At the time when Ridley lifted his Wellington off the flarepath in Norfolk, Reinert and Lent were among the crews on readiness in Lower Saxony to make sure he did not reach Cologne.
*
Ridley kept the Wellington on a steady climb to 10,000ft. He did not press it but took a leisurely 20 minutes to reach cruising altitude.
When he had levelled out some 40 miles beyond the English coast he was conscious of the cold.
“Pilot to air gunners ... test your guns.”
Tracer winked from the front turret for a couple of seconds.
Redfern’s Somerset burr announced, “Front gunner to captain ... guns cleared, sir.”
Immediately after, Noakes’s Welsh lilt followed with “Rear gunner to captain, guns cleared, sir.”
“Captain to rear gunner ... bad crackling on the line ... check your plug is properly in.”
“Rear gunner to captain ... is this better?”
“No. Can’t you hear the interference?”
“Yes, sir, but I can hear you loud and ... well ... not clear, but it’s all right.”
“Captain to front gunner, d’you read all right?”
“Front gunner, sir ... loud and clear.”
“OK. Observer?”
“Loud and clear.”
“What about you, jeep?”
“Wireless op to skipper ... strength ten, sir.”
“Captain to rear gunner ... may be a fault in your jack. How d’you read now?”
“Still the same, sir.”
“Same here, Noakes. I can read you, but it’s hellish crackly. Test with the rest of the crew.”
Ridley listened while his tail gunner called each of the others in turn, and again heard the interference in the background every time Noakes spoke.
The defect irritated him. This was the first time he had set out on any kind of an operational sortie, either to bomb or to drop leaflets, and found any part of the aeroplane’s equipment imperfect. On training flights he had occasionally had trouble with the wireless, the intercom, a magneto, oil pressure, or the gyrocompass. But these had occurred late in the flight and he had not had to abandon it. He was determined not to abandon an operation. The thought gave him a spasm in the stomach. There were two or three crews on the station who had returned prematurely from an op more than once on account of unserviceability of the intercom. Already, with the war not yet three months old, this excuse was suspect. The captains who offered it were looked at askance by their squadron mates. People muttered “L.M.F. ...” and the mere thought of being suspected of lacking moral fibre, in plain words, of cowardice, made Ridley sweat despite the cold.
Sweating when dressed in flying gear was uncomfortable, and when flying at high altitude it increased the risk of frostbite for the moisture could freeze. Before donning their several layers of garments, it was a rule that aircrew had to make sure their hands and feet in particular were dry, because fingers and toes were most susceptible. Once dressed, they were not supposed to exert themselves.
But Ridley did not intend to go higher than 10,000ft this trip, and that was no great altitude. It was not compulsory to switch on oxygen below 15,000ft.
Just the same, the slight defect in his aircraft made him uncomfortable.
Uneasiness soon passed, however. The steady drone of the engines, the greenish gleam of the instruments, the rhythmical motion of the control column and rudder pedals as the airframe responded to changes in the surrounding air, were hypnotic, pacifying, even soporific. Presently Ridley forgot that he had had a mild worry.
The stars were still clear at this height, banks of cloud drifted past but there were acres of open sky between them.
Once they were out over the North Sea and had settled into the stoical endurance of an unpopular task, which paper-dropping always would be, only the time seemed to matter. Every minute that passed made the end of this chore a little closer. Meanwhile, Ridley counted himself lucky that he was doing what he liked best in life: piloting; which could never be a bore or allow him to relax completely.
Clive said, “Observer to captain ... E.T.A. enemy coast, ten minutes.”
“Thank you, observer. Sharp lookout, gunners. There may be standing patrols along the coast.”
Ridley felt a quickening of interest. He felt no anxiety about night fighters, knowing how vainly the Hurricanes searched in the dark when German raiders were reported over England. Even so, it was eerie to think of hostile men buzzing about somewhere ahead in the thick darkness, perhaps passing within 100ft of them, unseen. He thought briefly about collisions and dismissed them.
“Observer to captain ... we’ve had a twenty-knot tail wind all the way ... enemy coast in five minutes.”
“Right-ho Ronnie. Eyes peeled, gunners. You all right, wop?”
“Wireless op to skipper ... cheesed off, cold, but all in order, sir.”
Pyne could get away with a touch of frivolity, as both an N.C.O. and the eldest of them all. They had been together long enough for a noticeable easing of the formality, a bridging of the distance that, as pre-war regular officers and troops, still separated them.
Ridley chuckled as he replied, “We’re all cold, wireless op. If you doubt it, swop places with Noakes for a spell.”
The tail gunner, emboldened by the less starchy mood, ventured to say, “He’s always saying how much he likes a nice piece of cracklin’, sir ... he’ll enjoy himself back here ... still got the noise, Skipper.”
“Yes, I can hear it. Never mind, as long as I can read you.”
“Wireless-operator to skipper ... I’ll stay here, thanks ... I’m too stiff to move.”
“What a line!” replied Ridley. “All right chaps, wide-awake now ... enemy coast ahead.”
They were all, without knowing it, a little light-headed from the effects of the thin air: not accustomed yet to long hours of high-altitude flight; modest enough though their present height was.
A few searchlight beams fingered the sky. Ridley wondered whether the Germans had an early warning system similar to the British one. He did not know how it worked, but had seen tall towers along the south and east coasts and heard mention of a secret method known as radiolocation. If Jerry had anything of the sort, there would be no chance of sneaking in undetected. Anyway, the anti-aircraft gun predictors would pick them up.
They had picked them up, damn it.
The shoreline was visible as a faintly phospherent narrow strip, pale in contrast with the blackness of the land mass and the lesser darkness of the starlight-reflecting sea.
Thud-thud! The double detonation of heavy flak sounded clearly above the engines’ roar. And again. And yet again.
Bright explosions, red and yellow, lit the sky ... ahead ... to left and right ... behind ... above ... below ... on the same level ...
The Wellington rocked from a near miss.
God! How futile to be hit on a lousy bumph raid! Another shell burst near them and the wings swayed up and down like a seesaw.
Shells burst directly ahead, dazzling him. Three or four exploded close together astern and tipped the tail up, sending the Wimpey accelerating down like a switchback car.
Straight and level again and back at 10,000ft once more.
“Observer to captain ... course one-nine-eight.”
“Turning onto one-nine-eight.”
The coastal flak belt and its searchlights well behind them now. All quiet. Jerry guessed they hadn’t come to bomb; only to drop the load of paper he despised as much as they did. So he wasn’t going to betray his gun and searchlight positions inland. Sometimes, out of perversity, the enemy did open up, but mostly they stayed inactive. If they knew for sure that the British carried bombs, it would have been different. But, as the British Government had been pussy-footing for so long, it was safe to assume that the aircraft they could hear had nothing aboard more lethal than bundles of print.
“Rear gunner to captain ... bandit astern, I think ... I can see exhaust flames ... it’s a twin ... a th
ousand feet below and directly behind ... I can see it against the coastal searchlights from time to time.”
“Thanks, rear gunner ... which way is it going?”
“Seems to be weaving about a bit sir ... uncertain, like ... not getting any closer.”
“OK, watch it ... they may shine more searchlights to help it ... stand by for evasive action everybody, if the lights do catch us.”
But there was only darkness below and around them. A darkness that was growing more intense. Ridley, straining his eyes, saw that a large area of the sky ahead that had been spangled with stars was dead black. Looking up, he could see the light of the newly risen moon tinging the edges of towering cloud banks in the distance; where ugly cumulo-nimbus reared up to what looked like a good 25,000ft.
“Captain to observer ... come and take a look at the weather ahead, Ronnie.”
“Coming.”
“Front gunner to captain ... I keep getting glimpses of exhaust flames, sir ... too fast for one of ours ... must be a one-one-oh ... it’s really fast ... about a thousand below and half a mile to starboard.”
“Well done, Redfern ... keep an eye on it ... it’ll probably stay below to try to see us silhouetted against the stars.”
“Observer to captain ... what stars? The clouds are building up quickly ... there’s a lot of muck ahead ... I’ll give you a change of course to take us round it.” Clive was standing with his head in the astrodome, looking all around.
“No hurry.”
“Front gunner to captain ... can’t see the bandit now, sir.”
“OK.”
“Rear gunner to captain ... I can see tracer away over on the starboard ... four o’clock ... must be a mile away ... tracer going both ways.”
“Are you sure, Noakes?”
“Absolutely sure, Skipper ... it’s a bandit shooting at one of ours, and our boys shooting back.”
“Observer, are you sure of our position?”
“Observer to captain ... quite sure ... must be some other bod off course if he’s as close as that.”
“Captain to rear gunner ... damn and blast this bloody crackling ... can you still see shooting?”
“No, sir ... it seemed to climb ... I think the Wimpey ... or whatever it was, must have hidden in cloud ... Wait! Yes ... I can see exhaust flames very faintly ... that must be the fighter again, giving up.”
“Captain from observer ... course two-two-zero to take us round that clag.”
“Two-two-zero ... turning now.”
*
By cruising with the greatest economy, a Me 110 pilot could stay aloft for nearly two hours without drop-tanks. The wind that night was from such a direction that Reinert was able to patrol with it always on one beam or the other. Thus he avoided flying directly into it and sacrificing economy; even though he would have benefited by having its strength behind his tail when he turned. This way, if it pushed him from abeam, that did not affect his petrol consumption, and when he turned back he had it on the other beam and it pushed him to the opposite side, so he neither lost nor gained. He had chosen his course on the strength of the forecast made by the meteorologists: in Luftwaffe slang, the falsche Propheten, false prophets.
He was quite snug at any altitude. The engines provided ample heat, which was ducted to the cockpit.
Operating by night was a new excitement which he welcomed. Ordinary night flying was a thrill, with its extra danger. When he was a few thousand feet up and the airfield lights had been switched off he always felt the exhilaration of fear that he might never find his base again ... or any other aerodrome. Fear was exciting. Then, when at the end of the exercise he found his way home accurately and the welcoming flarepath blazed suddenly out of the blackness, there was the final pulse-accelerating test of putting the wheels down cleanly and without bouncing two or three times. That was fun enough, but to have the added thrill of a possible meeting with the enemy, and on terms that would give him the advantage, was all a fighter pilot could wish for.
What a fine culmination to a wonderful day! That morning he had received permission from Oberst Wiggers to marry Lotte. To her mother they had confided their wish to do this in May and Frau Oberst Wiggers had expressed herself delighted.
How fitting it would be if he could top all this off by shooting down a Tommy!
“I feel lucky tonight, Lent.”
“Let’s hope you’re right, Skipper.”
All right for him, thought Lent. He can have his girl any time he likes. I may have to wait days before I get another chance to borrow the gym key. And after all the trouble I’d taken to fix it up for tonight, too.
He disconsolately pictured in his mind the thick, well-padded mats lying there unused; and his red-haired girl pouting with disappointment. She had a red-head’s temper and hadn’t taken kindly to hearing that he was on operations that night. He’d have to make up for it. They would have to get sleeping-out passes and he’d take a room in some cheap pension for the night. But that was for the future and at the moment afforded him little comfort.
“I’m going to patrol at three thousand metres.”
“Understood, Herr Leutnant.”
“We’ll stay this side of the glow-worms and hope they’ll light up a target for us.”
“The flak will get in before we do. I think we stand a better chance of spotting them against the starlight.”
“It will be better when the moon comes up fully. We’ve got plenty of time. If we have no luck first time, we’ll refuel and try a second sortie.”
“Jawohl, Skipper.” No sleep tonight, apparently.
They cruised for a while and then Lent thought he caught a glimpse of something.
“Skipper ... looks like exhaust flames ... over on the right ... and slightly above.”
“Yes ... yes ... I think you’re right.”
Reinert turned and, when he took his eyes off the instruments again, the faint glow in the darkness had disappeared.
“I’ve lost it, Lent. Can you still see it?”
“It should be dead ahead. I can’t see ahead decently.”
“Well, I can’t see it. I’ll climb a bit.”
They went up a couple of hundred metres.
“Skipper ... there it is again ... below, now ... port beam.”
“Yes, I’ve got it ... turning ... keep your eyes on it ... don’t lose sight of it, man.”
Reinert came out of his turn to find the flickering brightness still in view, ahead of him.
“Going down, Lent ... we’ll try to get it silhouetted against the light ... such as it is.”
“That’s better now, Skipper ... I can see it fairly well ... looks like one of those Wellingtons.”
“That’s what I think. I’m going to climb again.”
“He’s still there.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to move off to the beam and turn towards him?”
“Don’t want to risk losing him. I’ll fire from astern.”
A few seconds later the 110 rattled and vibrated with the din and percussion of the front guns. The night sky was lit by rods of tracer reaching out towards the bomber’s black bulk.
At once tracer fire came racing from its rear turret, dancing close over the long canopy of the fighter.
The Wellington went out of sight.
“Damn and hell! Where is it?”
“Must be a wisp of cloud about, sir.”
“I’ll stay on this heading ... and hold altitude.”
“There it is again, Skipper.”
“Where?”
For answer, Lent fired his gun in a long burst to the starboard beam. More tracer came racing back at them.
As soon as Lent had finished, Reinert banked around to the right. He opened fire. The bomber fired back.
The bomber had disappeared.
They hunted around for half an hour without success.
Reinert decided: “We’ll land, refuel and rearm quickly and come up again. That was useful experienc
e. Next time, we won’t let a chance like that get away.”
*
Ridley was forced to make three more changes of course to avoid storm-clouds and thunderheads on his way to Cologne.
Eventually Clive told him, “E.T.A. target, five minutes.”
“All right, stand by to drop.”
Clive and Cpl Pyne made their way to the flare chute to drop the bundles of leaflets. They were packed on some scientific principle according to the height from which they were to be dropped, so that the bundles burst at the right moment and scattered. The crews who took them to Germany would have preferred that they dropped in a solid block, when they would at least have killed anyone on whom they fell, or broken a roof.
Cologne was in the clear although broken cloud at all levels surrounded it. Ridley could make out nothing of the city except the silvery line of its broad river.
Apparently the Germans were not trying to keep secret the fact that Cologne was well defended; although they did not unleash the full strength of their flak emplacements.
Searchlight beams came leaping up, followed once again by the slam and brilliance of detonating heavy-calibre shells.
The Wellington juddered and rolled like a drunk, and a draught howled into the cockpit from somewhere behind the bulkhead.
Ridley spoke anxiously into the microphone. “Everyone all right?”
Clive’s voice came in reply. “A few chunks of shrapnel amidship ... made a few holes ... damn draughty.”
Another explosion sent shards of metal drumming against the side of the cockpit and Ridley saw small holes appear near his legs. He flew steadily across the centre of the city, sweating again. Instinct urged him to climb, duty said he had to stay at the level for which the bundles had been prepared.
When Clive said, “All gone, Skipper,” Ridley pushed the throttles forward, pulled the stick back and began to climb hard.
The wind screeched through the torn fuselage, the temperature fell rapidly.
Ridley thought he saw an aircraft hurtling straight at him and swung away in a steep bank, turning to port. He heard exclamations on the intercom. When he looked again, he saw he had mistaken a cloud for an aeroplane. Ashamed of himself, trembling with shock and effort, he levelled off.
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