheltered life in the midst of hectic drama; she was too close to war not to absorb some of its horror, and that horror took the form of self-reproach.