Out of Mecklenburg

by James Remmer

  The base was alive with activity: noisy tractors hauling bomb-laden trailers; bowsers feeding fuel-hungry Lancasters; colonies of engineers, technicians and armourers; blue and khaki everywhere. Inside the officers’ mess, the atmosphere was buzzing. A group of men stood huddled beside the notice board, eyes glued to the newly posted battle order. Chatsworth’s navigator, Eddie Sutherland, was at the head of the throng.

  ‘Well, Eddie?’

  ‘Affirmative! It’s bacon and eggs for us, Johnny boy. We’re on! Yorker’s going tonight; our last sortie.’

  ‘What time’s the briefing?’

  Sutherland scythed his way through the horde of blue. ‘Two o’clock… If you don’t mind, I’ll grab a couple of hours’ kip. Had a late one last night, young beaut’ from Skeggy… I think she loves me. You okay?’

  ‘Ask me tomorrow.’

  ‘Know what you mean. Anyway, how’s that beautiful green-eyed WREN of yours?’

  ‘Still beautiful, still green-eyed.’

  ‘Lucky devil. And to think, you’ll have all those haystacks to romp on in the summer.’

  ‘Away with you… see you at two. And don’t be late.’

  The curtains were drawn, the lights on, a dense milky-white smoke hovering above the heads of 150 airmen, short-cropped hair glistening with Brilliantine, battle-hardened heroes alongside “second dickey” novices. Some were laughing, some were talking, while some were given to quiet reflection.

  ‘Attention, gentlemen, please!’ called the Squadron Adjutant.

  The chattering stopped, the room fell silent, a mass of blue serge rising to its feet. In walked the Station Commander, followed by a string of officers, from Squadron Commander to Gunnery Leader.

  ‘Enter the board of management,’ whispered Ken Betts, Chatsworth’s flight engineer.

  Wing Commander Danny Beaumont scythed his way through the fug and climbed on to the stage.

  ‘Gentlemen, please sit down,’ he said, drawing back a pair of faded green curtains to reveal the night’s target. ‘For those of you hiding lighted cigarettes and perhaps burning your fingers, or, more importantly, the uniform of His Majesty’s Royal Air Force, you may continue to smoke,’ he added dryly. A barrage of lighters and the smell of high octane fuel filled the room – the tobacco barons of West Virginia were back in business.

  The tapes on the chart led directly to the city of Kiel, but with one curious addition. At the end of the well-worn path to the East Coast of Schleswig Holstein, the tape dipped south, terminating at a point between Lübeck and Travemünde.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Beaumont in a loud voice, ‘tonight, Group is putting up 220 aircraft, including twenty Lancs from our own squadron. The main target is Kiel.’

  A voice rang out from the middle of the hall. ‘Not Kiel again, sir! Can’t we go somewhere nice and warm for a change?’

  ‘Afraid not, Mr Braithwaite,’ replied Beaumont, homing in on the source of the facetious comment. ‘Adolf has run out of warm places… besides, since your flight will be the last to leave, it ought to be nice and warm by the time you get there.’ A rustle of laughter spread through the hall. ‘Now, some of you are quite familiar with the Kiel run, but this time it’s different, so try and keep awake.’ He drew his pointer along the length of the narrow tape. ‘While your route will be at the usual 20,000 feet, your bombing level will be 8,000 feet.’

  The hall filled with sharp intakes of breath. A battle-worn flight lieutenant, wearing the DFC and bar, sprang to his feet. ‘That’s a bit low, isn’t it, sir? I mean, we’ll be going in courtesy of the Lincolnshire Road Car Company next.’

  More laughter.

  ‘Point taken, Mr Saville, but this job has got to be done accurately.’ Beaumont turned to a young, seemingly diffident officer standing by his side, a roll of charts tucked under his arm. ‘Gentlemen, allow me to introduce our new Met man, Flight Lieutenant Crawford. He joined us only a few days ago.’

  Crawford cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, a hint of nerves in his voice, ‘the weather has remained unsettled for the past few days.’ A chorus of cheers rang up from all quarters. ‘But I anticipate some changes later this afternoon, perhaps even clear skies by eight o’clock tonight.’ The cheers gave way to groans. ‘Winds are easterly, light to moderate, and by late evening they should have eased further still. And…’ – Crawford stalled, conscious of the recoil his next announcement would bring – ‘the moon is almost full.’

  Amid widespread groans of discontent, Dixie Deans, Chatsworth’s tail gunner, a pugnacious cockney who had seen more action in the skies above Germany than he had in all of his bare-knuckle days along London’s Mile End Road, leaned forward and tapped his mate, Tommy Reynolds, on the shoulder.

  ‘There you go, Tommy,’ he whispered. ‘You know what you’re always saying about your mother-in-law. Well, tonight’s your chance… you’ll be able to see her jumping over it!’

  ‘And finally,’ Crawford continued, ‘when you reach the German coast, you can expect medium scattered cloud, becoming a continuous sheet, especially on your approach to target.’ He turned to Beaumont. ‘I think that’s it, sir,’ he said, with some relief.

  ‘Thank you, Flight Lieutenant Crawford.’

  Crawford was followed by the intelligence officer, the navigation leader and the bombing leader, all with their own words of “advice”, before Beaumont took up the reins again.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Beaumont said, ‘you will be pleased to know that you will not be alone in the skies over the Reich tonight. Numbers four, six and eight groups are going to Essen with 400 aircraft. A further 250 aircraft from one and three groups will be visiting Gelsenkirchen, while another forty-eight aircraft will be involved on radio counter-measure sorties. In addition, some seventy Mosquitos will be on Siren tours across Germany, and you’ll be heartened to learn that our glorious allies have been bombing synthetic oil plants all day long. So, while you can anticipate the usual anti-aircraft fire as you cross the coast and approach target, I doubt you’ll see many fighters. They’re as rare as rocking horse dung these days.’

  A wag of a flight sergeant sitting at the back of the room stood to his feet and raised his hand. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘what was that you said... rocking horse…?’

  ‘Dung, Jackson, but for you, I’ll rephrase it to rocking horse shit; you know, the stuff you’ve been up to your neck in ever since you arrived here.’

  The room erupted with laughter; even Jackson saw the funny side of it.

  Beaumont returned to the wall chart. ‘There is a secondary target tonight,’ he said, ‘which calls for a slightly different task by six of our own aircraft.’

  He announced the six call signs. Yorker was one of them. When the room had cleared of all but those concerned, Beaumont tapped the aerial photograph with his pointer.

  ‘This was taken three days ago,’ he said. ‘The location is Priwall, south side of the River Trave and opposite Travemünde.’ The pointer indicated as he talked. ‘The intelligence boys reckon that the jetty, which runs north to south, is about 150 yards long. These four objects either side of it are your targets.’

  ‘Can’t quite see from here, sir, but are they submarines?’

  ‘Yes, Cosworth, they’re submarines, though not ordinary submarines. They’re the new, ocean-going electro type. Your task is to destroy them…’ – he paused and fixed each of the six pilots a look – ‘from 5,000 feet.’

  There was a unified sigh of disbelief.

  ‘Hush, gentlemen,’ said Beaumont, searching for the dapper Flight Lieutenant Saville. ‘Sorry, Sammy, but the six of you will be on your own – there’ll be no help from the Lincolnshire Road Car Company!’

  Chatsworth spoke over the mutterings. ‘What about fighters and anti-aircraft batteries, sir?’

  ‘I’m coming to that now, John,’ re
plied Beaumont, drawing a reassuring look from the briefing intelligence officer. ‘Perhaps you’ll encounter the odd fighter, but even that’s very doubtful…’

  ‘One is one too many,’ muttered Ken Betts.

  ‘On the minus side,’ continued Beaumont, ‘the odds are you’ll encounter more than the usual amount of anti-aircraft fire.’ He flicked another quick glance at the intelligence officer. ‘The number of anti-aircraft gun emplacements in the neighbourhood is uncommonly high,’ he said sombrely. ‘Other than that, intelligence has nothing to add.’

  A voice piped up from the second row. ‘Markers, sir? What colour?’

  ‘Yellow. But remember, Kiel is red. Any other questions? No? Then good luck.’

  Chatsworth grabbed a quick cup of tea, then went off in search of his navigator.

  Eddie Sutherland was surrounded by maps, weather reports and astrology charts; sharpened pencils, slide rules and calculator at the ready.

  ‘Well, Eddie, it’s a bit different. Never been to this Priwall place before; can’t say I’m looking forward to it, either, not from 5,000 feet with all that flak around.’

  ‘Yeah, looks as though we might be in for a fair old ride over target… not to mention the bloody welcome we’ll get over Jerry’s coast,’ agreed Sutherland.

  Chatsworth peered at the paperwork. ‘So, what do you reckon?’

  ‘Getting there won’t be a problem,’ replied Sutherland. ‘True course is 076. For Kiel, you’ll need to steer magnetic 081 and follow the main stream in from Helgoland. We’ll skirt Kiel to the south, make over Preetz and turn on to 183 magnetic, just short of Lensahn. That’ll place us virtually due north of target, with just twenty nautical to go. It means we’ll be running the entire length of the target. After the release, you can do a one-eighty port, come north over the Mecklenburger Bucht and Fehmarn Island, and pick up the wake of the main force east of Flensburg.’

  ‘Time to target?’

  Sutherland studied his calculations. ‘Headwind fifteen… groundspeed 185… assuming seven minutes to the Lincolnshire Riviera, we ought to pass over the German coast in just under an hour and fifty-seven. As for target, I’d say two hours forty-three.’

  ‘Sounds good to me, Eddie. Now, let’s get some grub before the vultures scoff the lot.’

  The warm-up drills complete, the time for pre-flight rituals had arrived.

  Dixie Deans relieved himself over the tail wheel, the wireless operator obsessively kissed the same fifteen rivets on the starboard side and last, but not least, the bomb aimer “Chalkie” White picked ten blades of grass from beside the apron and pushed each one inside his left boot.

  Back on board, Chatsworth called up the crew.

  ‘Okay, Skipper!’ crackled through his headset half a dozen times.

  Yorker was ready to go, ground crew waiting for the word to ‘prime’. Signalling the forward ground mechanic, Chatsworth took the throttles.

  ‘Right, Ken, we have it.’

  Betts rolled his head, selected the magneto switch, pressed the starter button and the starboard inner fired up, smoke belching from the twelve exhausts, the prop stammering. Then, with a deafening roar, the mighty Rolls Royce Merlin thundered into life.

  ‘Brake pressure two-thirty, Skipper,’ said Betts, glancing at the brake pressure dial.

  The port inner fired up, the port outer and, finally, the starboard outer.

  ‘Port generator okay, Skipper,’ called the wireless operator.

  The four Merlins howled a thunderous roar, Yorker vibrating like a giant tuning fork, the noise deafening. Chocks clear, brakes off. Seven men and thirty tonnes began to roll. Like a leashed greyhound straining for the “off”, the bomber stood waiting at the end of the runway.

  ‘Come on. Aerodrome Control Pilot,’ muttered Betts impatiently. ‘Give us the light… GREEN! All clear, Skipper.’

  Chatsworth glanced at his watch – one minute past eight. His powerful hand encased the four throttles, easing them forward gently, the port outer marginally in advance of the others, countering the bomber’s habit of swinging to port. The speed picked up, fifty… seventy… ninety knots, the tail lifting, the ground rushing by, the whole crew feeling the ride.

  The heavy bomber clawed itself into the cold, dark skies above Lincolnshire and set course for Germany, seven men harbouring the same haunting thought: Will we be back?

  At 21h04, Yorker crossed the German coast, the skies a patchwork of low scattered clouds and sporadic bursts of flak.

  Welcome to the Third Reich.

  Some minutes later, “Chalkie” White reported red markers ten miles ahead, the pathfinders already over Kiel.

  Suddenly, the heavens erupted. Bursts of anti-aircraft fire peppered the night sky, the probing, menacing beams of high-powered lights sweeping through the darkness. A voice crackled over the intercom.

  ‘Mid upper to Skipper.’

  ‘Go ahead, Tommy.’

  ‘One of our lot’s been “coned”, Skipper, just above us, rear of the starboard wing… a half-dozen lights on him. Looks as though he’s sitting on top of the Koh-i-Noor diamond.’

  Seconds later, Reynolds came back, his voice more hurried.

  ‘He’s been hit, Skipper, port wing’s blazing like a furnace!’

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled for chutes, Tommy.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult, Skipper… talk about Blackpool illuminations! Wait. One’s out… two… three… four… five… six… seven. They’re all clear, Skipper.’

  ‘Well done, Tommy.’

  South-east of Kiel, “Chalkie” White eased himself gingerly into a prostrate position above the emergency floor hatch below the forward turret. Suddenly, Dixie Deans came on the air, a real sense of urgency in his voice.

  ‘Skipper! Fighter! Starboard quarter… a 110, I think… he’s turning on to us! Corkscrew starboard, Skipper! GO! GO! GO!’

  Chatsworth flung the bomber into a steep, diving turn. ‘Diving starboard!’ he called, as a short burst of cannon fire swished over the tail plane. ‘Rolling! Diving port!’

  Deans, flying by the seat of his pants, opened up with a halo of fire from his quartet of Brownings.

  ‘Climbing port!’ shouted Chatsworth. ‘Rolling… climbing starboard… levelling out… 10,000. You okay, Dixie?’

  The gutsy Deans replied in typical cockney humour.

  ‘Affirmative, Skipper, you’ve lost him. Blimey, he weren’t half shiftin’; must be trying to make the last show at the Windmill Theatre.’

  Never lost for the odd spot of banter himself, Tommy Reynolds piped up in his broad Lancashire accent – ‘Or the last bleedin’ waltz at the Blackpool Tower Ballroom!’

  ‘Okay, okay, quiet now,’ interrupted Chatsworth. ‘Well done, everyone. The fun’s over. Keep your eyes peeled. We still have a job to do.’

  They flew on in silence, until Eddie Sutherland piped up.

  ‘Navigator to Skipper… six minutes to target. Turn starboard, one-eight-three… get down to bombing height.’

  Chatsworth brought the Lancaster around and began the final approach. “Chalkie” White, not to be outdone by the meticulous calculations of Eddie Sutherland, had spotted the handiwork of two Mosquitos.

  ‘Yellow markers ahead, Skipper,’ he called.

  White waited for his cue, a curtain of pom-pom fire racing up from below, chased by streams of tracer arcing lazily and gracefully through the night sky past the Lancaster like a trail of shooting stars.

  ‘Bomb aimer, it’s all yours,’ called Chatsworth.

  ‘Gotcha, Skip. Steady, now. Five degrees starboard… coming on nicely… another two degrees starboard… stead-eee… stead-eee. Left, left. Bomb doors open. Stead-eee, Skip, stead-eee. Hold it there, Skipper!’

  There was a pregnant pause.

 
‘Bombs gone, Skipper. Hold her steady a tick, I need a photograph.’

  White eased himself round in the tight confines of the bomb aimer’s compartment, opened the small aperture at the rear, shone his flashlight into the bomb bay and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Skipper!’ he shouted. ‘We have a hang-up.’

  ‘Hang-up?’

  ‘Affirmative, Skipper, just one.’

  White worked his fingers hurriedly along a panel of switches.

  ‘Any luck, Chalkie?’

  ‘Sorry, Skip, I’ve tried every switch and she’s still there. Only one thing left for it…’

  White scrambled out of his cramped compartment, squeezed past the engineer, the navigator and finally the wireless operator. Easing himself across the main spar, he prized up one of the floor plates, the bomb hanging directly below. Prostrate across the floor, White got to work, first with a long screwdriver and then with a tool that looked something like a fisherman’s gaff.

  ‘She’s free, Skipper, gone! Bomb doors closing.’

  ‘Well done, Chalkie. Okay, everyone, we’re going home.’

  Seconds later, there was a vivid flash in the blacked-out countryside below.

  ‘Bet that caused a flutter in some poor old farmer’s chicken run,’ said Dixie Deans.

  Chatsworth made a 180-degree turn and gunned the Lancaster over the Mecklenburger Bucht. Beyond Kiel, he swung west, placed the bomber on a course for the North Sea and the pacifying shores of England. Dancing in his mind was the joyous sight of a candle, flickering in the bedroom window of a green-eyed WREN at Little Steeping.

  Welcome home, sweet Johnny, welcome home.

  34

  Wednesday 28th February 1945

  Andromeda was 550 nautical miles south of the Equator, the sea as calm as a city canal, the night sky peppered with shimmering stars.

  In the confines of his cramped quarters, Jürgen Lanze was in a buoyant mood, confident that he would reach his penultimate position by 9th March. Stripped of fatigues, the crew worked and relaxed in the comfort of shorts. Spirits were high and the mood was jovial. Those not sleeping took turns on deck, smoking, talking or simply gazing in awe at the heavenly spectacle.