by Jim Crossley
As Minden entered the Channel, Angela was in total confusion about her own feelings. She remembered the dashing young German officer whom she had so admired in her Cambridge days, and seeing him wounded and distressed had awoken in her every protective instinct. Often before she had felt a deep, almost motherly love for wounded soldiers in her care, but this was different. This was a man she had loved, dreamed about, idolised and she could tell that he still loved her. They were able to communicate at a deeper level than speech or touch could convey and it was with a special tender gentleness that she changed the dressings on his wounds, plumped up his pillows and settled him in bed. But there was something wrong. Looking into his strong, sad face, she could not help looking for features, movements, mannerisms that reminded her of William. If she studied him closely, it was plain to see a family resemblance, but there were differences too. Here was a harder, simpler man with nothing in him of the artist who lurked deep in William’s psyche, none of the gentleness, of the self-doubt which made William so irresistibly attractive to her. Did she love him? She did not know, but she would nurse him with all her loving kindness, and protect him with all her might.
At Southampton the wounded were sent to various local military hospitals, Hans ending up at Netley on the Solent. He was still masquerading under the name of Stanislas Potoski, and was relieved to find that he was the only “Pole” in the hospital, most of the others being British or Canadian seamen, with a handful of Free French soldiers. He was interviewed by a senior naval medical officer. The doctor was surprised to find that his charge spoke fluent English and could converse readily in French too. Hans explained this by making up a story about being brought up near Danzig, a free city in western Poland and a hub of international trade, and of frequent trips to England connected with his father’s business. Luckily his knowledge of the country enabled him to make his story reasonably credible. The MO was also surprised to find his charge in better shape than the paperwork sent from Gibraltar had led him to expect, and told “Stanislas” that he seemed to be recovering amazingly well from his wounds and would soon be ready for discharge. Apart from the loss of his limb, he should be perfectly fit and able to work. “I expect that you’ll be wanting to get back to your Free Polish Army pretty soon” he said encouragingly. “I’m sure they will have a good use for you, arm or no arm, you’ll be able to get some of your own back on the Jerries.”
For Hans, of course, this was a problem to be overcome. It wouldn’t take the Polish Army people in London long to find out that he was no Pole and the consequences would be disastrous. Once again his salvation would have to depend on the goodwill of Angela.
Luckily for him, Minden’s nursing crew had been granted two weeks’ leave after the voyage from Gibraltar and Hans managed to get a phone call through to Exton Grange. A visit to Netley was arranged.
Chapter 12
William had returned in a haze of happiness from his weekend leave with Angela. There was no formal engagement as yet, but there hardly seemed to be any need. The two were so deeply, so obviously in love. Hans had not been mentioned since the brief, uncomfortable reference to him on the first day of the visit and both hoped that he had vanished forever. As he drove, blissfully happy, back to camp, William’s mind was occupied thinking of weddings, of bringing his love to his Tyneside home, and of an idyllic life together after the war.
He had entirely forgotten the hint from Whiskers that his role might be about to change and was brought up with a bump when he was summoned to the squadron office. He was a little less surprised to find Hugh Wesley sitting in the office waiting for him. Hugh always seemed to turn up when change was afoot.
After some pleasantries, Whiskers opened the conversation.
“William, you and I are both aware that with the Beaus and our radar we seem to be more or less on top of the night bombers now. Yes, they make the occasional stealthy raid to keep us on our toes, but they seem to be too busy in Russia and in the Med to give us much trouble, and I guess the high levels of losses when they do raid us are pretty off-putting for them. Our masters in the War Office have another plan for us, however, and you and I are the lucky fellows they seem to have selected to carry it out. Squadron Leader Wesley here will explain.”
Hugh started by outlining the situation regarding night-time interception as he saw it.
“The fact is,” he concluded, “that we have cracked the problem to all intents and purposes, and the Germans seem to have almost given up the game. I can tell you fellows also that we have further improvements in radar coming along and, as you probably know, an even better night fighter than the Beau, I think it’s called the “Mosquito”, will soon be available. That should make things better still. However, there is one aspect of this war which we are not winning, and if we don’t start to make progress soon it could be the end of us.”
As his friend spoke, William could not help marvelling in how this man – a bit of a buffoon before the war – had grown into his role under the pressure of war. He now had a kind of natural authority born of his passionate belief in the importance of his task. William could now envisage him taking on government scientists at the highest level, forcing them to support his practical vigorous approach to problems and to recognise his infinite capacity for innovation and hard work.
Hugh continued.
“Do either of you know how much shipping we lost during the last twelve months in the Atlantic?”
Both shook their heads.
“Well, it’s about six million tons, five hundred thousand a month – far more than we can possibly build. In return we think we sank about a hundred U-boats and we know the Germans built at least two hundred, so it’s going to get worse and worse unless we can find some way of turning the situation round. Now, we’ve been working on an idea which may help, but we need aircrew who are familiar with radar and with flying long distances over water to develop the system and the procedures for operating it. The Air Ministry worked out that you two would fit the bill. What do you say?”
“Well, it sounds very much like an order to me,” said Whiskers. I wouldn’t mind having another go at test-flying. I did some before I came to the Owls. What is the set-up?”
“There’s an experimental squadron based at Ford. You’ll be part of that. They test all sorts of weird and wonderful things there. It actually belongs to Bomber Command, but you’ll be working with Coastal Command of course.”
Winter had set in by the time they arrived at Ford. William was delighted to have been posted to a station within easy reach of Angela’s home in Hampshire, although she herself was off again to Gibraltar in a hospital ship. Both he and Whiskers were much less pleased when they found that all their flying was to be in Wellington bombers, about the most unglamorous machine in the RAF’s inventory. Wellingtons (“Wimpeys” they were universally called) were twin-engine bombers and these Mark 1 machines were old, slow, clumsy and underpowered. Coastal Command was allocated them mainly because their brethren in Bomber Command had decided they were obsolescent and were phasing them out in favour of the more powerful Mark IIIs, and of course the new generation of four-engined “heavies”. The fuselage of the Wellington was fabric-covered and the whole structure could bend in flight, often resulting in alarming movements of the control column. Wellingtons did have some virtues however. They were able to sustain an astonishing amount of damage and remain airborne and they were considered to be extremely reliable.
The RAF had allowed the two pilots to bring a few chosen crew with them to Ford, so William was able to keep hold of Jimmy and Flight Sergeant Tuoy. At least Wellingtons had a Bristol engine, like the Beaufighter, so Tuoy felt at home with them immediately. After a brief period of familiarisation with the aircraft, the crews were grounded while a team of technicians worked on them to fit the special equipment with which to enable them to start on their test-flying.
During this brief lay off, William had hoped to take a few days’ leave but it was not to be. Bomber Command was de
termined to make a massive raid on Dortmund in the Ruhr, the heart of German industry. From the start of the war, it had been decreed that crews from training establishments, experimental units and from Coastal Command itself, could be drafted into the bomber force when a major operation was in the offing, and as there were some spare aircraft at Ford, William and Whiskers were ordered to prepare one of them and get together a scratch crew. A Wellington on a bombing mission normally had a crew of five: Pilot, (Whiskers) Navigator (William), Radio Operator/Flight Engineer, and Front Gunner/Bomb Aimer (Jimmy) and Rear Gunner. Joe Isaacs, another Beaufighter crewman from Tangmere stood in as Radio Operator, the other place was filled by Sergeant Phillips a spare air gunner from Ford. William was more than happy to act as navigator instead of pilot. He knew that Whiskers was a far better pilot than he would ever be and was secretly pleased not to have the daunting responsibility of skippering the Wellington over enemy territory.
By winter of 1941 and 1942 the RAF had given up daylight raids on Germany, as the losses were horrific and was beginning to adopt the strategy of “area bombing” by night. The aim was to demoralise the industrial workforce so that production of war material would grind to a halt. In reality it was the only way in which Britain could make use of its massive bomber force, as accurate night-time navigation was impossible to achieve with the systems then available. As it was impossible for bombers to strike accurately at a specific industrial target, they had to blast a whole city, killing in the process thousands of civilians. The policy was ruthless in the extreme but it was to be the backbone of the Allied bombing strategy until the end of the war. The Dortmund raid was intended to be one such attack.
Whiskers got his scratch crew together and managed to find time to give them a couple of short flights together so as to weld them into some sort of team. It was not easy. The Wimpey was noisy, cold and extremely uncomfortable at the best of times, and the spare machine provided by Ford was a poor example of the breed. Tuoy and his team worked their magic on the engines, but the instruments were unreliable and secondary systems, like the radios, were decidedly shaky. In these conditions everyone on board was tense and nervous. Whiskers himself set an excellent example of skill and professionalism, making a point of trying to talk to each man in the crew during the flight, telling them what he intended to do and drumming into everyone the vital importance of the success of the mission and the part they had to play in it. There was no trouble with Jimmy or Isaacs, but the rear gunner was a different kettle of fish. He didn’t want to fly operationally and, though a qualified air gunner, he had no experience in night flying. He was continually looking for faults in the aircraft (known as “P-Peter”) in the hope of it being pronounced as un-airworthy. Twice, Whiskers had to threaten disciplinary action to stop him complaining.
P-Peter was allocated to reinforce a Wellington squadron based in Norfolk, so she flew up there on a chilly, grey March day, Whiskers putting her down, perfectly as usual, just before sunset. The crew split up, three officers reporting to the officers’ mess, the rest to their respective billets. No one much seemed to want to see Whiskers and his party, and they huddled together round a dreary-looking bar, waiting to be shown their quarters. Eventually a Squadron Leader joined them, announcing himself as the adjutant.
“Are you the crew from Ford?” he began. “Well, briefing in half an hour, you’ve missed the navigator’s briefing, so you’ll have to pick up the charts later, hope you’ve settled in all right. Sorry, I can’t wait,” and with that he was off into another room which seemed to contain a billiards table.
The crews filed into the briefing room, which was set out, rather dramatically, with a stage and curtain at one end. There was a roll call, closely watched by an RAF policeman to ensure no one was missing or had sneaked in with no business to be there, then a tired-looking Wing Commander unveiled a map of North Germany and the target. The Bomber force was to form up over the Thames Estuary and pass south of Antwerp before making a turn for the Ruhr. The Wellingtons, constituting over half the bombing force, being a little slower than the four-engined machines, would set off fifteen minutes ahead of them. Heavy flak was to be expected over Belgium and over the target and, if visibility was good, there might be night fighters.
“Good luck, everyone!” he concluded, and left the stage to a met. officer, followed by a navigation specialist who rather vaguely pointed out the way points they should look out for.
“You can’t miss the Ruhr,” he concluded. “It’s all lit up by blast furnaces.”
“And f… ing searchlights!” shouted a man in the audience.
“Bloody flak too!” yelled another.
Takeoff was scheduled for 22.00 hours. that evening, and the crews were told to have their dinner at 20.00 and be ready to start engines at 21.30. There was a rush for the respective messes, each man being checked off as he entered so as to keep out any possible intruders. Whiskers’ crew were held up at the door.
“Sorry, sir, your names are not on the list.”
“F… that we’ve just been briefed we are flying tonight.”
“Can’t help that, sir, you’ll have to see the adjutant.”
The adjutant, of course, was nowhere to be found. Whiskers by now was red with fury and starting to shout. He attracted sniggering glances from the men eating their dinner. The shouting match with the policeman on the door became more and more heated.
After a few minutes Whiskers pushed past the sergeant who was denying them entry and stormed into the dining hall.
“Right!” he announced. “My crew are getting their meal NOW! And they are sitting HERE” – pointing to a table by the door, laden with documents – “to eat it.”
His arm swept over the table, depositing neatly piled paperwork on the floor.
By this time all eyes in the room were focused on this fiery Welshman. With great composure he sat down, spread out a napkin and beckoned his crew to do likewise. A mess waiter sheepishly started to lay the table; this provoked a round of cheers from the aircrew in the room which redoubled when plates of food arrived. Whiskers maintained perfect composure throughout the meal and his influence forced the others to do likewise. When the meal was almost finished, the adjutant belatedly appeared in the room and strode over to the table.
“What’s this I hear about trouble over dinner?” he demanded.
Whiskers stood up and addressed him loudly, so all the room could hear.
“Air crew about to risk their lives are having their dinner here, Squadron Leader,” he said icily, “and it’s obvious that you desk pilots can’t organise something as simple as dinner so you’d better bugger off back to your desk and see if you can’t get yourselves properly sorted out, or next time you’ll get something uncomfortable up your backside. Now piss off, I’m eating.”
The adjutant had never been spoken to like this before. With a feeble “You’ll hear more of this” he fled out of the room to the laughter and applause of the diners.
As it happened, none of them flew that night. The weather clamped down at the last minute and the operation was postponed. Whiskers and his crew found themselves hanging around the airfield for another three days before they finally took off. They suffered no more trouble from the station establishment.
At last the Wellingtons were bombed up, fuelled and trundled down the runway into the darkness of the winter night. They were supposed to form up over the Thames Estuary and fly in some sort of formation towards their target, but it was too dark for the aircraft to see each other, and after a few minutes aimlessly circling around, they blundered off on their mission. Behind them thundered the brand new four-engine “heavies”, hoping to strike a devastating blow at the heart of German industry.
Accustomed as he was to long hours of night flying, William at first found it quite relaxing to be occupying the navigator’s seat, leaving ultimate responsibility for the aircraft to Whiskers. He could see nothing but the stars above him, thick cloud blotted out the earth as P-Peter droned st
eadily on. Over the North Sea he struggled up into the astrodome and took a star sight. They seemed to be well south of their correct course; the wind must be stronger and more northerly than the Met. had forecast. He gave Whiskers a new course. The navigator in a Wellington had very little view outside the aircraft except from the astrodome on top, so the front gunner/bomb aimer in the nose had to do all the “map reading”. Sure enough, Jimmy reported the Scheldt away to port, visible through a gap in the clouds.
At that time German night fighters were only experimenting with airborne radar, but there were excellent radar-directed searchlights located on the likely paths of attacking bombers and heavy anti-aircraft guns. There were also lighter guns to deal with low-flying targets. Great concentrations of such gun batteries also covered prime target areas such as the Ruhr and Berlin itself. As a further hazard, even without on-board radar, the night fighters were often highly effective. The German border areas were divided into “boxes”, each box being the responsibility of a ground radar station and an orbiting fighter. The station would identify a target and guide its designated fighter towards it by radio. The pilot would have to make the final stages of his attack using the “Mark one eyeball” to spot its silhouette against the moon, or its exhaust flames. German night-fighter pilots were highly trained experts and often proved deadly opponents, especially to lame aircraft, perhaps damaged and with tired crews, returning from a bombing operation. Slow twin-engine bombers like the Wellington depended entirely on the alertness of the crew and especially the tail gunner to spot an attacking fighter before it could open fire and drive it off with machine gun fire or warn the pilot to take violent evasive action.