The agile evasive manoeuvres of the ships churned the sea into a pattern of foaming wakes. These rapid changes of course made it hard for the bombers to hit them, but it also put their own gunners off aim and enabled the aircraft to press on with shells bursting around them instead of on them.
Ridley’s eyes were on his instruments and the water. Half his mind was occupied with what was happening in the air: had fighters been scrambled? He had to rely on his gunners, and on Cpl Pyne now standing at the astrodome, to see them and warn him.
The leading Wellington let its bombs go and Ridley saw them tumble and drift instead of falling in a clean parabola. This often happened: the R.A.F. was still using bombs made to a Great War specification.
Clive, prone at the bomb-sight, was calling constant changes from left to right and Ridley kept making delicate adjusting movements of hand and foot. Two minesweepers had been hit. One had slowed to walking pace, the other was stationary and low in the water, the crew taking to lifeboats. Their own target was one of the surviving minesweepers whose funnel was belching dense smoke, which obscured the vessel but showed the wind direction conveniently.
“Bombs gone!”
Ridley heeled into a vertical bank and tight turn that drained blood from his head and momentarily greyed his vision. In a few seconds he had a clear view again and saw a dull red glow breaking through the thick smoke below his wingtip. The smoke was pluming astern less horizontally than it had been while they were chasing the minesweeper. Obviously it had slowed or stopped. A fresh gout of smoke spewed up amid a shower of sparks and a leaping flame. “Well done, Ronnie: bang on, old boy ... you got her fair and square.”
Before Ridley had completely righted the Wellington, came a warning from Noakes. “Bandits six o’clock, high ... diving ... two of them ...”
Ridley heard the rear guns before he opened the throttles to accelerate into a climbing turn to port and the engines’ thunder drowned the twin Brownings’ chatter.
He saw tracer fire from two other Wellingtons converging somewhere behind his own aircraft. He banked into an opposite climbing turn. The immediately surrounding air space was thick with tracer bullets. He came out of his turn 100ft below cloud.
“Rear gunner ... got one, Skipper!”
From Pyne, in the astrodome. “The other one has broken off, Skipper.”
“Any more bandits?” asked Ridley.
“No, sir.” That was Pyne again.
“Twelve o’clock ... just above,” Redfern called.
Ridley looked up and saw a solitary Me 109. His own front gunner and those in four other Wellingtons and Hampdens coned on it. It caught fire and rolled onto its back. Ridley saw its pilot fall clear and his parachute open.
The six Wellingtons and ten surviving Hampdens turned homeward.
Two minesweepers sunk, another and a destroyer damaged. Four Me 109s destroyed and four driven off, all claimed as damage. One Hampden lost; and not through enemy action. A fairly decent balance-sheet. And no damage to Ridley’s brand-new Wellington.
*
“It just goes to show,” Reinert said emphatically, “how much superior we are to the Püppchen. They haven’t the endurance to stay long enough to put up a proper fight. And half of them lost their way. Why don’t they make more use of us? We would have shot down the lot.”
“Hang on a moment, hothead,” said Falch. “Their speed is the same as ours, so we couldn’t have got there any sooner than they did. Having reached the right place, we would have had no more time to do our job than they had, because the enemy used cloud cover as soon as they’d all finished bombing.”
“But if we had already been there ...” Reinert protested.
“We can’t patrol every possible target for enemy bombers all the time, on spec. You’ve got the wrong idea. The really decisive factor is ample warning time. Until we have a system that will provide us with long-range warning of a raid, we would simply be wasting fuel and engine hours by patrolling in large numbers.”
“To look on the bright side,” Reinert conceded, “the English will think that because they shot down four of ours and damaged a couple more their bombers’ defensive fire is so effective that they can do it again. And that will give us our chance. Provided,” he added stubbornly, “that we are on the spot in time and they don’t waste another good opportunity by giving the job to the single-seaters.”
Eight
“Two bomb hang-ups, two bomb-loads failing to explode — so much for instantaneous fuse settings! — at least one stick of bombs not falling as they’re supposed to be designed to do, one kite having to turn back before we reached the target.” Ridley, tankard in hand, did not sound pleased. “If none of that had happened, we could have sunk both those destroyers and more of the minesweepers.”
“The answer seems to be to send out twice or three times as big a formation next time,” said Clive.
“You’re right.” Skelton played with his moustache and looked around the group standing in front of the anteroom fire. “And our defensive strength increases in more than the proportion by which we multiply the size of the formation. I think we proved today that three pairs of guns are twice as effective as two pairs, not just fifty per cent more effective. Scale that up, and the combined defensive fire from thirty Wimpeys is as effective as forty gun-turrets shooting independently.”
“We only ever heard of more than twenty on an op once, as far as I know,” Ridley said.
“That’s right. When the forty-eight Hampdens went looking for the Deutschland off Norway.”
“And the whole lot were nearly lost through navigational error,” Clive remarked. “And it didn’t prove any point about defensive fire-power, because they weren’t intercepted.”
“If we could go over in real strength, on a daylight,” Ridley said, “we’d give the Jerry fighters a real caning. Provided we had Hampdens or Blenheims on each flank, with upper guns to fend them off our beam. To do a really good job, we need fighter Blenheims as escort with the bombing left to us. It’s pointless using them to bomb: what the hell use is a thousand-pound bomb-load?”
“You’ve got something there,” Skelton said. “We’re only fooling around at the moment. Anybody would think we’ve never fought a war in the air before, the way we’re farting around like a bunch of amateurs. D’you know, I’ve been doing a spot of reading on the subject. Any idea what the biggest bomb in regular use was, in nineteen eighteen?”
“Five hundred-pounder, I suppose,” Ridley suggested.
“One thousand six hundred and sixty pounds!” Skelton looked around, pleased at the effect he had created, as people exclaimed in surprise. “The heaviest bomb in existence weighed three thousand three hundred pounds. Yet, twenty-one years later, our biggest is five hundred. And the explosive power hasn’t increased: we still use just about the same old amatol.”
Ridley said, “I was thinking of something else, the other day. At the end of the last war, the Handley Page had five three-oh-three Lewis guns: two in the nose, two dorsal and one firing through the floor. We’ve got four three-oh-threes! The H.P. had a top speed of ninety-seven, but the fastest Jerry fighters could do more than a hundred and three, with the exception of the last of the Fokkers, which could actually go up to one-two-five, but was in very small numbers. Compare that with the speed difference between us and the one-oh-nines and one-one-ohs, with their three-fifty m.p.h.; and all the guns and cannon they carry, compared with the last war’s two Spandaus. Not much bomber progress, what?”
“Let’s hope the bloody politicians are going to do something about it soon,” Skelton growled. “Meanwhile, we’ll press on with our piddling little five-hundred-pounders and rely on our own fire power in large formations to discourage the Hun.”
*
“Are you still going into the W.A.A.F. after Christmas?”
Ridley sat with an arm around Shirley’s shoulders, his other hand holding hers. It was cold in the car and he didn’t want to linger there, but he had b
een thinking about this all evening. The squadron (officers and aircrew sergeants, to be precise) had made a sortie into town in strength, accompanied by girlfriends and a couple of wives. He had drunk very little, content with the boisterous company and pride in being seen with Shirley. Her departure in another three weeks intruded constantly on his mind.
“Of course I am. I’ve got to do my bit.”
“Can’t you put it off a bit longer?”
“I feel guilty about waiting so long, as it is.”
“You could do something else. What about being an auxiliary nurse at a local hospital? Or A.R.P.? Or Red Cross?”
It was dark, but he could see her smile.
“That would be only a temporary solution to us still being able to see each other, Derek. You’ll be posted eventually. You may even go overseas. Besides, I want to be in the Air Force.”
“More than you want to be with me?”
She looked up at him. “That’s silly. And unfair.”
“I know I’m being selfish. But it seems as though I’ve known you for ever, and I’m going to miss you so much when you go.”
“I’ll miss you, too. But ...” she laughed as she spoke the catchphrase, “there’s a war on.”
“Don’t I know it! It’s taking you away from me.”
Seriously, she said, “We’ve both got a duty to do. Not only you. This is everybody’s war, not just a men’s war.”
“Stay until the new year, at least.”
Shirley shook her head. “I want to be able to say I joined in nineteen thirty-nine. That’s silly, I know. Selfish, perhaps. But it’s a point of pride. Sorry, Derek. I’m going to be pretty miserable when I can’t see you. But I won’t be so far away, and we can meet quite often.”
“It does seem as though we’ve known each other for a long time, doesn’t it? To you?”
“Oh, yes.” She gave a sigh of pleasure. “Ages.” Then, briskly: “You can write to me, you know. And you can telephone.”
“I suppose that’ll have to do. Come on, it’s getting cold. I’ll take you in.”
Both her parents were still up, the drawing-room fire burned cheerfully. The maid was abed, the batman had gone off duty. Mrs Ward got up to make coffee. Shirley went with her.
Gp-Capt Ward, filling his pipe, asked, “Were you on that Heligoland show a couple of days ago?”
“Yes, sir. It should have been a piece of cake.”
“You dealt with the fighters rather effectively, I hear.”
“There weren’t as many as usual. There was a bit of mist on the sea, but we had enough visibility. We were low enough to bomb fairly accurately. It’s disappointing when people get hang-ups, and bombs fail to explode, and some of them drift right off course because they’re not properly stabilised.”
“It’s early days yet, you know, Derek. Just remember the advances that were made in the last war. At the start of it, we were taking pot-shots at each other with revolvers and rifles, and holding twenty-five-pound bombs over the side, dropping them by hand and by guesswork. Two years later, we had machine-guns firing through the air-screw and proper bomb-racks with hundred-pound bombs.”
“I find it hard to look two years ahead, sir. Even looking back over the three months since war broke out, it seems like a different age. We knew so little, then. Before I’d done my first two or three ops, I had no idea what it was really going to be like. I don’t mean what it’s like when we get shot up a bit and people get hit and that sort of thing. Or flying an aircraft that’s got bits hanging off it, when we’ve had trouble with fighters or flak. What I hadn’t really expected were all the comparatively minor snags: like bad navigation taking us miles away from the target; or something going U/S halfway there and aircraft having to turn back; inaccurate weather-forecasting. Things like wireless conking out through atmospherics or below-zero temperatures. And guns freezing ...”
“Have you had that happen?”
“Yes,” Ridley replied shortly. He set his jaw. He was not going to talk about that.
The group-captain heard the rattle of a coffee-tray approaching the door. He said, “Remember, Jerry has the same troubles. His guns freeze, too.”
Not so you’d notice, they don’t, Ridley thought. But he was not one to argue with a group-captain. Especially not when he happened to be his girlfriend’s father.
“You will come and see us at Christmas, won’t you, Derek?” smiled Mrs Ward.
“Thank you, Mrs Ward. Christmas Day, I’ll have to stay on camp. But I’d love to come over some time on Boxing Day.”
“We’ll expect you to supper.”
*
Cpl Pyne carried a tray of drinks to the table. The Red Lion was packed out. It was packed out every night.
“Here y’are, Edna.” He put a gin and orange in front of his store-keeper W.A.A.F. “And three pints.” He set three brimming glass tankards on the table, took the tray back to the bar, tossed some cheeky badinage at the barmaid and rejoined his friends.
“Anyone goin’ home for Christmas leave, d’you think, Vic?” Noakes cocked an eye at the corporal.
“Got a rugby match, then, have you?”
“Local Derby it is, Boxing Day. I ought to be there. Lot of the lads away, this year. Had a letter from my brother — he’s reserved, see, down the pit — he says the team needs me, like. What d’you think?”
“Skipper won’t wear that. He told me: the whole crew goes on leave together. He won’t break up the team, see.”
“Glad to ’ear it, I am, boyo: I wouldn’t like to think of you lot floatin’ around Germany without me to look after you.”
“Ooh,” said Edna, flushed with two gin and oranges already. “Cheeky.”
“I don’t want to go home for Christmas,” Redfern said, fondling his dog’s ears. “The trains are that crowded now, and so slow, I’d only want to sleep all the time, and I’d only have a few hours down home, anyway. I’d rather wait until we can have our next seven days, look.”
“Won’t be till after the new year,” Pyne said with authority. “And if we get a lot of snow the trains are going to be slower than ever. Anyway, you’re all right: you’re going with a civvy; they’ll see you right, Christmas. Farmers? Cor! Live like Kings.”
“Where’s your girlfriend tonight, Stan?” asked Edna.
“She’s not coming till the dance starts. I’m meeting her in the village hall at seven. Her people don’t like her to come to the pub, because she’s under eighteen.”
Edna sniffed. “There’s a war on: rules are made to be broken.”
“They’re strict with her.”
Pyne grinned and said, with meaning, “Yeah?”
“You’ll bring her in for a drink, won’t you, Stan?” Noakes said. He admired Stan Redfern’s girl’s generous proportions. He was a nimble dancer, too, and Stan didn’t mind him dancing with her. He enjoyed that. She was tall, and his face didn’t come all that much above the top of her dress, and he could have a nice peep. It was time he looked around for a regular girl of his own. Everyone else had one. Even P.O. Clive, who was sport-mad and hadn’t bothered much with girls until now. Must be the war, he supposed.
Noakes, under the influence of beer, female company and sentiment, was assailed by a consciousness of his own mortality and the fact that their crew could not enjoy much more of a respite. They had not operated for three days.
“Cheer up, Ray,” said Pyne’s lady friend. “You thinking about missing your rugby match?”
Noakes smiled. “No. I’d rather be here, with the lads, really. I’ve been in the Mob since I was sixteen. The Air Force is my real home, now.”
Gin always made Edna maudlin. A tear came into her eye. She said, “That’s rather sad, really.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him, look,” Redfern said. “Proper crafty little Welsh devil, he is. Playing on your sympathy. He doesn’t want to go home no more nor I do, standing all the way from here to Ebbw Vale. Come on, Ray, let’s go and see if the girls have turn
ed up.”
“Girls?” Noakes sounded as though he had perked up considerably.
“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you? I asked her to bring a friend.”
“There’s friendly.”
The W.A.A.F. watched them go. She turned to Cpl Pyne. “I like your mates.”
“Yes, they’re all right. That Ray: brave as a little tiger, he is. You should see him when ... well ... when ... you know ... things get a bit hectic, like. In his element he is. Loves it.”
“Stan’s a nice boy, too.”
“One of the best. See him shoot! It’s the same on the rifle-range. And I’ve been out with him when he’s borrowed a shotgun from his girl’s father. Seen him hit a rabbit at a hundred yards. And rooks ... pigeons ... anything on the wing ... never misses.”
“I’m glad, Vic. I’m glad you’ve got a couple of good gunners.”
“Don’t worry about us. We’ve got a damn good skipper. One of the best on the squadron. And Mr Clive’s a wizard at navigating. It’s a piece of cake, ops, with a crew like we’ve got.”
“Vic, you’re going to be here for Christmas, aren’t you?”
“Sure, I’m going to be here. You heard me tell Ray: when we do go on leave, we’ll go as a crew. We’ll all be here for Christmas. We’ll have a proper party, girl. Skipper says we’ll all go out for a drink together, Christmas Eve: girlfriends invited, an’ all.”
“That’ll be nice.”
*
“Lotte ... you wouldn’t consider getting married at Christmas, instead of waiting until May, would you?”
It was cosy in her room. The electric fire glowed cheerfully and the pink-shaded lamp on the bedside table matched the duvet that covered them so lightly yet with such warmth. It made her lovely skin, still golden from the summer tan, even more enticing and her lips a deeper red.
“Why the hurry?”
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