Seize and Ravage

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  It was the conversion to twin-engined types that held the pilots' interest while the war passed them by. Few on either squadron were qualified on twins. Group Captain Jameson, displaying the effectiveness which Courtney had acknowledged, arranged for an Airspeed Oxford twin-engined advanced trainer to be detached to each squadron; with an instructor from Cranwell. Alden became so absorbed in learning to handle two engines - taxiing was different, let alone flying- that he ceased for a while to chafe at being left out of the fighting.

  In fact, there was not a great deal to fret about. Few squadrons were taking much active part in the war. The fighter squadrons that had gone to France were patrolling, the bomber squadrons posted there were carrying out exercises. From British bases, fighters were doing convoy patrols and both they and aircraft of Coastal Command flew anti-U-boat patrols: the former, from shortness of range, only coastwise.

  The only aggressive actions were attacks by 29 Wellingtons and Blenheims against enemy naval vessels in Schillig Roads. This did aggravate the Vildebeest crews' frustration at being left out of the fighting. Two Wellingtons and five Blenheims were lost: a chilling indication of the casualties to be expected when their own turn came. Other bombers flew over Germany every night to drop leaflets defaming the Nazi Party and urging the population to surrender. Even this activity would have been preferable to none. At least those crews were flying over enemy territory and encountering flak and fighters, taking the risks they had been trained, and were being paid, to take. They were getting a taste of the real thing, not still preparing for it.

  Squadron Leader Hanbury was prominent in instructing the squadron's pilots, not only those in his own flight, in the technique of flying twins. Daily contact had not lessened Alden's instinctive wariness of him. The prospect of his first flight in an Oxford with Hanbury was unattractive. He hoped that he would have enough time with the squadron's borrowed instructor to acquire some polish before the ordeal. The Oxford was easy enough to fly and it was a step towards the really big bombers to which he hoped one day to progress. He liked the feel of two throttle levers against the palm of his right hand. He like harmonising the engines to a powerful and rhythmical duet. He liked the spaciousness of the cockpit.

  He did not like his first and only sortie with his flight commander.

  Hanbury settled into the second pilot's seat. 'Right, you take her off, Alden.'

  The port throttle lever stuck fractionally as Alden released the brakes and accelerated. The Oxford swung briefly to port. From the corner of his right eye he saw Hanbury turn his head to look at him. He could not see Hanbury's expression: he was staring straight ahead. He did not want to see Hanbury's expression. He was sure it held surprise and reproof.

  He had corrected the swing at once but the humiliation lingered, even though it had not been his fault. He waited a trifle longer than necessary to ensure that he had enough speed before drawing the control column back to lift the aeroplane off the ground. He brought his wheels up while he climbed the boundary fence.

  The intercom crackled. 'You can bring your undercart up sooner, you know, and hold her right down on the deck to build up speed.'

  Yes, and then zoom away in a split-arse climbing turn. But I hardly thought that appropriate, in the circumstances. The unspoken retort smouldered in Alden like heart-burn after too hot a curry.

  He left the circuit and set course for the coast, where he had to orbit for some minutes to give an anti-aircraft battery practice in using its instruments to gauge the Oxford's height and predict its course, for aiming its guns. The short exercise was plainly tedious for Hanbury. For Alden it was a chance to display the smoothness and accuracy of his Rate One turns in both directions and he hoped that his excellence would expunge the awkward moment when a throttle had stuck.

  P.U.F.O. he thought to himself when the gun site fired a green Verey light and he levelled off to turn away.

  Hanbury woke up. 'Right, I have control. You can do some quite amusing things with these, you know.'

  It depended on one's definition of amusement and Alden was not at all sure that his and his flight commander's would coincide.

  Hanbury began climbing out to sea. At ten thousand feet he said, as though there had been no break since his last contribution to their sparse conversation, 'Such as a roll off the top.'

  The next instant, Alden was clutching for support as he found the aircraft in a dive. When the speed had built up to Hanbury's satisfaction he gently pulled it into a steep climb and Alden was soon hanging head-down in his straps. His senses suffered a mild disorientation as the aircraft half-rolled from the inverted attitude to level flight: in the opposite direction.

  The cockpit was full of dust that made both its occupants sneeze. Scraps of paper, small stones, a couple of spanners and a screwdriver, an airman's forage cap and an old black gym shoe had rattled about as Hanbury turned the aircraft upside down. When he had finished sneezing he said 'That's the way I always find out if the erks are keeping an aeroplane properly swept. They aren't.'

  He put the Oxford into a barrel roll which was a marvel of symmetry and firmness. There was not an inch of slip at any stage of the manoeuvre.

  'Right, Derek, you have control.' Hanbury took his hands off the stick and throttles at once. The aircraft was not trimmed to fly itself. Alden grabbed for them; but gently. Hanbury sounded in a good humour. He must be, Alden concluded: Derek, forsooth! He felt that he had passed through an initiation, although exactly what it was he could not quite decide. Perhaps his remaining totally unruffled had done the trick.

  It was a rare event for a mischievous impulse to prompt him to an escapade. The last few austere years had tended to deaden any youthful wildness he had ever possessed.

  I am not without my own means of initiation and my own standards for whether I accept a man or not, he told himself.

  With a calmness that astonished even himself, he throttled back and stalled the aircraft, then let it spin five complete revolutions before correcting. He forced himself not to look at his companion. After a few seconds of level flight and still with adequate altitude, he carried out a slow roll. Once again the cockpit was filled with disturbed dust and small objects shot around all over the place. When he was flying straight and level once more, he still resisted the temptation to glance at Hanbury.

  They flew on in silence until they joined the circuit; when Hanbury said, 'How about side-slipping her in?'

  It was an uncharitable suggestion, timed with expert awkwardness. Alden's gullet experienced the sensation commonly described as 'my heart came into my mouth'. In his anger, he made a perfectly judged side-slip over the end of the runway and set the Oxford down as lightly as a sparrow alighting on a twig.

  Walking to the pilots' room, Hanbury said off­handedly 'Piece of cake, the Beaufort, for you.'

  Which was all very well, but where the devil was the war?

  It was there, all right: just around the corner. And it overtook East Crondal as suddenly as a tidal wave roaring up a peaceful waterway in an earthquake.

  It was two hours after midnight when the Tannoy loudspeakers recently positioned about the camp crepitated into life and the Duty Officer's voice roused every sleeper and galvanised everyone who was already on duty.

  'All pilots report to the Operations Room immediately. All wireless operator/air gunners report to their squadron Signals sections immediately. All ground crews report to squadron hangars, and armourers to squadron Armament sections, immediately.'

  The door of Alden's room opened as he sat up in bed and one of the night duty batmen came in, 'Oh, you're awake, sir. Just checking to make sure all the officers heard the Tannoy.'

  Alden swung his feet out of bed. 'Any tea going?'

  'Coming up soon, sir. As soon as we've done running round all the rooms.' The batman vanished excitedly.

  Alden felt guilty for wasting time as he brushed his teeth, but he did not wash except to dip a flannel in cold water and rub it over his face. He pulled on hi
s stores issue white sweater to save time instead of putting on a collar and tie, and ran downstairs. The tea had not appeared. The hall was ajostle with officers hurrying out to the waiting lorries. As soon as the squadron's was loaded, it sped off, its passengers swaying, holding onto the metal frame of the canvas tilt for support. There had been a constant hum of speculation from the moment when Alden had met other pilots hastening down the mess stairs.

  Courtney was sitting next to the driver, by virtue of his seniority. The C.O. and flight commanders all lived in married quarters and would be picked up by the C.O.'s staff car, kept overnight in the M.T. section . The station commander was presumably at Ops already. Alden would have liked to ask Courtney if he had a clue to what the flap was about. He spoke instead to the pilot next to him, whose shoulder kept bumping his. 'Perhaps the Jerry Fleet has sailed to bombard the east coast, as they did in the last show.'

  'They can get on with it, as far as I'm concerned... until I've had a decent breakfast.' It was a grumpy display of British phlegm.

  All sense of dramatic urgency thus dismissed, Alden also began to feel disgruntled by loss of sleep and a stomach that would soon begin to rumble.

  The Operations Room was adjacent to the station Signals section. The crews who manned it worked in three watches, which allowed for 48 hours' duty in periods of five to eight hours, followed by 24 hours' stand-down. Each crew comprised a controller and two assistants, one an officer, the other an N.C.O. At this early stage of the war manning varied from station to station. At East Crondal there was a squadron leader in command of each watch. They were all recalled Reservists, either pilots or navigators. Group Captain Jameson had used his considerable influence to ensure this. With a brother in the House of Commons and holding a Ministerial position in Defence, a cousin who was an air vice marshal at the Air Ministry and another, an air commodore, at H.Q. Coastal Command, he was seldom frustrated. The junior Ops Room officers were also former aircrew who had been grounded and shunted to administrative duties. The N.C.O.s were Regular sergeants. All this was important. Some stations were compelled to run their Ops Room haphazard.

  The Group Captain was in the Ops Room when the pilots filed in. He looked as fresh as though he had recently risen from eight hours' sleep, gone for a three mile run, and had ample time to bathe and shave. His square, ruddy, bulldoggish face was, as usual, impassive. Eleven medal ribbons, in three rows, including both the French and Belgian Croix de Guerre, and his barrel-like shape, gave him an air of vast competence and reliability.

  He was standing up; so, perforce, were the controller and his staff. There were not enough chairs to seat the audience, nor were there any benches. The time had not yet come when briefings were formally ritualised and Ops Rooms were furnished accordingly.

  Both squadron commanders and their four flight commanders were already present. The murmur of conversation among some of the arriving pilots ceased as soon as they crossed the threshold.

  There was no dais. Group Captain Jameson did not need one, anyway. He faced the assembly. 'Good morning. I am sorry to have given you such an early revéille without any warning.' If he was sorry, he managed to conceal it very well; a notion which occurred to many present. 'As you can see from the map,' which covered one wall 'the enemy has put to sea and is carrying out exercises in the Heligoland Bight. The fleet consists of two battle cruisers, four light cruisers and six destroyers. There are also two fourteen thousand ton merchant vessels, serving as troop carriers. The Intelligence appreciation is that the object of the exercise is to demonstrate the ease with which Germany could make a landing on the Dutch coast. Our task is to attack with torpedoes in two waves, by squadrons: Number… Squadron first, followed by… Squadron fifteen minutes later.'

  The squadron nominated to attack first was Tregear's. Alden wondered how many other pilots' mouths had turned as dry as his.

  He had been wondering why Bomber Command Blenheims and Wellingtons were not being given the job. Now he knew. Air Ministry had decided to give the Vildebeest a final fling before it was superseded by the Beaufort, and use torpedoes instead of bombs.

  The latest meteorological report and forecast from Group H.Q. had been chalked on a blackboard. The pilots made notes. The station Armament officer told them that their 18 inch torpedoes would be set to run at 40 knots. This meant that their total range would be 2000 yards and attacks were expected to be made from 600 to 1000 yards.

  Dropping a torp 1000 yards from a ship whose guns would be blazing away at the attacking aircraft sounded less uncomfortable than flying over it to drop bombs. But Alden found little cheer in the thought.

  They were given a take-off time: one hour from now. This should allow them to reach the target area unseen, take the enemy by surprise just as dawn was breaking, and turn for home before any enemy fighters could be sent to intercept them. Bombing up with torpedoes had started while the aircrews were still asleep. The call to armourers to report had been for the off duty men.

  The Wop/A.G.s were being briefed on procedures and frequencies by the squadron Signals officers. Alden wondered who had been crewed with him. He was glad when Wing Commander Tregear read out names and he learned that it was Lac Fussell. Fussell was imperturbable and reliable. At least, he had been imperturbable on exercises. So, I think, have I, Alden reflected; but I can only hope that I'll be the same when we come under fire.

  The station Intelligence officer identified the battle cruisers for them and conjectured about the light cruisers. The formation leaders gave orders about heights, routes and formation and the attack tactics. Briefing over, the pilots drew charts on which to lay off their courses. They would be led by their senior flight commanders, but had to be prepared to do their own navigating in any of a dozen different eventualities. The Squadron Commanders were not taking part.

  It was eerie to go out into the darkness again, amid the quiet of the East Anglian countryside, to prepare to go to battle. Alden had accepted the fact that the squadron could not hope to be called on until it had its Beauforts. The shock of thus suddenly being hurried into action had seemed unreal when he woke to the sound of the Tannoy and immediately guessed its probable portent. It was even less credible nearly an hour later as he emerged into the fresh air that bore the scent of rural autumn and a tang of ozone from the nearby seashore. Going to war should surely be different from this. He had imagined it as some horrific and lurid scene painted by El Greco at his most macabre: all raging fires and screaming wounded, devastation and terror.

  He was longing for a cup of tea or coffee. Urns of tea from the airmen's cookhouse had preceded the pilots: nobody had thought of providing cups or mugs. A telephone call to the officers' mess produced cups and saucers. Flight Sergeant Jenkins was heard to say, with his usual mocking grin, 'What an honour… drinking from a cup which has never before felt the touch of a non-commissioned lip.'

  Courtney was standing next to him. 'Lip is something you've got plenty of, Taffy... and as for what your lips are in the habit of touching... the less said about that the better.'

  'Sir!' Jenkins was good at simulated indignation. 'Suppose I don't come back from this op? You wouldn't want to suffer agonies of remorse, would you, remembering the last words you spoke to me were insulting?'

  Alden wished that Jenkins had not said that. Not coming back was a possibility he had been shoving to the back of his mind from the forefront where it had thrust itself.

  Courtney did not reply directly. 'You've seen that barbed wire fence going up around the old barrack huts from the last war?'

  'Yes.' Jenkins looked as though he knew there was a catch in this, but not where it lay.

  'Air Ministry are posting a covey of Waaf here. The barbed wire is to keep types like you out.'

  'Some hope! I was pole-vaulting champion of Llanelli!'

  This exchange as they all stood around the tea urns was the cause of attention and amusement. Anything, Alden felt, to take everyone's mind off what lay ahead.

  It was time
to go. He found Fussell chatting to the ground crew. 'Have you had a hot drink?'

  'Yes, thank you, sir. Buckshee chain the cookhouse. First time we've ever been given anything special because we're flying.'

  Alden well knew how few concessions were allowed to air gunners. They were not even excused fire pickets or guard duties if they had just landed after a long flight. 'Things will change as this war gets into its stride, Fussell.'

  'Change they will, sir. It seems we're getting Waafs here. Doesn't seem right, having women all over camp.'

  'You might come to enjoy it. Now, anything you want to know before we go aboard?'

  'Yes, please, sir. Where are we going and what's the target?'

  Things would certainly have to change, Alden told himself. Perhaps one day Wop/A.G.s would actually be required to attend the general briefing: on the late realisation that they were intelligent, sentient human beings, just the same as pilots. When he answered his air gunner's question, Fussell said 'Oh! Is that all? How long d'you reckon it'll take to get there, sir?'

  'Couple of hundred miles… Squadron Leader Hanbury has planned for eighty-five minutes: there's a tail wind. Longer coming home.'

  'Not much fuel in hand for a search if we don't find them spot-on, sir.' 'We will.'

  But do I really hope so? Alden, being honest with himself, admitted that he would rather they could wait until the Beauforts were delivered.

  There were other matters to think about and the main one was that he had never before taken off with a full load: ammunition for his Vickers gun and Fussell's Lewis, full tanks and an 18 inch torp weighing 1610 lb. How would the aircraft behave? At briefing, he had hoped that either the squadron Engineering officer or the station E.O. himself would say something about the technique for a fully-laden take-off. Pride had prevented him asking. He wished he had not been so unwilling to reveal self-doubt. Too late now.