Bombs Gone

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  “Sorry, chaps ... mistook a cloud for a kite. Course for base, please, Ronnie.”

  “Three-four-zero for a while, to get us out of the clag.”

  “Turning on to three-four-zero now.”

  Thirteen thousand feet ... feeling muzzy ... was that another blasted aircraft coming head-on? No ... cloud again ... so muzzy ...

  Ridley switched on his oxygen and took several deep breaths. His head cleared and his nerves steadied.

  “Oxygen on, everyone.”

  One by one they acknowledged the order.

  It grew colder. The high-pitched whine of wind tearing through the huge hollow tube of the Wimpey was like a blunt knife scraping the nerve-ends and like a needle tormenting the eardrums.

  Ridley’s feet were numb despite two pairs of socks and wool-lined flying-boots. His hands, in silk gloves and leather outer gloves, were stiff with chill. His cheeks tingled. Cloud enveloped them.

  “I’m going to climb above this stuff.”

  The Wellington poked its blunt, aggressive nose up at the sky and made more altitude: 15,000 ... 17,000 ... at 17,200ft they emerged into the clear. Bright moon, soft cloud tops ... towering above these, the anvil shapes of cu-nim that spelt destruction.

  In the distance, lightning flared in the cumulo-nimbus.

  Ridley and his crew cursed the Met officer at base. But he had done his best within the limitations of meteorological science at that time. In 1939 nobody had yet flown the Atlantic in winter! No one dared to, because too little was known about all the factors that affected weather. The first transatlantic winter flight was not to be made for more than a year, yet. It was not the Met officer’s fault that he did not know that the most important influence over the weather is air mass, exemplified by the hot or cold fronts and occlusions which form the boundaries between areas with widely differing characteristics. Nobody else in the world comprehended all the relevant phenomena either.

  Clive gave another change of course and Ridley obediently turned. The air was calm above the clouds, but according to Clive there would be a strong headwind on the way back across the North Sea. No matter: the fuel gauges showed plenty in hand.

  Ridley began to feel better. They had done their job. They were deriving great value from the experience of this long flight. And tomorrow he would see Shirley. He began to hum under his breath.

  Clive warned him, “E.T.A. at coast, ten minutes. I’ll give you a new course when we cross out.”

  “Ten minutes understood, thanks.”

  Clive spoke again a minute later, from where he was standing peering out of the astrodome.

  “Captain from observer ... seems to be cloud right across our path in the far distance ... what d’you make of it?”

  “Yes, I’ve been looking at it ... I don’t know if it’s all below us, or higher.”

  “We may have to climb again ... we’ll get icing and stronger winds.”

  “May be better to go down ... wait till we’re at the coast.”

  They had been flying for several minutes more when the front gunner said, “Skipper, can you see what I see?”

  “I can see we’re going to fly into cloud if we don’t climb.”

  “Starboard and below ... against the cloud tops ... bandit, I think.”

  Quickly, Ridley answered, “I can’t see to starboard ... Ronnie, take a look from the dome.”

  He put the aircraft into a slight dive to improve the view from the observer’s vantage-point.

  “Yes,” said Clive, “I can see it ... small ... exhaust flames from two engines.”

  “Climbing.”

  Eight hundred feet below them and a quarter of a mile to their right, Lent said, “They haven’t seen us, Skipper.”

  “We’ll get it this time. If I hold this heading I’ll come in nicely from directly abeam. I’ll throttle back to make sure I don’t overshoot.”

  A few seconds later: “Looks like he’s climbing, sir.”

  “Damn! You’re right ... I’ll follow ... I don’t want to drop behind ... don’t want to give the rear gunner a chance ...”

  The Messerschmitt began a gentle bank to the left. Redfern watching it, said, “Front gunner, Skipper ... he’s climbing ... turning slightly to starboard ...”

  Ridley went into a port turn, widening the gap between the two aircraft.

  Reinert said, “Damn him, he’s turned away ... I’m going after him ... look out for the rear gunner.”

  The Wellington was within a thousand feet of the clouds ahead by now and the Messerschmitt was overhauling it.

  Noakes, watching the enemy fighter, said, “Rear gunner to captain ... I’ve got him, sir ... if you can go a few more degrees to port ... that’s lovely ...”

  He pressed the firing button. The enemy was at extreme range, but approaching fast and this would discourage him.

  The guns did not fire.

  Noakes, aching with cold, shoved his stiff and nearly frozen thumbs onto the buttons again, but still his guns remained silent.

  With despair and anger he reported, “Rear gunner ... guns frozen, Skipper.”

  From 400 yards Reinert fired his cannon at the instant that Ridley flung the Wellington into a steep, twisting dive to starboard. The Messerschmitt’s shells passed well above and behind it. Ridley held his corkscrew until he had completed a full turn. Reinert, turning desperately after him, overshot by several hundred yards.

  Ridley yanked the stick back and centralised the rudder-bar, to send his aircraft zooming up under full power in a straight climb.

  In the few seconds before it entered cloud, Reinert managed to fire another burst which caught the Wellington amidships.

  When Ridley had levelled out, he quietly told his crew to check in. No one was hurt, but Cpl Pyne reported that the fighter had punched holes right through the fuselage near his wireless equipment.

  “I’m not getting a carrier wave ... it seems dead ... I’ll check.”

  Ridley asked, “D’you know our position, Ronnie?”

  “Did you turn a full three-sixty in that corkscrew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’re back on the same course ... and we were three and a half minutes from the coast ... stand by for fresh course.”

  “I’d like to climb out of this cloud.”

  “OK. As soon as I’ve plotted us over the coast I’ll go back to the astrodome and help keep a lookout for the bandit ... in case he’s followed us.”

  Ridley climbed another 7,500ft but they were still in cloud.

  And there was another hazard now. Large flakes of snow were falling thickly, accumulating on his windscreen and caking his side window, piling up along the leading edges of his wings, adding dangerous weight that could stall the aircraft.

  “Captain to wireless op ... bring the Aldis, quickly ... have a look at the wings, for icing.”

  “Coming, Skipper.”

  Cpl Pyne appeared at Ridley’s side, holding the powerful Aldis signalling-lamp. He pressed his face against the starboard window and shone the lamp, through the perspex window, on the wing. The snow was streaming past; it was difficult to see through it, it fell so heavily. The beam of the Aldis lamp revealed icing along the wing.

  “See for yourself, Skipper ... it’s pretty bad this side.”

  Pyne moved across the cockpit and leaned over the pilot to shine the lamp onto the port wing.

  Ridley peered out. Ice had formed thickly along the leading edge, altering the air flow and increasing the likelihood of a stall.

  He glanced towards Pyne and nodded. “Thanks.”

  A few seconds later, Clive said, “Should be crossing the coast now.”

  Almost at once this was confirmed by the crump of flak shells. Ridley saw the glow of the explosions through the opaque mass through which they were wallowing. The Wellington bucketed about as shock waves struck it.

  “Nice work, Ronnie,” Ridley said calmly. “Spot on!”

  “Turn onto two-six-five for twenty minutes, then we
’ll turn direct for base.”

  “Two-six-five it is.”

  The aeroplane felt sluggish. Ridley looked at the air speed indicator and his heart thudded against his ribs. The A.S.I. showed zero. With no idea of the aircraft’s speed, he could stall at any second. With ice distorting the aerodynamic shape of the wings, and increasing their weight, that second could be upon them now.

  He put the stick forward and opened the throttle some more. The snow whipped past horizontally in the wind of the Wellington’s descent.

  “Captain to observer ... pitot head iced up ... I’m getting no A.S.I. reading.”

  Without knowing the indicated air speed, accurate navigation was impossible.

  “Never mind, I’ll do a rough D.R. on the last speed. We can get a fix when we’re nearer home.”

  “Captain to wireless op ... how are you doing?”

  “One of those cannon-shells must have carried away the aerial, Skipper ... and the wiring is like tangled knitting ... the wireless has had it, I’m afraid.”

  So they would not be able to transmit for the direction-finding stations to take bearings and fix their position. Ridley hoped his compass was working properly.

  He watched the altimeter anxiously: it seemed to be all right. The altitude reeled off swiftly but they were still in the snowstorm and there was still ice on the wings.

  He bored on through the enveloping darkness, cloud and snow. Fourteen thousand feet ... twelve ... eleven ... visibility began to improve. There was no longer the grey mist of cloud vapour. Only the white snowflakes against the black of the night. No stars or moon.

  “We’re between cloud layers, Clive. I’m going on down until the ice starts to disperse.”

  “We should be well in the clear below seven or eight thousand ... according to the Met.”

  “According to the Met, we shouldn’t have run into that lot back there.”

  Cloud again at 9,700ft. And it was still miserably cold. Damp too, with cloud vapour and snow percolating through the tears in the fuselage.

  “Captain to rear gunner ... how about bringing round some coffee?”

  There was heavy crackling, but no answer.

  “Captain to rear gunner ... do you read?”

  Noakes’s reply came faintly at first then suddenly surged through the interference.

  “Rear gunner ... cap ... read ... strength ... did you say coffee?”

  “Yes ... I got you loudly then, the last few words.”

  The answer was barely audible but presently Noakes appeared, moving stiffly, with a thermos and stood at the pilot’s side for a moment, grinning ruefully as he poured him a drink.

  “Cold and wet back there, Skipper.”

  “I thought you’d appreciate a spot of exercise.” Noakes nodded and moved on to the front turret. On the way back he paused in the cockpit again.

  “Can’t make out what’s wrong with my intercom, Skipper.”

  “Perhaps Corporal Pyne can do something about it ... there’s nothing useful he can do at the wireless station.”

  “Shall I ask him, sir?”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Down at 7,000ft by now and Ridley had a fresh worry. He still had some ice on his wings and there was still ice blocking the pitot head. If this lower cloud layer was deep, he would be in danger of flying into the sea.

  At 4,000ft the air speed indicator suddenly came to life and chunks of ice started to lift off the wings and rattle against the fuselage. Ridley levelled off, still in cloud. “Captain to observer ... pitot head clear ... we’re doing one ninety-five indicated.”

  “Coming.”

  Clive stood beside him, looking over the instruments, peering from the starboard window. He went back to the navigation desk.

  Three thousand feet and they were out of cloud. Clive gave a new course and said, “That should take us straight home. E.T.A. sixty-eight minutes.”

  “The searchlights will probably come on ... as we have no wireless to report we may be off course.”

  “If they do, I hope they find us before the ack-ack start pooping off at us from their predictors.”

  Five minutes later, when the strain had lifted and there was only doubt about the precision of the navigation to worry them, the starboard engine spluttered to a stop.

  The starboard wing dropped and Ridley automatically retrimmed the aircraft and opened the port throttle wide. Thank God that hadn’t happened while the pitot head and wings were still iced up. With the starboard engine feathered, the speed fell away to 135 m.p.h.

  Clive reappeared in the cockpit to see what was going on. After a while he gave a new estimated time of arrival.

  Ridley tried several times to restart the dead engine, to no avail.

  Its failure had taken him by surprise. There had been no warning. He wondered if it had been hit, without his knowing, when the fighter fired on them. A shell could have damaged some part that had not failed immediately. Or, of course, the failure could have been one of the myriad defects to which any mechanism was liable. Why did oil pressure fall or a magneto cease to function, without showing symptoms when an aircraft had been air-tested satisfactorily? Why was the rear gunner’s intercom giving trouble? These things just happened, just as a main spar had been known to fail and a wing to drop off without apparent reason.

  Ninety minutes later Ridley thought he saw land ahead. “Captain to front gunner ... can you see the coast?”

  A pause.

  “Might be, sir ... looks like waves breaking on the shore ... yes ... I think so.”

  “Ronnie, I think we’re there.”

  “I’ll take a look.”

  After a long interval Clive said, from the second pilot’s seat, “It doesn’t look familiar, does it?”

  Land was in sight, there was no doubt about that; but it did not look like their usual crossing point. The distinctive cliff formation wasn’t there, nor the headland which should have been to their north, nor the pier they ought to see, even at night, just to their starboard.

  A searchlight beam bit into the night ... another ... a third.

  “Wireless op ... go into the front turret with the Aldis lamp and signal we’ve lost our wireless. I’ll switch on my lights and fire the colours of the day.”

  Redfern scrambled out of the nose position and Cpl Pyne took his place. Ridley switched on his navigation lights. Clive took the Verey pistol and fired the colours of the day.

  Anti-aircraft shells began to burst around them.

  “Keep signalling,” Ridley said urgently. He could see the dots and dashes of Pyne’s Morse signals flashing from the front turret.

  The Wellington rocked in the blast of an exploding shell.

  Ridley dived towards the nearest searchlight, hoping the crew would not think he was an enemy and about to strafe. He levelled out and turned, to show the roundels on the underside of the wings. Shell splinters spattered against the aircraft’s belly.

  The shooting stopped. All the searchlights but one went out. The one remaining on flickered over them and then swept around to point inland. Presently two more joined in to cone over some distant point: the standard procedure for indicating the whereabouts of an aerodrome.

  “It may not be Saunderton,” said Ridley, “but it’ll do.”

  He turned towards the point the searchlights indicated. From 1,000ft he could see an airfield below; but it was determinedly blacked out. He circled it, navigation lights on and his wireless operator signalling diligently with the Aldis lamp. There was no response.

  Some over cautious station-commander, fearful of a German sneak raid come to bomb his aerodrome, was taking no chances. Aircraft reporting was still highly imperfect, identification was crude, communications were imprecise.

  They could all recognise the airfield, for they had flown over it many times. Clive said, “At least we know where we are. D’you want a heading for base?”

  “No thanks ... this is one I know by heart.”

  “I’ll check anyway
... there’s a strong wind.”

  In a moment Clive confirmed a course and Ridley turned onto it.

  “Stay up front,” he told Cpl Pyne. “We may have to go through the rigmarole again at base.”

  They passed over the beacon that flashed the letters relative to Saunderton, then the station itself came in view, the flarepath’s friendly glow beckoning them to land.

  Ridley lowered his undercarriage; or tried to, for it did not descend. He tried again. Still nothing.

  Cpl Pyne was busily exchanging lamp signals with the control tower.

  “Tell them I can’t lower the undercart,” Ridley said with urgency. He flew another circuit.

  And now he was running out of fuel. Either the enemy fighter had done incipient damage to the fuel supply and a tank or fuel-line had since ruptured, or the “friendly” anti-aircraft sites on the English coast had done that as well as damage his landing gear.

  “Ask permission to do a belly-landing,” he told Pyne.

  He flew another circuit and Pyne said, “They say “no”. There are two more damaged Wimpeys coming in and they don’t want to put the runway out of use ... or risk a prang on the grass that could cause an obstruction.”

  “What the hell do they want?” asked Ridley impatiently.

  “They say we’ve got to bale out.”

  “Right!” Ridley had no time to argue. He climbed to 1,500ft and ordered the crew to jump.

  Fuel was running dangerously low. One by one each man acknowledged the order. Except that Ridley could not hear his rear gunner. There was no time to send someone astern to check that Noakes had got the message. The fuel gauges were almost on “Empty”.

  With the hatch open, a gale roared through the aeroplane. Redfern, looking nervous, shouted, “Good luck, sir,” and went aft. Cpl Pyne, crossing himself, hurried after him.

  Clive hesitated and Ridley shouted, “Get out, Ronnie ... hurry ... I can’t go if you hang around, hang it ...”

  With a final hesitation, a look of distress on his face, Clive left him.

  “Captain to rear gunner ... are you there, Noakes? If you can hear me, come up here at once, and then bale out ... Noakes ... can you read ...?”