Once More the Hawks

by Max Hennessy

  ‘Do you realise, sir,’ he said, ‘that you were doing almost ninety?’

  Harris gestured. ‘Have a look at the front of the car. There’s a plate on the front bumper clearing me of all speed limits. Sometimes I’m called on to deal with emergencies.’

  ‘That’s all very well, sir, but you’re liable to kill people.’

  Harris gave a grim smile. ‘I’m paid to kill people,’ he growled.

  As he drove off, he was frowning. ‘I hope I wasn’t too rude,’ he said. ‘But it’ll get back and everybody’ll think I’m a ruthless commander and that’s what we want just now. They call me “Butcher”, did you know?’

  ‘I’d heard.’

  ‘It worried me a bit at first but then I learned it had started simply as “Butch” among the Commonwealth crews and doesn’t mean anything.’ Harris swerved round a milk float pulled by an elderly horse. ‘I hear I haven’t got you for long.’

  ‘I heard that, too.’

  ‘Well, no matter. We’ve got around four months and that’s enough for what I want you to do. Your group’s a bit lost. We’ve expanded too fast and we’re losing far too many crews. I want to know why.’

  ‘Can I pick my own staff?’

  ‘No. I want them there when you’ve moved on.’ Harris paused. ‘But I see no reason why you shouldn’t have one or two who’ve worked with you. Got any ideas?’

  ‘Chap called Babington, sir. He’s Signals but he’s worth much more as an organiser.’

  ‘He’s yours. Ask for him. Do you mind giving up your leave?’

  ‘No, sir. I have no family wanting to see me.’

  Harris grunted. ‘I heard about your wife. She was a good flier.’

  ‘Not quite as good as she thought, unfortunately.’

  Harris was silent for a moment. ‘That’s probably the trouble with a lot of the crews. They’ve been trained too quickly and all the good ones from before the war have gone because of the bloody stupidity in the Houses of Parliament that failed to give them the machines they deserved. As it is–’ he shrugged ‘–well, as usual they all see themselves as Richthofen or Albert Ball, which is the one thing they’re not, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the much-advertised destruction of precision targets is quite mythical. Most of our crews can’t hit a target 250 yards long in broad daylight on their own doorstep. I want to change that and I’m taking steps to make sure I do. I want you to make sure that 21 Group fits into the picture.’

  Six

  Rumbold Manor was a mid-Victorian manor house, with panelled walls, ivy poking in at latticed windows, a magnificent entrance hall and a splendid if over-decorated oak staircase. It was full of specialist officers of all ages, some of them men who never flew, some wearing RFC wings and ribbons of the last war, one or two of them younger men with new ribbons who had been through the mill of the present conflict and managed to survive. One of them, Dicken recognised at once as Fisher, the trainee who had shot him a line on flare path duty. He was wearing a DFC and a DFM and was now a flying officer. He walked with a heavy limp and was working in Signals.

  ‘You’ve come a long way in two years, Fisher.’

  Fisher smiled. ‘I might add also, sir, that I’ve never shot any more lines.’

  Dicken smiled back. ‘I should say that it doesn’t matter much now. How many tours did you do?’

  ‘One complete one, sir, and twenty of the second. We were hit over Essen and crash-landed at Bassingbourn. We all survived, but none of us walked away. Fortunately, she didn’t burn.’

  ‘You’re probably the man to supply me with the information I want. The C-in-C wants to know why the losses among the crews are so high.’

  Fisher shrugged. ‘Lack of experience, sir. Once they get a few missions under their belts, they seem to survive. I suspect some of them just get lost. I did the first time we went very far. Fortunately, I had an intelligent observer and, instead of panicking, he went through his calculations again and found his mistake.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to fly again?’

  ‘They said I couldn’t.’

  ‘Suppose I say you can?’

  ‘Then, yes, sir, of course.’

  ‘Not across the Channel, though you might have to, but with one or two of these new crews to see what they’re doing wrong.’

  ‘ I’d be glad to, sir.’

  ‘Anybody else around here with experience who’s growing bored?’

  ‘One or two, sir.’

  Get me a list. Pilots, navigators, wireless operators, engineers, bomb aimers, gunners. A few of each. I think we’re going to be busy.’

  With Tom Howarth in command of RAF Harwick nearby, Dicken arranged to receive a thorough grounding in the new four-engined Lancaster there and, moving into the mess, he spent several days getting his cockpit drill correct, learning where every single switch and tap lay, so that he could put his finger on them without having to look. Every movement had to be made automatically, because a glance away from the instruments at the wrong moment could well mean the difference between life and death.

  When he arranged to be checked out, Howarth took him on one side.

  ‘I’ve asked one of my chaps to go through everything with you,’ he said. ‘He’s a flight lieutenant and he’s good, intelligent and brave. You’ve met him before and I’d like you to meet him again. His name’s Diplock.’

  Dicken gave him a look of alarm. ‘Does he know he’s going to be checking me out?’

  ‘He does. He knew you were here. He’s spotted you about the place.’

  ‘Does he mind?’

  ‘He’s pretty level-headed.’

  When young Diplock appeared, he looked ten years older than when Dicken had first met him. His face seemed bonier and the boyishness had gone. Only over his cheekbones was there any colour; the rest of his face was pallid and he seemed to be in a different world from Dicken. Under his wings was the ribbon of a DFC.

  ‘I had a bad crash in a Spit,’ he explained, ‘and I decided my reactions had slowed down so I asked for a conversion course. Somebody in the family has to do some flying.’ The way he spoke told Dicken that he had managed to find out about his father’s record and had felt he had to do something to redeem it.

  Diplock passed him out without difficulty, demonstrating the characteristics of the Lancaster then handing it over to him to fly. After two or three landings he told him he was competent to fly solo, so he carried out another three and a half hours flying that day and a further two the following day, mostly doing circuits and bumps. Returning to the mess, he suggested Diplock might like a drink to celebrate a good job well done.

  Diplock smiled. But it was an empty smile as though he wasn’t a young man who saw a lot of cheer in his life. ‘Even my father said you were the most natural flier he’d ever seen, sir,’ he said. ‘And I’ve heard older officers say you flew like a sparrow with a cat after it.’

  It seemed only polite to ask after the boy’s parents. ‘How is your father?’

  Diplock shrugged. ‘Safe in London as usual, sir. Especially now the bombing’s stopped.’

  ‘Do you see much of him?’

  ‘I prefer not to, sir.’

  It was obvious the boy had a chip on his shoulder and Dicken didn’t push the questions but unexpectedly Diplock spoke again.

  ‘I go to see my mother instead, sir. She’s taken over the house at Deane.’

  It sounded unlike Annys, who enjoyed the social round, to retire to Deane when she could have shared the more sophisticated life Diplock must be enjoying in London. It had come alive with the arrival of the first Americans, who never permitted the war to interrupt their enjoyment of life, and parties were constantly being organised to allow the two sides to get to know each other.

  There was another long silence then Diplock spoke aga
in. ‘She doesn’t often see my father these days,’ he said. ‘You’ll have heard of the Waaf, of course.’

  Dicken guessed what he was getting at but he answered warily. ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t, so perhaps you’d better not tell me.

  ‘I thought everybody had heard of her. And I’d prefer to tell someone. And, since we’re related, I suppose you’ve got to be it, sir. I’m sorry. Perhaps I’ve been talking too much.’

  ‘Perhaps we’d better just have another beer instead.’

  Diplock smiled. ‘My turn, I think, sir. I’ve just got engaged.’

  ‘Someone from Deane?’

  ‘No, sir. She’s on this station. Section Officer Paget. She works in Ops. She’s the one who looks after the blackboard. Puts down the time as the crews land. I try to make sure she always has mine.’

  When Babington arrived he promptly insisted on his name being added to Fisher’s list.

  ‘Later,’ Dicken said. ‘I’m upping you to squadron leader. I want you to keep an eye on this place while I’m away.’

  It didn’t take him long to find out how hard it was to find targets at night, even in good weather and without the distraction of enemy fire. At the conferences that were held, he made it clear that targets needed to be marked.

  Harris had already thought of that one. ‘Targets will be marked,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked for marker bombs. In Iraq we improvised our own by fastening Very lights to 20lb practice bombs and I’ve been badgering the Air Staff for something similar.’

  There were other innovations. Pilots had had nothing more to guide them in instrument flying than a bubble and an airspeed indicator and at night, with poor visibility and no horizon, it wasn’t enough, except for the most experienced crews, so that Harris was already having stabilised instrument panels with artificial horizons fitted and car headlamps mounted as landing lights. Listening to Dicken’s description of the Americans’ electrically-lit flare paths, he demanded the same for his aerodromes to replace the out-of-date gooseneck flares.

  ‘Well,’ he said as the conference broke up. ‘We’re making progress. But it’s only just starting and it looks as though we’re going to be fighting a major battle every night and making major decisions every twenty-four hours, on weather, conditions and where to go. I just hope to God we can measure up to it.’

  Within a fortnight, Dicken found himself flying on a raid on Stuttgart. He had three times taken new crews on short operations. Their attitude to him and the rows of medal ribbons he wore was less one of awe than of sheer terror, but he briefed them carefully, explaining that he was there merely to show them how it was done. By this stage in the war, the standards of education, lowered when the war had started, had been lowered still further and there were all kinds of men in command of the huge machines. They were a mixed bunch and they ranged from eighteen – some Dicken suspected were even less – to the middle thirties, all enthusiastic but all slightly nervous of their responsibilities.

  As each new crew arrived, he took them flying on a course round England, watching everything the pilot did, with Fisher somewhere behind him watching the wireless operator and an experienced navigator watching the navigation. Some of them had their skills at their fingertips but some had been trained far too rapidly, pushed through to keep up the numbers, and as he watched them bombing the targets in the sea off North Wales, he found he had to send several back for extra training. A few who were overconfident were cautioned, though he tried to be gentle with high spirits, knowing they were born all too often of nerves.

  Making a point of visiting the squadrons as often as possible, he found he was beginning to receive grins of greeting and was startled to discover that for the first time in his life he had a nickname.

  ‘They call me “Daddy,”’ he said to Hatto.

  Hatto grinned. ‘You’re lucky,’ he said. ‘They call me “Old Bum and Eyeglass”.’

  The group contained a nucleus of experienced crews but the new men had a lot to learn. In addition to a sea crossing of around 100 miles, they had to cover another 120 miles of German-occupied air space before entering Germany itself, and an unbroken line of radar zones stretched from north to south right across their route. In these zones night fighters were waiting to pounce and behind them were the searchlights and the flak – so thick, one youngster claimed, he had to fly through it on instruments. Their job done, they then had to do the whole thing in reverse and do it thirty times before they were entitled to a rest. Like all aircrews they were deeply attached to each other but they managed to remain unemotional, and when one of them died it was understood that his friends should help themselves from his kit before waiting with only mild curiosity for the new arrival who was to take his place.

  By April, the group was taking its full share of the raids. Occasionally Dicken accompanied them but most nights he waited in the Ops Room of one of the stations – usually half-dozing in a chair until the aeroplanes returned. He had learned to live a completely different kind of life because no commander who needed his sleep was much use in Bomber Command. As the hours passed, he found himself staring at the attractive Waaf behind the telephone and the large blackboard on the wall on which were written the names of the captains taking part in that night’s operations, their bomb load, the time off, and the names of their crew. The most important space was left unfilled until they returned – ‘Time landed.’ As they appeared one by one the girl, Diplock’s fiancée, Section Officer Paget, rose, mounted the ladder and filled in the final space – X-X-Ray, 0520. S-Sugar 0522, M-Mother 0525 – while Dicken and Howarth sat smoking cigarette after cigarette until it grew daylight and an orderly came in to draw the blackout curtains.

  Harris was still seeking his ‘something big’ to shock the authorities into giving his command the support it needed, but time seemed to be growing short because, with the war still going against the allies, the cry from the other services was always for bombers and more bombers, and there was always the danger of squadrons being taken for other theatres.

  There was still fierce criticism of the control and direction of the RAF. Both the army and the navy were convinced that it was the province of the Chiefs of Staff to advise on the allocation of aircraft and that it was quite unacceptable for the RAF to decide these allocations itself. The argument even reached Parliament where it was being debated whether the continued devotion of a considerable part of the war effort to the building up of the bomber force was the best use of resources. The chances of Bomber Command surviving in its present form were beginning to look very slight.

  Then in May Dicken was called to a conference at Harris’ headquarters. That it was important was obvious from the fact that all station commanders and group commanders were present, together with Harris’ Radar Officer, his chief research scientist, his meteorological and intelligence officers and the Group Captain, Operations. Flanked by his Chief Staff Officer, Harris arrived with his peaked cap pulled down over his ginger-grey hair. Unlike the others who all wore battledress, he was dressed in his best blue, his shoulders in their characteristic hunch. Taking off his cap, he handed it to an aide. Around them, as he sat silently in his chair, with his Chief Staff Officer on his right, were the wallboards of station, squadron and aircraft figures.

  ‘We have our “something big”,’ he announced at once. ‘I’ve got you here to explain what it is and to ask what you can contribute.’ He paused for a moment, took a packet of American Camels from his side pocket, tapped it and drew out a cigarette, then, lighting it with a lighter from his other side pocket, pressed it into a stubby cigarette holder. Flattening a chart that lay before him, he looked up.

  ‘We’re going to put a thousand bombers in the air over Germany,’ he said. ‘In one raid. On one city. We’re going to obliterate it.’

  There was a murmur as the message sank in, then Harris continued. ‘I must be the first commander in history to commit the who
le of his first-line strength, his reserves and training back-up in one battle. Failure will mean the end of Bomber Command but, since they’re talking of taking it apart, anyway, we don’t seem to have much to lose. I propose to make use of conversion and training machines, instructors and if necessary pupils. That way we can double our front-line strength to seven hundred plus. The Prime Minister has been informed and, with his support, we shall have transferred back to us all bomber aircraft and crews which have been transferred in the past twelve months to Coastal Command. That adds another 250 machines and brings us within reach of a thousand. The remaining fifty we can raise by using the machines which every squadron already maintains as replacements and by demanding more replacements for machines which have not yet been lost. Any questions?’

  There was a moment’s silence as they all absorbed the incredible news. They all knew what it meant and to a man they supported Harris’ action.

  ‘One, sir.’ It was Howarth. ‘What’s the target?’

  Harris looked up over his spectacles. ‘At the moment it rests between Hamburg and Cologne, both of which are easily recognisable. The final decision will be made when we see what the weather does.’

  ‘When’s it to be, sir.

  ‘It’ll take three or four days to get the force together, carry out the plan – hopefully, with a back-up raid to follow – and disperse the machines back to their aerodromes. A full moon’s desirable – perhaps even essential – which makes it between May 26 and 30. That would be just about right. We can’t afford too long a delay because of security.’

  Nobody spoke and Harris continued. The problems of using so large a force would be greatly simplified by the use of Gee, the radar guide to the target, and Gee-equipped aircraft would drop markers.

  ‘We expect to have four hundred aircraft so equipped.’ Harris said. ‘Including Lancasters, Halifaxes and Stirlings of the conversion units.’

  He took off his half-spectacles and began polishing them. Howarth spoke again.