by Jim Crossley
No one in the officers’ mess was particularly interested in the activities in the sick bay that evening. A rescue tug had pulled a German pilot out of the water alive. No sign of his gunner. The man was delirious and his right arm was shattered beyond repair. As the surgeons worked, the convoy steamed on eastward. By dawn they would be in the comparative safety provided by fighters from Malta.
Chapter 10
The Beaufighter (“Beau” as it was called) was deceptively similar to the Blenheim at first glance, but under the skin it was an entirely different beast. For a start it had seventy percent more power, and no dorsal turret to slow it down. It was thus some sixty miles per hour faster and far more agile. Almost as fast as a single-seater fighter, it had a range of over one thousand five hundred miles and could remain on patrol for five or six hours at a time. As a dedicated night fighter, it had a massive punch of four heavy cannons in the nose and six wing-mounted machine guns. But above all it had its radar, the unblinking eye which spied out intruders by night and brought the deadly firepower to bear. The AI Mark IV set fitted was similar to that which William had used in the Blenheim, but with greatly enhanced performance and reliability, and, thanks to the work done with the Blenheims, a procedure for working effectively at night with ground controllers was now in place. The Beau was poised to become the definitive answer to the German night raiders.
First, however, the crews had to sort themselves out and get to know how to master the beast. They were to be transferred from their experimental flight to the newly formed 223 squadron, generally known as the “Owls”, based at Tangmere. The squadron had specialist ground crews, trained on the Beaufighter and on the Mark IV radar, allocated to it. It was commanded by Group Captain “Whiskers” Williams, a fiery Welshman and a superb pilot. Most of the squadron’s pilots were career RAF men in their thirties, professional and cautious in their attitude to the new technology, quite unlike the boisterous single-seater heroes of the Battle of Britain.
The Beau was a two-man aircraft and so William had to say goodbye to one of his crew; Willis was transferred to a heavy bomber squadron, Jimmy remaining as his navigator/radar operator. The new aircraft proved quite a handful. It was heavy and had high wing loading so that it took off and landed very fast. The massive Bristol Hercules engines gave it terrific acceleration and an excellent rate of climb but if one of them were to fail, especially on take-off, the machine was virtually unmanageable.
Then there were the problems inherent in flying at night. The Beau was quite unstable in pitch – meaning it would start to climb or dive unexpectedly if the pilot lost concentration. These changes in pitch were easy to detect and correct in daylight, when there was normally a visible horizon, but in the dark they could easily go unnoticed, especially when climbing or descending through cloud. It was natural to want to keep staring ahead and trusting one’s instincts to keep the plane straight and level, but instinct in these conditions is unreliable. Pilots had to learn to trust their instruments and fly by them. They either learnt to fly with eyes glued to the instrument panel or they didn’t last long in Beaufighter squadrons.
Another persistent challenge was how to get home. At that time there were no effective landing aids, so the crews had to come home on a bearing given by their radar controller (always supposing that the radio link was working correctly) then look out for a familiar flare path. Judging height and drift correctly after a long night’s flying in an ice-cold cockpit in the dark was always a challenge and the slightest mistake could be fatal.
Night fighter pilots went on standby as soon as it got dark, and had to sit uncomfortably in the dimly lit crew room in flying gear, wearing darkened goggles, waiting for the order to scramble. This would be given when ground radar detected enemy intruders at long range. The fighters would be instructed to take off and orbit a beacon until the course and height of the enemy were clearly determined. The ground controllers would then direct each individual aircraft to a selected target, guiding it to within a mile or so of its intended victim. By this time the fighter’s own radar would be switched on and seeking to acquire the target. As soon as the radar operator, sitting beside the pilot, saw the target on his screen, he would direct the pilot towards it, closing it from astern. All this time the enemy would have no idea that he was being stalked. When the range was reduced to about two hundred yards, the pilot would, with luck, make visual contact with the enemy, probably at first making out the red glow of the exhausts or seeing a black form illuminated by the moon. He could then open fire with his massive armament. This would probably be the first indication the victim had of his presence. Unless the aim was good, the enemy might well be able to escape a second attack by diving away into cloud and evading the narrow beam of the airborne radar, then the whole process would have to be repeated, but the bomber would be alert and would weave around, becoming very difficult to find. A common error was to approach too fast, overshooting the enemy plane before seeing it. In this case the enemy would probably see the fighter as it drew close and could open fire himself, at the same time taking violent evasive action. As the experimental flight had found with the Blenheims, the key to success was good team work between the ground radar, radar operator in the aircraft and the pilot.
Whiskers was a stickler for good discipline in the air and on the ground. Crews were not listed as operational until they had proved to him that they could fly accurately and had total command of radio procedures, radar operation, and of how to handle the aircraft. Woe betide anyone found in the crew room not fully ready and wearing his darkened goggles.
“Fathead!” he would yell. “How are you going to fly in the dark, let alone see a bomber with your vision not adjusted? You’ll kill yourself not the bloody Huns. Get the hell out of the crew room and stay out! See me in my office before breakfast in the morning.”
Jimmy and William, thanks to their experimental work, were among the first aircrews to be declared operational. On a chilly March night, they found themselves listening to the crackle of the crew room radio. They had been there for three hours, bored by the incessant twaddle from the BBC and from cups of grey-coloured tea from the little kitchen in the hut. Just as William, blinded by those awful goggles, was clumsily stretching out his hand for yet another cup, the urgent clanging of the telephone bell exploded into the semi-darkness. “Number 3341 Scramble, Scramble”. Tearing off their goggles as they stumbled into the darkness outside, the two men ran towards the dark form of their waiting machine. The ground crew – William already knew their names and recognised each man in the darkness – cranked the engines by hand and operated the Ki-gas priming pumps.
“Starter booster coils engaged! Starter engaged!”
The great engines stuttered, then burst into throbbing, trembling life. The ground crew stood ready to continue priming until both engines settled down to a steady roar. William methodically checked the engines and controls – his many years of flying had taught him never to rush this process, then, setting the flaps at fifteen degrees down, he flashed his navigation lights to tell the tower that he was ready and rumbled forward onto the runway.
“All set to go, Jimmy?”
“All set, skip.”
The Beaufighter surged down the grass runway, gathering speed, so that the dim lights of the runway seemed to merge into one as the aircraft rushed past. They lifted off and soared away at one hundred and seventy miles per hour, then climbed quickly to sixteen thousand feet so as to orbit a beacon, flashing a green light, somewhere near Bognor Regis. Flying in circles round the beacon became almost as boring as sitting in the crew hut. There was nothing to see except the occasional flash of lights over Dover which they thought indicated bomb bursts. The moon was nearly full and occasionally it was possible to see it shining on the sea a little way to the south. Suddenly the radio burst out.
“3341 standby for trade.”
“Roger, Magnet.”
(“Magnet” was the call sign of the fighter controller.)
“3341, make your course two two zero degrees, angels at two two thousand. Clear to smack.”
(“Clear to smack” meant that the target was positively identified as an enemy.)
“Roger.”
The powerful fighter climbed and headed towards the intruder.
“3341, your target now climbing to angels two two twenty steer two three zero.”
“Roger.”
William forced himself to stay calm in this game of blind man’s buff. All he could do was to fly as accurately as possible, following instructions. Ahead he could see searchlight beams still probing the darkness. It was probably these which had caused his quarry to climb.
“Your assigned target’s range now thirty miles.”
There was at least one hundred miles per hour speed difference between the Beau and the bomber; they should catch up in fifteen minutes or so. Time to check guns.
Magnet called again, a renewed note of urgency in his voice:
“Turn to port ninety degrees, range to target now fifteen miles.”
The enemy plane seemed now to be flying southeast. Magnet was trying to bring the fighter round directly onto his tail.
Magnet, triumphantly:
“Your range now five miles, you are on the same heading as the bandit. You are closing rapidly. Clear to flash weapon.”
Jimmy turned on his radar set. The screen showed all sorts of clutter. He tried desperately to pick out an echo from the enemy.
“You are closing rapidly, do not, do not overshoot.”
William swore under his breath. The controller was right. He had been used to struggling to catch up with enemy bombers in the Blenheim. Now, idiot, remember you are much faster. If you overshoot, he’ll see you and you’ll lose him. He closed the throttles and pulled up the nose.
“Got him, skip,” muttered Jimmy into his intercom. “Ten degrees off the bow range about nine hundred yards, just below us.”
William closed the throttles further and pushed the stick forward.
“We’re closing on him slowly now, skip, go port a little, more, more; OK, he’s dead ahead now. Flying straight and level.”
“Thanks, Jimmy. Range?”
“Five hundred yards now.”
For what seemed minutes, William peered into the darkness ahead, then suddenly something reflected the moon’s baleful glow above them. Yes, there it was just ahead, a long, narrow fuselage and two small tail fins, a Dornier 17. He could even make out the disgusting black crosses on the wings. How dare this foul thing come and bomb his peaceful country? William lined up the gun sight.
“Opening fire!”
Immediately the cannon shells ripped into the bomber and bits of metal seemed to fly off in all directions. Caught entirely unawares, the machine plunged down to smash itself onto the downs near Selsey Bill.
William reported to Magnet.
“Roger, 3341, return to base.”
William’s first call was on the squadron intelligence officer who wanted to know every fine detail of the encounter so as to use it as a model for training purposes. As he was leaving, a Flight Sergeant walked in and handed him a message. He stuffed it into his pocket and walked over to the mess, where bacon and eggs was being served to night-fighter crews. Exhausted by their night’s work, the crews were delighted with the results of their first operation. Two other bombers had been brought down by the Owls and even Whiskers was in high spirits, slapping people on the back and promising a serious drinks party as soon as there was a break in the operational schedule.
It was almost midday when he remembered the note, tearing it open as he lay on his bed. It was from an east London hospital. The Reverend James Tullow (Flopsy’s proper name) was in casualty, badly hurt, and was asking for him. Still in a buoyant mood the CO agreed to thirty-six hours compassionate leave, and William got ready to drive to Lambeth in the Lagonda. Just as he was leaving, Jimmy appeared.
“Skip, if you are going to London, can I cadge a lift? I got a thirty-six too.”
“No problem, Sarge, but where exactly?”
“I’m off to see my old lady. She’s at home in Camberwell, I hope.”
“That’s just near Lambeth, where I’m going, hop in.”
It was still daylight when they started, and sped off, London bound. As darkness fell, the dimmed headlights gave barely enough light to drive, and slowly they progressed through dismal-looking suburbia. A steady rain made the roads glisten faintly under their masked lights and a bitter, probing wind found every gap in the old car’s inadequate canvas roof. Not many people were about, and occasionally they saw searchlight beams stabbing the air over the capital, but there was no air raid warning.
“A bit stormy for Jerry tonight, I’d say, skip, especially after the licking we gave them last night,” remarked Jimmy.
“Yes, they won’t be flying tonight, thank God. We should be OK.”
As they progressed, even in the dim lights of the car, the destruction around them became evident. Ugly gaps appeared between the rows of houses on each side of the road and many windows were covered with boarding or corrugated iron sheets. In a few places, orange flames still flickered, licking at fallen roof timbers, defying the steadily falling rain. There was no one much about, and the few figures in the streets hurried through the damp, huddled in heavy waterproofs. The blackout stifled any light which might try to shine from those houses which were still occupied, making the sensation of driving through the city eerily like entering a ghost town. Twice they had to stop where piles of rubble blocked their way so they had to weave round through side streets. Once a pale-looking policeman stopped the car, enquired their business, and diverted them round a street still being cleared by a bulldozer and a team of exhausted workmen. For the first time the two flyers were experiencing at first hand the havoc wrought by their ruthless enemy. The wreckage they saw being carted away must have been from a bomb dropped the previous night, the very night of their first operational sortie. As they approached Lambeth, Jimmy was getting into familiar territory and was able to guide them through the maze of streets to the hospital. He gave directions in his usual bantering manner, but William noticed a catch in his voice from time to time. These were his streets, his houses, his people, and they were being reduced to ruins.
The hospital was an ugly brick building which somehow had escaped the bombing. Inside, the walls were painted cream and chocolate brown and the floor was covered with worn yellowish linoleum. The staff looked tired and harassed, but a friendly enough receptionist, doubtless impressed by their RAF uniforms, found a cup of sugary tea for Jimmy and directed William to Flopsy’s ward. He was sickened by what he found. A solitary nurse had charge of some twenty patients, all of them suffering from injuries caused by the bombing. Try as she would, the poor girl had no hope of bringing water, medicines, painkillers and bed pans to all her charges and the place stank of urine. Groans and cries, some angry, some despairing, made sleep impossible and gaunt eyes stared starkly at William as he walked in. Flopsy’s bed was surrounded by screens. Pushing them aside, he looked at the frail figure on the mattress. The face was pale and drawn and the lips pulled back over the gums to give a skull-like appearance. He was breathing in short irregular gasps and could speak only in a hoarse, laboured whisper. He recognised his visitor, however, and attempted a smile.
“Silly me!” he wheezed. “Do you know what I was doing? Fire watching! At my age! In the church tower, then a bomb landed nearby. It seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the air and there was this terrific impact. Seems to have shaken the old frame up a bit. But good of you to come – they’ve been so kind to me here although they are so very busy but it’s nice to see a familiar face.”