by Jim Crossley
His assailant followed him down. It had now been joined by another fighter and they lined up one on each quarter of the Blenheim, waiting for a chance to pounce. William flew as he had never dreamed he would have to. Skimming houses, weaving over open fields and dodging round church towers, he fought desperately to keep his enemies so occupied with flying that they could not get in a shot. Afterwards he remembered a fraction of a second when he had seen a herd of cows, terrified by his approach, stampede through a hedge in panic. Right ahead he saw some high-tension pylons. If he pulled up to cross the cables, he would give the fighters an excellent chance of a shot. He must pass under them. Fighting the temptation to shut his eyes he aimed between two pylons and held his breath. The fighters behind decided to pull up over the obstruction and this gave Jimmy an opportunity. As the fleeing Blenheim passed beneath the wires, he had a clear shot at the bellies of the Me’s and blazed away at the right-hand machine. A single .303 machine gun needed luck to strike a mortal blow to an aircraft, but he saw his fire striking the underside of the wing and the machine pulled up and climbed away. Perhaps he had actually damaged it. At the same moment the other fighter put in a long burst. Most of the fire passed over the top of the Blenheim, but the crew felt the judder of strikes on the wings and tail. William felt his aircraft trying hard to turn to port. He stamped on the rudder pedal and managed to keep her on an even keel. Ahead of him, he could see the sea and far, far away the cliffs of Dover. Perhaps, against all the odds, they might make it. The second attacker now seemed to be giving up the chase, probably he had used all his ammunition. He climbed and turned away leaving the damaged Blenheim to escape, still at zero altitude, across the Channel.
William had a chance now to check that his crew were OK. Willis, the observer, had been operating the gun pack in the nose. He was white and shaking with terror from the hedge-hopping but unharmed. Jimmy Hopson’s voice came through from his turret. “Think I’m OK, skip,” he answered. “But it’s too bloody cold here to tell. That bastard’s shot the roof off of me turret. I’m bleeding from somewhere but I don’t know where.” The machine itself was still pulling hard to port but the engines seemed OK and she could maintain height. William called Tangmere for emergency landing clearance. It was very difficult to line up correctly on approach, the machine seemed to insist on crabbing sideways when he reduced power for landing, but he managed to get her to bump down safely and the crew scrambled out. William, for the first time, noticed that he was sweating profusely, and when he tried to stand, his legs collapsed under him and he fell flat on the grass beside the plane. He was shaking all over after his terrifying escape and his teeth chattered. In a few seconds he was recovered enough to look round the damage to the aircraft. One side of the rudder and tail fin was shot away completely and, as Jimmy had said, the top part of the turret had been cut clean off, like the top of an egg. Jimmy’s bleeding came from nothing worse than a severe nose bleed which, he improbably claimed afterwards, had been caused by “a bleeding Jerry bullet”.
So ended William’s first combat mission. Of the thirty Blenheims involved, four of the fighters and three bombers were lost. At least six enemy aircraft had been damaged or destroyed on the ground and fuel and ammunition dumps had been wrecked. A hangar containing parts and a workshop caught fire and burnt out. The Blenheim fighters had shown once again that they were totally outclassed by single-seaters, but their intervention certainly prevented much heavier losses among the returning bombers.
One of the casualties was an aircraft from the radar development team. News of this spread a cloud of gloom over the mess. The Blenheim crews were not like the young exuberant single-seater boys who charged around the local pubs in high spirits whatever horrors had occurred in the battle. They were older men, most of them married with families, and took an altogether more serious view of life. Theirs was a sombre, quiet mess that evening and the CO, who had been flying one of the fighters, took upon himself the daunting task of visiting a little family devastated by the loss of a beloved dad.
William could not sleep that night; he lay sweating in bed, trying to analyse his own performance in combat. Yes, he had done all the right things and got home safely. The intelligence officer who had de-briefed him had seemed impressed by his performance. Secretly, however, he knew the intense terror he had felt as he fled before the German fighters. This was what many other pilots had to face every day, it was part of being in the RAF, but he was now forced to doubt if he was up to it. He remembered the terror of that deadly chase, the sickly feeling of panic, the muttered prayers. Deep down he felt he was a coward, unworthy of his crew and his service. He lay there in the darkness, miserably aware of his own inadequacy. The night wore on, sleepless. Soon after dawn he dragged himself out of bed and looked at his image in the mirror. A typical RAF officer stared back at him, lean, clean shaven, with longish dark hair and a face already showing the strains brought on by too much night-time flying and the heavy load of responsibility he felt for his mission and his crew. His uniform was draped untidily on a chair nearby and he saw the wings sewn on below the left breast. He felt unworthy of them. His colleagues were flying combat missions in their Spitfires and Hurricanes, sometimes two or three times a day, and fighting against terrible odds, and yet here he was after his first taste of combat, proud only because he had successfully fled from the enemy and racked with terror by the experience. He must give up. He couldn’t stand it. Somehow he must get out of this ghastly fight and convince the RAF that he was no combat pilot. He flopped down in a chair and reached for a cigarette. He had to open a new packet of twenty for the second time in twenty-four hours. His hands trembled as he opened it and inhaled the first puff of rank-tasting smoke. Stubbing it out, he sat miserably on the bed and contemplated the morning.
At breakfast a letter was handed to him. It was from Angela. It had been posted weeks ago in Gibraltar. Remembering the nagging fear that she was truly in love with his cousin, he tore open the envelope:
My darling,
It has been difficult to write to you as we have been at sea most of the time and terribly busy with the wounded every time we come into port, but at last I have a few moments to write.
I’m not allowed to tell you much about our voyage out here and through the Med, but it has certainly been exciting as our convoy has been attacked from the air and from under water. Don’t worry, our ship has not been hit but we have had to take on sailors from other ships which were not so lucky. Everyone has been so brave and many have suffered so much but I am learning to understand how long-suffering and undaunted British people can be in adversity. It is such a privilege to feel that I am part of the struggle and am playing my own little role in bringing some comfort to our boys. Of course what I have to do is nothing compared to fighting men like you, my darling. I’m just proud to play my small part.
I pray every night that you are all right and not taking too many risks. You airmen are really in the front line now and you are setting such a wonderful example to us all. Please, please keep safe until we can meet again, the rumour is that we may be coming back to England soon with a ship-load of wounded and perhaps we will be able to meet up then and re-live those wonderful days of happiness we had together. I sometimes dream of them and feel you quite close to me and those are the best moments of my life.
Darling, I have no more time to write. I am on duty again tonight and have so much to do before we sail again.
I love you, darling, and feel that I just cannot live without the hope of being with you again.
With all my blessings and love.
Your Angela.
William stared at the letter, dumbfounded. Shaking, he left the mess table and hurried to his room. Over and over again he read it, and a new determination seemed to fill his whole body. He must somehow be worthy of this wonderful, brave girl. How could he snivel fearfully here in the safety of his room while she was at sea facing dangers and horrors that he could scarcely imagine? She assumed that he was figh
ting to defend his country, and here he was trying to find a way out of it. And what else was she saying? That she loved him, longed for him. Nothing about that bloody cousin. Pulling himself together, he got up and returned to his duties.
He walked over to the hangar to see what progress was being made on repairing his aircraft. To his surprise, it was pushed to the back of the hangar, looking damaged and forlorn with no one working on it. He called the flight sergeant who normally cared for it.
“Flight, why is no one working on P, Peter?”
“Orders, sir, we have to leave her as she is, don’t know why, and we are getting the spare machine, B Baker ready for tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But she can’t do a night radar op, she has no radar fitted.”
“Don’t know about that, sir.”
William hurried off to the ops room to see what was going on. Sure enough he and his crew, together with three others, were scheduled to attend a briefing that afternoon. Remembering his sleepless night, William slipped off for a nap, asking an orderly to be sure to wake him in time. Gone entirely was the gloom and self-doubt which had overcome him. Once again he was a confident, determined officer.
“Gentlemen,” began the CO. “Yesterday morning we were fortunate enough to do some considerable damage to the enemy. We have been told that no fighters were able to use the base we hit, considerably weakening the German offensive,” – muffled cheers from the assembled crews – “however, our own losses were unacceptably heavy. Tonight we are going to try a new tactic. We are going to make a night raid on one of the key airfields, only a few miles from our last target. Once again we will be escorting the bomber force but as well as shooting up the airfield before they arrive, it will be our job to drop flares so they can see the target. There probably won’t be any fighter opposition, but of course we must expect some flak. The great thing is that we have to find the target in the dark and hit it. Fighter Command seems to think that our night-flying experience makes us the best people for the job. Remember, our boys are knocking down Nazi bombers every day but their own losses are just not sustainable. If we can’t do something to make it more difficult for the enemy to put up his mass attacks, the situation in this battle will become extremely serious. Good luck, chaps.”
With that he handed over to the met officer and the intelligence specialist.
A night attack! So far night attacks by air had consisted mainly of leaflet dropping and the occasional brave venture over German territory. Accurate navigation by night was so difficult that most raids finished up miles from the intended target. This time the Blenheims were going to have to find and hit an airfield accurately. Time spent blundering about over enemy-held France looking for the target would be fatal as everything depended on achieving surprise and getting away before the defences were alerted. The weather was on their side; the met officer predicted light easterly winds and only about one tenth cloud. There was a half-moon which should make it reasonably easy to see major physical features on the ground such as rivers and, with luck, railways.
It was agreed that the best approach would be to come in low over the Channel at maximum speed. The bombers would then climb to five thousand feet while the fighters would keep low, trying to map read their way to the target. They would then drop flares to guide the bombers and attempt to silence some of the flak, then clear the target area before the bombers arrived. In daylight Blenheims would normally try to fly in close formation so as to maximise the effect of defensive fire, but as night fighter activity was not expected, the aircraft would split up on the way home so it would be each man for himself. To his horror, William was assigned to lead the fighter section. The aircrews huddled together over the latest maps of northern France to try identify landmarks which would be visible at night. The target was the headquarters of KG 1, one of the most important of the German bomber groups, situated between Beauvais and Amiens. To find it, the easiest route would be to find the mouth of the Somme, then follow the river as far as Amiens. Having identified Amiens, they could turn due south and follow a compass course which should bring them in sight of the airfield, provided the moon and clouds obliged. There would be plenty of flak on the course and around the target, but the distance to be covered over land was less than one hundred miles, and if they could identify the target quickly, they would be over enemy territory for less than forty-five minutes. The fighters would take off at about two a.m. (it was double summer time, so this was equivalent to midnight GMT). The moon would be up when they reached the target.
The crews all tried to rest during the afternoon and were served a late and unappetising supper of corned beef hash and vegetables. They waited in the crew room while the mechanics made final checks on the waiting Blenheims. A little after midnight the telephone rang in the crew room; the news was devastating. The operation was postponed. No reason was given. Men who had screwed up their courage, tense with anticipation and battling to control their nerves, were totally deflated. The language in the room was horrible, and the disgruntled flyers slunk angrily off to bed.
William felt some of his own self-doubt return. He had been ready to play the lead role assigned to him but as he lay tossing in bed he managed once more to convince himself that he was not up to the job. He just couldn’t play a leading role when he might take his own crew and many others to their deaths. How could he? He would see the CO in the morning. If he was branded a coward so be it.
As he struggled out of bed the next morning, there was a knock on his door. Sammy Burtonwood, one of his closest friends in the squadron came in.
“William, you knew that film star Jacky Simple, didn’t you?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well, look at this.”
“This” was a morning paper; the front page carried a large picture of Jacky and a glorified story of his life, his RAF career, and his death in combat over England.
William sat heavily down on his bed. Jacky, his friend, brave Jacky who could have been earning millions in Hollywood, but chose to serve his country as a humble pilot. Jacky, so handsome, so confident, so splendid. Dead. Gone forever. He buried his face in his hands in despair, and his shoulders shook with sobbing.
“Oh, sorry, old boy,” Sammy stammered, “I didn’t know…” He slipped out of the room.
In less than a minute William stood up. His misery had somehow turned to rage. Who the hell did they think they were these Germans flying their ugly aeroplanes, covered with their disgusting heathen symbols, over England killing people? How dare they try to impose their revolting, cruel code on decent Englishmen? If he had to die to stop them, he would. He’d smash his plane into one of their filthy Dorniers if he could. Jacky and thousands of others would be avenged. Fired with a new and terrible determination, he faced the days of waiting.
Two days later came the news that the attack should take place that night. Once again there was expected to be little cloud over the target and the wind would be light easterly. The machines lined up, ready for take-off, their engines already warmed up and the crews once again enjoying what might be their last chat and cigarette in the crew room. Again the telephone. This time it was their own control tower. Emergency, a damaged Wellington, returning from a raid on the docks at Cherbourg, was trying to make Tangmere. She had been blundering about the English coast for half an hour, unsure of her position but now she seemed to have identified Tangmere and was coming in at exactly the time that the Blenheims should be going out. The dimmed airfield gooseneck lights were lit and the crews, waiting in the open now, heard the distant sound of engines. They could see nothing but they heard an engine throttle back and then a green light soared up from the tower. The wounded plane cut its motors and announced itself by a shower of sparks as its belly flopped down on the runway, wheels up. The fire engines and a host of mechanics rushed towards it. There was no holding the waiting aircrew, to a man they dashed towards the Wellington, hoping to be able to help. As it turned
out they were not needed. The crew all scrambled out unaided, leaving the machine clear to be soused by the fire crews. The plane had been hard hit by heavy ack-ack fire and had lost one engine and half its tail plane. It was a miracle that it had got home, but here it was in the middle of the runway and until it was moved, the Blenheims could not take off. There was much pulling and shoving with tractors and eventually the carcass was heaved out of the way, but it was almost an hour after the designated take-off time before everything was clear. It was now three in the morning and the CO needed clearance from Group headquarters before allowing the attack to go ahead. As usual it took some time to raise anyone responsible at HQ and he had to hold further consultations, so it was not until almost four that the clearance for take-off was given. This was an act of severe irresponsibility at Group level. Had the staff officers studied the operational time table they would have realised that the Blenheims would have to return from their mission after dawn and this would make them easy meat for German fighters. The CO made this very clear but was told the mission must go ahead regardless. Apparently, Group was prepared to sacrifice a few aircraft and their crews for a successful raid.