by Ray Ollis
How she envied Barbara! Barbara and H-H were the squadron lovebirds par excellence. Barbara had about her the air that only a passionate woman who is in love and revels in it can have. Wendy had heard H-H whisper to Barbara; ‘I could navigate by the stars in your eyes’, and for one breathless instant she imagined she did know the fires of love that put the sparkle there.
She had tea with Barbara one day when H-H was briefing to fly. Barbara’s gaiety allowed no trace of worry or concern. The cottage was bestrewn with reminders that its occupants were lovers. In the bathroom, scrawled on H-H’s shaving mirror in lipstick was the message; ‘Very close, darling. Bib-n-Bub hate stubble trouble.’
When Wendy commented, Barbara laughed and said, ‘See the beast’s reply!’ On her dressing table mirror, written in soap, was an answer so frank and intimate that it would have been vulgar had it not been so naively sweet.
Whenever H-H was flying Barbara would waken to the sound of the landing aircraft, and returning crews would see her parked outside de-briefing, waiting to drive H-H back to their cottage. For some time she grew to be a lovely symbol of fidelity and faith. Her carefree confidence did not permit of love that knew an ending.
Wendy wondered how such emotions could fail to feel the strain of war. Did Barbara never think, as she held her lover in her arms, that this kiss may be their last? Did she not count the hours he was away and know some fear, or dream she saw him die?
It seemed that she did not. Surely no woman who spent the night in fear could trip so gaily, smile so serenely, chatter so brightly the next morning! It was bad enough, one might think, for the wife in Rotherham or the mother in Kroonstad who heard the BBC announce: ‘Last night Bomber Command attacked Düsseldorf. Sixteen aircraft are missing.’ But to be on the squadron, in the battle as it were, to hear the petrol-load and watch the aircraft leave and then wait … No wonder officialdom frowned on having wives living in the village. Yet Barbara did not seem to wane. The sight of her with H-H, indeed, did wonders for morale in people like Wendy, with far less to lose than they.4
When Hyde was moved into the burns ward of RAF hospital, Cosford5, it was found that dermatitis had infected both his hands and face.
‘Neuro-dermatitis,’ the specialist said. ‘A not unusual complication. Unfortunate, that’s all. We can’t treat it until we pacify these burns. It’ll itch, but you’ll have to ignore it. Whatever you do, don’t scratch.’
While he was awake Hyde endured the itch. But when, despite his incomplete eyelids, he fell asleep, he clawed the maddening irritation with his bandaged hands. So then his hands were tied to the head of his iron bed and it was no longer possible to scratch.
‘Ah, capital!’, said the specialist a week or two later. ‘Soon we’ll be able to begin the first graft. We’re going to make you a pretty boy again. And I do mean a pretty boy. Your new cheeks mightn’t be like a baby’s bottom, but they’ll be genuine bottom all right; we’ll use your own bottom for the job.’
‘If the French ever offer me a Croix de Guerre,’ said Hyde through thin, cracked lips, ‘I’ll tell General de Gaulle he can kiss my, er, cheek.’ Hyde wanted to laugh but the prospect was too painful.6
‘With your permission I’m going to attempt to mend your left hand, too,’ said the specialist. ‘Sinew might respond to a new idea I have. Are you game? There’s nothing to lose.’
‘Game if you are,’ said Hyde.
‘Good! We’ve got plenty of time. You’re going to be here a long while.’
He went to move on, but paused to add; ‘I won’t be around tomorrow, so I’ll wish you a merry Christmas.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hyde. ‘And here is your Christmas card.’
Hyde handed him a sheet of folded paper. Written on it in a painful hand, the specialist read; ‘A Merry Eczema and a Happy Neuritis.’7
Following Nürnberg new timing tactics were introduced by Bomber Command. If winds varied significantly from the forecast, TOT could be put forward or back in order to preserve easy timing and not waste petrol. Each squadron was instructed to direct the best navigators to radio back to Base giving the actual winds. These winds were then averaged and forwarded to Group. If a TOT change were needed it was broadcast. In addition, averaged winds would be broadcast for the use of navigators without radar or for crews whose navigator might be wounded or dead.
Ludford needed somebody to plot the winds as they were wirelessed back and average them. Vincent was an ‘odd bod’ navigator whose work seemed reliable so the job was given to him. He could also do the hack work around the navigation office and save the more valuable time of the nav leader. It was interesting work, and although nothing was said, he assumed it would take him off ops.
Working, as he was, with the squadron and base nav leaders, he came under their eye. As an example for new crews Vincent had stuck one of his own charts and logs to the nav section wall, and base nav leader asked him what the yellow arrows on it represented.
Vincent explained that they were the forecast winds at operational height, and that by comparing them with the actual winds he had a quick guide to what the real weather situation was. From that he could more accurately compute future winds for each new leg of a trip. The base nav leader thought the idea good, and said he would submit it to Group.
Taking a leaf out of the nav leader’s book the engineer leader recruited North in a similar role in the engines section, so Vincent and Magnetic found themselves drawn closer together by mutual staff duties. Bill and Yarpi hoped that they would receive similar invitations but they did not.
The sub-note on the operation report which said, ‘Some method of landing in fog, more reliable than radio-beam or radar homing, would have cut losses by 41%’, did not escape notice. It was said that Mr Churchill himself, appalled by the Nürnberg losses, had ordered a speeding-up of investigations into fog dispersal. At last something had materialised; something called FIDO.8
Ludford Magna, as Group’s highest aerodrome (and therefore where fog would usually be thinnest) was chosen to have FIDO installed.
Two heavy pipelines were laid outside the main runway, with two smaller pipes at each end. This enclosed the entire runway in a petrol-pipe box. Small valves, like those on lawn-sprinklers, were set in these pipes at intervals; through them squirted jets of petrol which were then lit. The two miles of pipes burned thousands of gallons of petrol an hour but the heat created was immense, and either dissolved the fog around it or caused the fog cloud to lift bodily into the air.
In the gap, sandwiched between earth and cloud, aircraft could land visually. It cost the mint to run FIDO, but those sixty-seven aircraft and 268 aircrew lost over the UK following Nürnberg had a paper value of about L5,494,000, so FIDO could still pay dividends.9
Its first application had an unfortunate sequel.
Fog landing on FIDO was progressing successfully with aircraft from all of 1 Group landing at Ludford, when one Lanc made its approach with flak-holed tanks leaking petrol. The FIDO flames ignited the stream of petrol from the aircraft, flames climbed the rope of fuel tying the plane to FIDO’s fire ring, and the Lanc blew up, killing all its crew.
Later the same thing happened again and another crew died. So FIDO was modified and the end bars removed (they had made the approach bumpy anyway) and thus the risk of flying directly over fire was averted. The ‘method of landing in fog’ had arrived.10
Lieutenant Cahill was out of hospital, and he and Krink were celebrating. They had discovered that great amusement capital can be made from a plaster-encrusted torso.
One lark was to walk into people. They reel back as though hit with a brick wall.
Another lark was to ask strange girls to dance, then watch the expression on their faces.
If a girl refused to pay any attention to his unusual thickness and solidness, Cahill would offer to show her his etchings and, before she could refuse, unbutton his shirt and show the much-decorated plaster. There were signatures galore, verses of various and dubio
us origin, sketches of widely differing topics and catering for widely differing tastes.
But the best lark of all was to entice fellows to punch his stomach. ‘Go ahead,’ he would say. ‘Punch. Hard as you like.’ One victim swore he broke a knuckle and another really did dislocate his thumb.
‘Breaking your back,’ said Cahill, ‘is about the most fun you can have.’
‘He’s not even letting it upset his love life,’ announced Krink to Vincent. ‘By the way, how is Blondie standing the strain?’
Cahill looked hard at Krink. ‘Oh, she was madly dramatic at first. Heavy pauses between lines, you know. But then I worked her over gently and she realised all was not lost.’
‘But can you really cope in that rig?’
‘Oh, but definitely! She’s the sufferer; she’s black and blue from knees to navel.’
‘Oh, my shattered hip!’
‘She’s a bit up-stage about it lately. Time for a quick change, I’d say. Have you finished with half-pint, yet, Krink? She interests me.’
‘Do you always pirate Krink’s cast-off women?,’ asked Vincent.
‘I run my casting-eye over them,’ admitted Cahill. ‘If they fit the role I let them try the part. Usually understudy first. But as a star Blondie is slipping. What say about half-pint, Krink?’
‘You take her. She’s too fond of postamble for me anyway.’
‘Postamble?’
‘Yeah. She wants to talk when I want to sleep. The opposite of preamble.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind that. As long as she’s not shy in the boudoir scene.’
‘The boudoir is her natural setting.’
‘Well, that’s settled. Oh, and by the way, I’m always seeking new talent. Make the next one tall and dark with perfumed hair and a languid voice—Russian spy type.’
‘And then you’ll take her over, too?’, laughed Vincent.
‘When I’ve finished,’ said Krink.
‘Certainly,’ said Cahill. ‘She plays the Krynkiwski circuit first, then I run her in the provinces.’
‘The scavenger for cast-off women,’ said Vincent. ‘We should call you ‘Jackal’.’
‘Careful. Krynkiwski here is my only talent scout. Though sometimes his auditions appear a trifle thorough.’ Cahill frowned admonishingly at Krink.
‘Now then, Jackal,’ said Krink, ‘I find ’em, feel ’em and fondle ’em, and you don’t figure until I forget ’em.’
‘Of course, dear boy. Strictly West End before they play the Cahill circuit.’
‘The Jackal circuit.’
‘Please, please, less of this dirty dialogue.’
Cahill could scoff, but ‘Jackal’ he was thereafter.
There was a real drama coming to a showdown at this time; a big one. The Allies were massing for the Second Front.
Over England droned formations of gliders and troop-carriers. Ports were clogging with landing barges. Portable harbours were being assembled. Tanks and heavy guns were rumbling coastwards. Across the Channel the Hun was hurriedly piling defence upon defence, moving his forces west until it seemed the two opposing armies could overhear each other’s plans, while each side’s armourers
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Gave dreadful note of preparation
for the hugest battle Man had ever known.11
Bombers pounded Hitler’s defences; railways, factories, stores; smashed them faster than they were produced until every day a weaker—not a stronger—Hitler barred the Allies’ way. Bomber Command was flying more often and with more reliable success than they had ever done before.12
But not without cost. The Germans moved defences west, seeming to give anti-aircraft defences priority. They had grasped that, for them and for Bomber Command, the invasion had begun; round one was being fought in the air. When the next battle came, whichever side had lost round one would face a sorry future.
Throughout all this time Hyde was in hospital and his crew were taking little part in the fray. Vincent and Magnetic discovered that, contrary to their beliefs, they were not off ops but still flew occasionally as odd bods, as did their crewmates. Actually, none of them was doing very much work, but although they led an easy life at this time it was not a satisfying one.
Then came D-Day! And 101 Squadron were flying a very special mission. This vital day was the only time the squadron flew without bombs. Today they had more important work to do than to bomb. Today they were to strike the German dumb: their function was solely XYZ.
All communication within the German defences was by radio telephone: pillbox to pillbox, tank to tank and pillbox to tank. Just as the 101 Squadron Specials were able to prevent German messages reaching the Luftwaffe, so could they now jam the orders for the defence of Hitler’s Europe. A vital role and one which they must maintain all that long, tumultuous day. That was why they did not carry bombs; all spare weight was taken up with extra petrol so they could stay airborne as long as possible.
Every squadron flew that whole day long. More than 11,000 air sorties were completed in nineteen hours.
Before the invasion was launched, while other squadrons were hitting the defences and two special forces were inching their way across the Channel, dropping window from low-level so that each force would appear on the German radar screens as an invasion fleet, 101 Squadron aircraft were setting off singly to patrol above the invasion beaches.
Throughout the day each aircraft was to operate separately, flying up and down the coast over the invasion area, jamming every German message they heard. They carried extra ammunition because fighter attacks were likely; they carried extra food because there would be no returning for a meal for sixteen to eighteen hours.13
Vincent and Joe were both flying as odd bods with a new Canadian skipper in S-Sugar. They were pleased to be in Sugar—she had completed the most aircraft on 101 Squadron. This was her eighty-ninth trip; her life, it seemed, was charmed beyond reach of statistics which insisted she should have been lost at least four times by now.14
Vincent was secretly pleased to have Joe in the rear turret. Ever since Joe had blown up the Ju 88 with nine rounds, squadron respect for his dead-eye shooting had been high. Today, they might need it. To be one of many bombers and encounter a fighter was bad enough. But to be alone—just you and a fighter—was infinitely worse, especially in daylight. In theory the fighter had it all his way. Joe knew it, and kept his keen eyes scanning the hostile horizon.
H-H was flying with them as Special, and all that long day he toyed with German radio. He was delighted to hear dramatic messages, vital and urgent commands, and snap them off when they had hardly begun, jamming them for ten seconds until the Hun was lost. Orders to fire, to advance, withdraw, assist, cover … every military urgency he stifled, and the German consternation he well and gleefully imagined. With twenty-seven other men doing as he did, German communications must be wild confusion, he thought.
Occasionally they were attacked by flak. The first bursts never hit them and they were always able to outsmart subsequent bursts. It was only if the first burst got them that they need worry …
To escape flak as much as possible, and to amuse themselves, they climbed to maximum height. As their petrol load went down, Sugar went up, higher and higher until they passed the specification ceiling and were tip-toe at 26,000 feet. It was terribly cold, and even with oxygen taps full on their fingernails were purple from lack of oxygen.
Much of the day they could see only cloud below. Hour after hour they flew and they were very bored. Occasionally they would glimpse the battle through a gap in the clouds, and below them would stretch the spectacle of battle. On land it looked like just another layer of cloud: vast black clouds of smoke, with tiny fires twinkling here and there. But over the wind-foamed sea came the endless armada that followed, hour after hour, bearing a million soldiers; land-fighters turned sailor for a day.
H-H was growing exhausted but still he laboured with his sets. Was he only imagining that as he grew more tir
ed the messages grew thicker? At dawn he had been forced to search for messages to jam, but now the ether buzzed with them and many were getting through.
With nightfall they ate the last of the sandwiches and drank the last of the coffee. They had been awake since midnight and flying since 4 am and tiredness and boredom worried them more than hunger. Nevertheless they ate for lack of anything else to do—only H-H was busy—as much as for nourishment.
Now the battle was the flickering of a million fireflies. It looked like the birth of a universe seen from space, with now and then a brilliant galaxy exploding momently and falling away into nothingness.
Vincent computed endless courses to cover and re-cover the same dull few miles. The engineer eked out their petrol to keep them in the air another instant, and the gunners forced their tired, aching eyes to continue searching.
At length they turned for home. They were the only aircraft over base so they came straight in and landed. They had been airborne for eighteen hours and forty-two minutes.
Debriefing room was almost empty. Two aircraft had returned during the day; one with engine trouble and the other damaged by flak. Two more had landed about half an hour before and their crews were now asleep. Three crews including their own were now being debriefed. They were annoyed to be back so early because they felt sure that their petrol-consumption rate was very low and that they would be one of the last.
Tired as they were, they decided to wait for the other crews. They put an extra tot of rum in their coffee to help keep awake and settled down in armchairs to wait.
After twenty minutes there was still not another plane back; not even a drone in the sky of an approaching Lanc, and the engineer expressed amazement that anybody could have made his petrol last so long.
Ten minutes later he said he defied anybody to keep airborne for another five minutes and if they weren’t back then—well, they just weren’t coming back.