The Perils and the Prize

by Jim Crossley

  William could not help feeling awestruck by the scene of the small town under bombardment by over a thousand tons of deadly bombs. Great red and yellow splashes of colour appeared, burned, then smouldered angrily. Thin, intense pencils of light probed the darkness, looking for the town’s tormentors and the air was filled with tracer arching up, slowly it seemed at first, then heading at a terrific speed towards them. Heavy flak shells were bursting among the first wave of attackers. Oliver, prone in the bomb aimer’s position, started calling out directions, guiding the aircraft to the green flares.

  “Straight as she goes… left a bit, skip. Steady… Steady… Left again. Bomb doors open. Wow! What’s that?”

  The Wellington reared up and turned sharply to port, sending maps, pencils and bits of flying gear whizzing about the cabin. At the same time there was a roar and the whole machine shuddered and seemed to lose her grip on the air. Sitting beside William, Jimmy saw a huge shape plunging past them, little flowers of orange flame streaming from its wings. William pushed the control column forward, recovering from the incipient stall, swearing at the top of his voice into his oxygen mask. After a few minutes he was back on a steady course.

  Skipper to crew:

  “That was a close one. Stirling, I think, and she’d been hit. Maybe the crew had bailed out. She damned near took us with her. Bomb aimer, can you still see the target?”

  “No, skip, we’ve lost it, and we’ll be past it by now. What do you want to do?”

  “We’ll go round again. After flying all this way we’re not going to waste these bombs. Navigator, take us back to just north of the target, I’ve lost orientation.”

  Going round again was a bold decision. Most of the bombers would be on their way home, and Z-Zebra would be among the stragglers, the focus of the almost undivided attention of the defenders. But William was determined. The events of the last few hours had ignited a bitter fury, a compulsion to hit out at something and that something was at hand – the unfortunate city of Ulm. His crew sensed his mood and said nothing.

  The second approach run became a nightmare. It seemed that every searchlight on the ground was concentrating on the lonely Wellington, and the sinister bluish light bathed them in its evil glare. Strangely, however, over the target, the gunfire seemed less intense, then stopped altogether, just as Oliver released his bombs and took the obligatory photograph through the bomb sight. Bombs away, the Wellington surged upward and, at the same time, William swung her to port and climbed hard, spiralling upward and successfully shaking off the glare of those foul searchlights. Jimmy called out a course for home. For a moment there was a feeling of relief aboard Z-Zebra. They had done their job and, still undamaged as they were, there was a good chance of a safe return.

  Stillmann, however, had other plans. He had seen the lonely Wellington from a distance as he belatedly arrived over the city. He guessed that she would climb and head for home. He circled to the north of the burning city and saw his quarry silhouetted against the fires she had helped to start. How dare that bastard Tommy destroy his historic city? How could he be killing innocent German women and children, then expect to fly safely home over the soil of the Fatherland?

  Cold and alone in the rear turret of the Wellington, Leading Aircraftsman Henry had been struggling to keep alert on the long flight south, but the excitement over the target had shaken him wide awake and he was the first to spot the sinister shape astern and a little below them, silhouetted against the glow of the burning city.

  “Enemy fighter astern, skip! Coming up fast!”

  “OK, Gunner, keep him in view but don’t fire yet, he may not have seen us.”

  But he had seen them. Stillmann was famous for his keen eyesight; the night was clear and the two little tell-tale points of red light from the Wellington’s exhaust had appeared exactly where he expected them, about a mile away. William was trying to decide what to do. The spiral turn as performed by Whiskers was an option, but if he tried it at this juncture he might give himself away and the enemy might not have spied him; instead he climbed gently, at the same time weaving from side to side. Stillmann watched the manoeuvre carefully. Probably it meant that the enemy had seen him, but that was not a problem. He could out climb and catch any British bomber except a Mosquito easily and he was fairly sure the machine he had seen in the beam of the searchlight was a Wellington. He would attack from below and astern. If he was quick he might get a chance to turn back and find another victim.

  Henry tried to keep his eye on the deadly predator astern. This was his first operational flight and he was determined to do his best not to let the crew down. As the distance from the fires of Ulm increased, however, it became more and more difficult to be certain of where the enemy was. Although his turret was freezing cold, he was sweating profusely in his flying suit. He must, must keep his head and let the captain know what was happening.

  Pilot to Rear Gunner:

  “Can you still see him?”

  “I think so, skip. Closing slowly, he must have seen us. No! I see him plainly now, below us and catching fast. Hell, he’s close!”

  Gripped by a sudden terror, he waited for no further orders and sent a long burst from his guns towards the enemy below him. At precisely the same moment, the Junkers opened up with its battery of nose-mounted artillery. For once Stillmann’s aim seemed less than perfect. Henry plainly saw tracer from the machine guns whizz past the starboard side of the machine and disappear over the top of the wing. His own burst had passed well above the target. As Stillmann had been careful not to overshoot the Wellington he had the possibility of a second burst before he overtook her, but William immediately started a violent downward spiral, flashing past the nose of the Junkers and disappearing towards the ground before his enemy could take aim. Undeterred, the German pilot went into a shallow dive. The Wellington was sure to head north for home and he would catch her again and finish the job.

  All was not well aboard Z-Zebra however. It was Jimmy first who noticed the smell of petrol in the cabin. From his position behind the pilot, he could look out over the starboard wing and to his horror he saw a plume of red flame streaming from the wing from a point just outboard of the engine. One stray round from the Junkers’ heavy cannon had exploded inside the fuel tank. The tanks were supposed to be leak proof, but such a big shell was too much for the self-sealing membrane. The Wellington was equipped with a fire extinguisher system, but William knew that the only way to deal with a serious petrol fire was to blow it out by diving at maximum speed. He forgot his hunter for a moment and went into a violent power dive. Zebra shuddered as the speed built up and seemed likely to shake herself to pieces as she approached four hundred miles per hour, nose down, engines racing. Stillmann watched her plight, wondering whether she would plunge straight into the ground or if he needed to attack again to finish her off. Seeing the flames diminish, he decided to go in close to deliver a coup de grace. Unfortunately for him, he had not reckoned with Henry, hunched over his guns in the rear turret, terrified by the plane’s violent manoeuvres, but still alert and determined to do the best he could. As the Wellington began to pull out of her dive, he felt the blood drain from his upper parts and for a moment blacked out completely. An extraordinary effort of willpower forced him into consciousness and although his eyes were still clouded with black specks, he managed to focus them on the gunsight in front of him. There was the Junkers dead astern, looming ever larger and more threatening by the second. A long burst somehow found its mark, shattering the glasshouse cockpit and blinding the pilot. The big fighter plunged past Z-Zebra and smashed into the ground below.

  William levelled off and took stock of the situation. All control systems seemed to be working normally and both engines were running. The fire seemed to be out. All crew members reported OK, except that Henry’s voice was quavering with excitement and fear. The problem was fuel state. The ruptured fuel tank was isolated, but half the fuel needed for the return trip was gone. There was no way the aircraft c
ould make the journey home, and the route was all over hostile territory. William and Jimmy searched desperately for maps and finding a suitable small-scale chart, Jimmy drew a circle around their position, now a little to the north-west of Ulm and another showing the distance they might be able to fly on what remained of their fuel. There was only one way to avoid coming down in enemy territory. William strained to make his voice sound confident and calm over the intercom.

  “Right, crew, we’ve dropped our bombs and Henry back there has shot down a Junkers. Not bad for a night’s work but we haven’t enough fuel to get home. I’m going to try to make it to Switzerland which is neutral. It’s about half an hour’s flying and we’ll have to find a place to do a wheels-up landing. Everyone, remember the drill for that. As soon as we are out of the aircraft we’ll have to set her on fire, in case Jerry gets hold of her. Jimmy, you see to that while I muster the rest of the crew. Meantime everyone keep alert, there may still be fighters around.”

  Flying south westwards, keeping close to the ground, William thanked God for the dim moonlight which he hoped would enable them to see the Alpine foothills before they ran into them. At first navigation was quite easy, following the course of the Upper Danube as it wound gently south westwards. At Sigmaringen, William turned south and began a gentle climb, seeing Lake Constance shimmering ahead in the moonlight. There was no sign of hostile action en route. British bombers seldom penetrated so far into southern Germany. Some light flak arched towards them from the north shore of the lake, guarding perhaps, some military installation on the water’s edge. The last German town on their route, Konstanz, they left well to starboard, then made towards the lights which distinguished the neutral Swiss settlements from the Germans. William switched on his landing lights. A road and railway seemed to run along the lake shore. “Best put her down there,” said William, “if we go further into Switzerland we’ll probably get among mountains and we haven’t enough fuel left anyway.”

  “Crew, brace for wheels-up landing!”

  It would have been a good landing if there had not been a series of concrete posts along the roadside. The tip of the port wing touched one of these, breaking off and slewing the machine round so that she skidded sideways down the road in a shower of sparks. The tail then snagged another post and broke clean off the aircraft, finishing up upside down in a roadside ditch. The main part of the aircraft then brought up short against a tree and lay there making strange creaking noises, emitting a spiral of evil-looking smoke.

  William woke up in a daze of white, white walls, white sheets, white ceiling, white…

  “How’s you, skip?”.

  A voice spoke from beside the bed, somehow familiar; who was it?

  “Cor, it ain’t half warm in ’ere don’t know how you stands it, but you are looking better I must say.”

  Of course, it was Jimmy! A great lump seemed to be shifting slowly in William’s brain. Jimmy! Had he destroyed the plane? Was he all right? How about the others? Where the hell were they? William tried to sit up in bed but a firm hand restrained him.

  “Now don’t you fret, skip, we’re both safe in Switzerland. Thought you were a gonner when we hit that lamp post but it seems that your head was ’arder than the instrument panel. Came right up towards you it did. But me and Oliver we gets you out then, whoosh, up she went, Jerry won’t learn much from that pile of ashes. Pity about the others tho’…”

  Things were falling into place.

  “Jimmy,” he said weakly. “What happened? How about the rest of the crew?”

  “Well, I’d better tell you now, skip. Poor little Henry in the tail, he was smashed against that post, finished up fifty yards from the rest of the plane, dead when we got there. He was a good ’un too. Remember that JU he shot down? Good man. Isaacs, well, he bought it too, we didn’t see what happened, they took him off in an ambulance, but we could see he was finished. I’ve never seen so much blood… Now I’m going to leave you, skip. The doc here said you’d been concussed and I could only have five minutes, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  William lay in bed trying to piece together what he had heard, but he couldn’t keep awake. He plunged into a deep sleep. Somehow Angela was in the Wellington, sitting in the rear gunner’s seat. She was smiling at him but he couldn’t get at her, and something was pulling her out of the aircraft. He slept.

  Two days later William was released from hospital. His injuries were not nearly as severe as they had at first looked. His face was covered with cuts and bruises and little pieces of glass and Perspex were embedded in his forehead and around his eyes. He had thus been a ghastly, bloody sight when Jimmy and Oliver had dragged him from his seat but the damage was short-lived. He had two broken ribs and severe concussion, both of which time would cure. Switzerland at that time found itself being used as a refuge by quite a number of combatants: German airmen who had got lost, Italians who had somehow blundered over the border, a few British soldiers who had escaped from France in 1940, escaped Allied POWs and quite a number of RAF aircrew like the crew of Z-Zebra. Their internment conditions depended mainly on the attitude of the particular canton in which they were held and on the whim of the local security and police bosses.

  Zebra’s crew were interned near Winterthur, in the German-speaking part of the country where most of the inhabitants were inclined to have German sympathies. Conditions of internment were not strict however. Airmen were accommodated in an old school building which was modestly comfortable, officers occupied the top floor, other ranks the ground floor and basement. Inmates, there were twenty of them altogether, were allowed to roam about the area within twenty kilometres of their base in daytime, provided they were present for nigh-time roll call. But it was boring. Wandering aimlessly about the little town, now busy manufacturing armaments which were sold indiscriminately to both sides, was a tedious and dispiriting occupation and yielded plenty of time for fits of depression and general gloom to take hold. William spent hours thinking ruefully about Angela, The Red Cross operated a mail service enabling internees to send and receive letters but somehow he found endless excuses for not writing to her, telling himself that she was probably posted to some remote spot, or at sea so there was no point in sending a letter. Instead he mooned about, thinking of what his loathed cousin and rival might be up to. In fact, Angela was indeed on active service again, this time on a hospital ship bound for the Far East. She did manage a few scribbled notes from Cape Town and from Calcutta, but the censors prohibited any mention of her ship’s name or its whereabouts, and her father had impressed on her the vital importance of not saying anything about Hans or his escape in case someone in the censorship office might start asking awkward questions. The scanty and restrained communications with his love, combined with boredom and enforced idleness, turned William into a morose, self-centred figure, whom his fellow internees left well alone.

  Jimmy, however, was not content to idle around all day. The loss of his two brothers when their ship, HMS Hood, was sunk by the battleship Bismarck had led him to hate anything German with a zeal which he soon passed on to his colleague, Oliver. Oliver had spent some of his boyhood in France and was a fluent French speaker. Many of the locals were bi-lingual so he could find out a little about what went on in the neighbourhood and it soon transpired that there was a camp for German detainees, mostly airmen who had crashed in Switzerland, housed in an abandoned ski resort the other side of Zurich. The two resolved to break the rules and pay a visit. It did not prove difficult. Pretending to be visitors from Geneva, they arrived at Arosa and had no difficulty in finding the billet occupied by German aircrew. Unlike their British counterparts, the Germans had established a military regime in their camp with regular parades and exercises in the mountains. Pretending to wander casually around the ski resort, closed on account of the war, the two truants observed their counterparts drilling, marching and singing patriotic songs for most of the morning. In the afternoon they hiked into the mountains following what seemed to be a regula
r circuit which ended up in crossing a plank bridge running across a deep ravine just outside the village. A close inspection of the bridge showed that its strength depended on two longitudinal beams supporting the whole structure. Jimmy became extremely interested.

  Among the duties of the internees at Winterthur was the preparation of their own firewood. A few days after the pair’s first expedition to Arosa the saw allocated for the purpose mysteriously disappeared. That same evening Jimmy and Oliver contracted a nasty bug and took to their beds so that they were excused from morning roll call next day. Next morning early the two visitors from Geneva appeared again in Arosa. They took coffee and croissants for breakfast in the only restaurant which remained open, then set off, seemingly for a stroll in the valley. Early that afternoon, after watching the Germans begin their customary hike, the pair from Geneva disappeared. That evening Oliver and Hopson, seemed to have made a full recovery and no one else caught the bug.

  The Swiss newspapers next day were full of it. Two Luftwaffe internees had been killed and six badly hurt in a bridge collapse. How could it have happened? Were there too many men on the bridge? Was it in dangerous condition? Could it have been sabotage? Next day the German press took up the story but their line was more ominous. Dr Goebbels himself dictated the theme. Treacherous, cowardly Switzerland held unfortunate Germans in foul conditions illegally and refused to return them. Now they allowed them to be killed in absurd accidents. Or were they accidents? Dark hints were dropped about French or British assassins stalking German internees and of sinister Jewish-inspired gangs of murderers hiding in Switzerland. Finally, there was a demand that German police should investigate the affair and produce a “True” report. The affair now reached the highest levels in the Swiss government who were desperate not to provoke their powerful neighbour but at the same time staunchly defended their nation’s independence and neutrality. Eventually it was agreed that a top-level meeting of diplomatic officials should convene in Zurich and thrash the matter out. William had studied this affair in the local German-language papers with desultory interest until he noticed a picture of the proposed German delegation. At its head was a figure he immediately recognised as his own Uncle Albricht.