Once More the Hawks

by Max Hennessy

  ‘One thousand aircraft are lot of aircraft, sir. The collision risk will be considerable.’

  Harris had the answer to that. ‘We propose to have more than one aiming point, and will route the groups on parallel tracks. Heights will also be staggered. By this means we can get the whole force over the target in a matter of ninety minutes with a collision risk over the target of one per hour, which I think we can accept. If we’re successful, and I think we shall be, we shall overwhelm the defences and the lessons we can learn will be of enormous value. A successful operation will not only raise morale throughout the whole force but will finish for ever the demands for our aircraft.’ He paused. ‘Doubtless the target can be patched up afterwards but the impact of a raid of this magnitude and the inherent threat of further raids is bound to have a profound effect on Germany’s entire strategic thought. They’ll have to retain fighters for the defence of their homeland and that will have the effect of reducing the dangers in other theatres – which is what the advocates of dispersing the force are trying to do, anyway. I want to know now what you can raise in the way of machines and crews. Go back. Think about it and let me know the absolute limit to which you can go.’

  As he headed for his car with Dicken, Howarth’s face was grim. ‘You know what the world’s going to say of us, don’t you. Dick?’ he said. ‘We’ll be accused of mass murder. There are plenty of people who’ll say that all Germans aren’t bad and that under Hitler they had no say in the bombing of Warsaw and Rotterdam and London.’

  Dicken shrugged. ‘Doubtless there are such Germans,’ he agreed. ‘And there’ll be a lot more after this raid. But, you know, Tom, I’ve never heard of any of them while Hitler’s been winning everywhere. If Germany starts getting hurt, they’ll come out from under the stones as they always do in such circumstances, and say we’re a lot of dirty dogs. But whatever’s said about this war being a crusade against an evil regime, it’s more than just that. It’s first and foremost a battle for survival and, because we’ve got to win it, anything goes.’

  Seven

  The task of assembling the bombers was expected to take all of 48 hours. In addition to the operational bomber groups, approximately 200 aircraft from Flying Training, Army Co-operation, Coastal Command and Bomber Training Groups were involved and it was essential for security that nobody should notice what was happening. Meanwhile plans had been laid for diversionary attacks on German fighter airfields along the route and in the target area, while air/sea rescue patrols were to be set up from daylight onwards.

  The final operation order was issued on May 26. The raid was to take place the following night or any night afterwards when the moon was on the wane. The order was simple. It was estimated that a force of 1081 bombers would be employed, led by Gee-equipped Wellingtons and Stirlings which were to set the centre of the target alight, to be followed in the next hour by the entire force except the new four-engined Lancasters and Halifaxes, which were to drop their bombs in the last fifteen minutes. Zero hour was fifty-five minutes after midnight, all aircraft turning for home by 0225 whether they had bombed or not. There were to be no bomber operations for a full forty-eight hours beforehand to enable ground crews and aircrews to prepare.

  From his own group, Dicken had raised over 100 machines when at the last moment he heard that Diplock, leaned on by the Admiralty, had withdrawn Coastal Command’s 250 Wellingtons, Whitleys and Hampdens. Called to the Admiralty at the last moment when it was too late to make changes, he had given way.

  Harris was furious. ‘We’ll plan without them,’ he snapped.

  The problem was not so much aircraft as crews, and the order went out that pupils, men on rest, and scratch crews from station, squadron and group staffs were to be asked to volunteer. By May 26th, the number of machines available had been pushed up again to 940 but several untried crews, hampered by the need for wireless silence, had come to grief even as they flew to their advanced bases. Reading the figures, Dicken frowned. If they couldn’t fly across England, it would be God help them when they came to fly across Germany.

  Doubts that he hadn’t had before came to him. Harris had made his view of the Admiralty and Coastal Command – and of Diplock in particular – forcefully clear, and it was known that he was determined to have Diplock’s scalp. But now, though he was behind Harris on the need for the raid, Dicken found himself wondering how much sense there was in using untried crews. It seemed to be pushing the case almost into the realms of political necessity. It had already been made clear that personnel under training were to be used only at the discretion of their senior officers, the idea behind it that insufficiently trained men would not be thrown into the raid. Once they had heard what was happening, however, it was going to be hard to remove them from the order of battle.

  On the morning of the 27th, the weather was dull and information came in that thundery conditions and heavy cloud existed over Germany. Watching the window with Babington behind him reading the weather reports, Dicken’s face was bleak. The same thing happened the next day and again on the 29th.

  ‘Harris’ hope of a back-up raid won’t wash any more,’ he said.

  ‘If this weather continues, sir,’ Babington commented, ‘we’ll be lucky to get off the ground at all. Something’s got to give soon. We can’t disrupt operational and training programmes for more than another day or so.’

  On Saturday, May 30th, they heard that there was a fifty-fifty chance that the cloud over Germany would disperse by midnight and that the target would be Cologne.

  ‘What about the bases?’ Dicken asked. ‘We can’t have nearly a thousand aircraft trying to get in on their return with the airfields covered.’

  ‘They expect them to be clear, sir.’

  ‘I hope to God it’s clear over the target because if it isn’t we’ll have to abort and that’ll finish it for good. The fillip it’s given the command will disappear and just leave bitterness.’

  ‘I have my fingers crossed, sir.’

  Dicken was silent for a moment. ‘I’m flying on this one, Bab,’ he said quietly and Babington looked up, startled. ‘I can’t ask my chaps to go into a thing like this unless I’m prepared to go as well.’

  Babington threw down his pen. ‘Then I’m coming with you, sir.’

  ‘No, Bab, you’re not. I want you to stay here and hold the fort. Carry the can if you like, because if I don’t come back there’ll be a hell of a row.’

  Babington was silent for a moment. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll contact the squadron commanders and find out if you can fly with one of them.’

  ‘No, Bab, that won’t do. Which are our most doubtful starters?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Which crew’s the most likely to make a cock of it. Get lost. Bomb London by mistake. You have your ear to the ground, Bab. You must know.’

  ‘Wing Commander Gregg at Harwick has a Lancaster from one of the training units. He doesn’t think much of the crew.’

  ‘Isn’t Gregg’s squadron the one young Diplock flies with?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’ Babington turned over a sheet of paper, checking.

  ‘Very well, what’s the name of this chap he’s doubtful about?’

  ‘Pilot Officer Scrivens, sir. His crew are all sergeants. Gregg’s considering returning the whole crew for further training.’

  During the afternoon, Dicken drove over to Harwick to meet Scrivens. He was a tall young man who looked about eighteen, thin, peak-faced and dark-haired, with large brown eyes like a spaniel. His machine, Y-Yoke, had been giving trouble and, having to flight test it, he seemed more than willing to have Dicken along as a passenger.

  ‘Have you flown on ops before?’ Dicken asked.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Any of your crew?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Sitting in the co-pilot’s seat was a youngster ca
lled Hopper, who was flight engineer and, at Dicken’s suggestion, the rest of the crew had come along, too, for experience and familiarisation. Scrivens introduced them: Norman, the navigator, a fair-haired boy with a dreamy expression; Ortton, the bomb aimer; Davis, the wireless operator; and the gunners, Barr-Lewis and Baker. They all looked terribly young, all uncertain of their future and all nervous of having a senior officer with them.

  ‘I’m not here to tell you what to do,’ Dicken pointed out. ‘Just to find out what happens over the target. Please carry on.’

  Scrivens looked at him for a moment then he swallowed with difficulty. ‘Switches off,’ he said into his microphone.

  ‘Switches off,’ the flight engineer said.

  ‘Inner tanks on.’

  ‘Inner tanks on.’

  They went through the list of checks carefully and Dicken was pleased to see that Scrivens knew his drill.

  One by one the questions were answered until the list was finished. There was a pause and Scrivens seemed to be deep in thought as he spoke to the flight engineer. ‘Prepare to start up.’

  ‘Contact. Starboard outer.’

  One by one the four great engines roared to life with the harsh crackling noise peculiar to Merlins.

  ‘Chocks away.’

  Glancing through the window, Dicken saw a man twenty feet below him dart from beside the huge wheels, dragging away a chock. Someone stuck a thumb in the air and Scrivens released the brakes. There was a hiss of air and they began to sway and rumble along the tarmacadam. At the entrance to the runway Scrivens stopped and ran his engines to full power, checking everything as he did so.

  When they returned the mess was noisy. Squadron life played on the nerves of its members like a violinist, plunging them from the treble of gaiety to the bass depths of despair. There was a lot of laughter but not much drinking, though there was a lot of talk about going for a burton or getting the chop – pithy phrases that hid the horror of one of the most unpleasant forms of death there was.

  Young Diplock was among them but he was quiet and keeping well to one side. With him was Section Officer Paget, and they were talking quietly together. They stood up as Dicken approached but he signed to them to sit down again. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  ‘All right, sir. I’ve heard you’re coming with us.’

  ‘That’s right. With Pilot Officer Scrivens.’

  ‘Scrivens?’ Diplock’s jaw dropped. ‘But he’s–’

  Dicken nodded ‘–in need of a little help perhaps.’

  The briefing was noisy because everybody was a little on edge and, until Howarth arrived, there were a lot of ribald shouts between the crews. Taking a seat with the senior squadron officers at the front, Dicken waited quietly until the briefing officer, a tall man with a bony nose who looked like a solicitor in civilian life, got going.

  ‘Cologne,’ he said, ‘is one of the most heavily defended cities in Germany and one of the most important. In and around the city are more than five hundred heavy and light anti-aircraft guns, and about a hundred and fifty searchlights. But this will be a large force and the belief is that the ground defences will be overwhelmed.’

  There was a mutter of ‘Tell us another’ from the back of the room.

  The briefing officer was used to the nervous comments of strung-up young men and went on to explain the fighter intruder operations which had been designed to kill the night fighter stations but warned that inevitably there would be some about.

  ‘Tall gunners,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a large number of friendly aircraft over the city so don’t mistake our two-engined jobs for Junkers 88s.’

  He explained that the key to success lay in saturation and that depended on getting a thousand aircraft over the target in the shortest possible time. They were to make sure of accurate timing, not only to swamp the defences but also to avoid collisions. Exact heights were important, but the boffins had decided that the collision risk was negligible. ‘We have assessed the chances at one in a thousand,’ he said and there was a yell of laughter and someone bawled out from the back. ‘Have you worked out which two aircraft it will be?’

  There was another gust of laughter but the briefing officer didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I have it,’ he said, ‘on the highest authority that it will be a Tiger Moth and an Anson.’

  The sun was sinking over the Fens as the crews began to pull their flying kit from their lockers. As the dusk faded, the flare path lights began to twinkle. Tractors were towing aircraft into position and petrol bowsers were topping up fuel tanks. Lorries carrying aircrews were dumping their noisy cargoes round the field, and as the figures, lumpish in their flying clothing, were swallowed up by the aircraft the bombers stood silent and sinister, heavy with their loads. Then the pistol crack of ignition started, and the pounding roars as engine after engine roared and rumbled into life. The crew of Y-Yoke stood back to allow Dicken to board first and, as he pushed his parachute into its place, he heard Scrivens talking to Norman, the navigator.

  ‘Get it right this time,’ he said fiercely. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Right, Skipper.’ Norman sounded nervous. ‘I’ve got it right. I’ve checked and rechecked.’

  The sky was clearing and the weather had improved steadily during the afternoon. As far as they knew, Cologne still lay under a blanket of cloud and would remain so until midnight. Would it disperse in time? Were the Met boys correct? So much hung on the success of the operation, failure didn’t bear thinking about.

  By this time the aerodrome was reverberating with the roar of engines as machines strained against brakes and chocks, then gradually it subsided to a steady throbbing, before finally breaking into a series of aggressive crescendos as signal lamps flashed green, and one by one the great machines, pregnant with menace, began to move heavily forward.

  ‘Control. Y-Yoke calling. May we take off?’

  ‘Okay. Take off. Listen out.’

  A string of orders from Scrivens followed.

  ‘Flaps thirty.’

  ‘Radiators closed.’

  ‘Lock throttles.’

  ‘Prepare to take off.’

  ‘Okay behind, Rear Gunner?’

  As the engines roared, the brakes were released. The acceleration was enough to make Dicken grab the back of the seat.

  ‘Full power.’

  The air speed indicator was registering 110 miles per hour and the aircraft shaking had stopped. They were airborne.

  ‘Climbing power. Wheels up. Flaps up.’

  As the huge machines, their navigation lights still burning, dragged themselves into the air, tucking up their wheels and circling for height, the sound of their engines came from half a dozen directions at once, from the dispersal areas, the perimeter tracks, the runway, overhead, combining half a dozen different notes into one great orchestrated iron clamour.

  The sky was still glowing from the sunset and the clouds were still tinged with crimson on their undersides as the din began to fade. The air still shuddering under the racket of the mass take-off, the aerodrome lapsed into an empty silence as the sound of engines died and the aircraft began to turn east on to their course.

  Scrivens’ voice came. ‘Course, please, Navigator.’

  ‘One-three-oh, Skipper, to Goedereede on the Dutch coast.’

  They were on their way. Harris’ plan had come to fruition. The great raid was on.

  Eight

  Despite his reputation, Dicken was impressed by Scrivens. He seemed to know his job even if the rest of the crew didn’t.

  He wondered what they were thinking. The force heading across the North Sea was made up of every kind of available aircraft from Lancasters down to Whitleys and Hampdens and beyond, from fifty-three airfields and carrying 4,000-, 100-, 500- and 250-pound bombs and canister after canister of incendiaries.

&nbs
p; It wasn’t the force propaganda would make it if they were successful. But if they were successful it wouldn’t matter. People wouldn’t bother to ask questions. Only if they failed would the questions rain down on them. Harris would be removed and doubtless many of his subordinate commanders who had agreed with him would be removed too as the search for scapegoats started. If Harris succeeded, Diplock was out – and about time, too – but if he failed Diplock would be the first to defend himself with a cry of ‘I told you so.’

  ‘Bomb Aimer to Navigator.’ The voice broke in on Dicken’s thoughts. ‘Coast ahead.’

  They drove out above the sea, heading over a blanket of thundery cloud with very few breaks in it, the wind pushing them slightly north of their course. They had been promised a dispersal of the cloud but as midnight approached there was no sign of it. To starboard lay a towering mountain of vapour, ugly with protruding anvil-heads so that Dicken was reminded of the Himalayas. Behind them and to port and starboard stretched an unbroken carpet of more cloud. But over it, making it a sea of silvery light, was the glow of a full moon, just as they had been briefed.

  As they approached the Dutch coast the cloud began to break up with gaps in it to show the land below.

  ‘I’ll have the new course, Navigator,’ Scrivens said, and Dicken noticed that his voice sounded particularly brisk. ‘Have you got it ready?’

  ‘Yes, Skipper. One-two-five.’

  ‘One-two-five?’ There was more than merely a question of figures and Dicken guessed that Scrivens was leaning a little on his navigator.

  There was hesitation in the reply. ‘Yes, Skip. One-two-five.’

  Scrivens said nothing. He seemed calm but there was a lot of unnecessary chattering among the other members of the crew that seemed to indicate they were nervous and uncertain of themselves.

  ‘Pilot to Navigator. Course one-two-five. Okay?’

  ‘Navigator to Pilot. Spot on.’