Bombing Run

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  ‘Right. We’ll cross back and you can drop them.’ He added ‘Don’t forget the bottles.’

  ‘They went first.’

  Wheldon laughed and set about turning back.

  Again the searchlights sprang to life and the guns opened fire. They were improving with practice, Wheldon thought. They would have plenty to tell the Wingco…

  His ironic thought was cut off by a heavy blow somewhere well aft of the cockpit. The aircraft gave a galvanic buck that carried it a hundred feet up, vibrating and swinging its tail as it did so. The control column almost jerked out of Wheldon’s hands and the rudder bar kicked viciously.

  There was a shout on the intercom from Rhys. ‘Fire!’

  Smoke coiled into the cockpit, acrid-smelling and stinging Wheldon’s eyes, making them water.

  Nine

  ‘What happened, exactly?’ Audrey spoke almost in a whisper. Her hand caressed Wheldon’s face. She was lying in the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder. The feather bed was snug, their bare bodies were warm. A howling wind drove sleet against the window and boomed in the wide chimney. The acicular widow who let rooms in the big old house beyond the village had given them a suspicious look and glanced at Audrey’s left hand, seeking a wedding ring. Audrey was wearing gloves. She would put them on before they left their room in the morning. She and Wheldon had joked about it. Now, in the aftermath of lovemaking, there was something else to talk about. She had carefully not broached this topic until now.

  ‘Flak hit us amidships and ignited the flare stowage. Apparently there was a hell of a bright flash that dazzled Eddie and Don so that they couldn’t see for a while. There was bags of smoke at once. Just as well we all had our oxygen masks clipped across our faces. Made everyone’s eyes sting like hell, though. I couldn’t read my instruments… lost a couple of thousand feet before I could see what I was doing. Burned a hole in the fuselage. No one hurt, though.’

  She sighed. ‘Just as well it didn’t happen before you dropped the leaflets.’

  ‘It would have been quite a bonfire.’

  ‘What did Wing Commander Norton have to say about it?’

  ‘Said we’d better smarten up our drill for shoving the leaflets down the chute, so that we can get rid of them all in one run next time.’

  ‘Wait till he does a Nickel.’

  ‘That’s right. He’ll find out how difficult it is to move quickly when you’re frozen stiff and short of breath.’

  ‘It must have been even worse with a great hole in the side.’

  ‘I didn’t stay up there. We came home almost on the deck. Even so, it was mighty cold.’

  ‘Tony Vachell’s always binding about the cold, but I have a feeling that that isn’t his real worry. I think he binds to let off steam, and what he’s really binding about is his second pilot.’

  ‘Poor old Tony. I don’t blame him. Moakes is a shocking type: miserable-looking character. You never see them together when they’re not flying. They don’t even sit near each other in the crew room.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Moakes, Peter?’

  ‘Apparently he’s always binding at Tony… criticising and arguing… I suppose he hasn’t got complete confidence in him.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Tony get rid of him?’

  ‘You can imagine what Squadron Leader Sumner or the Wingco would say to that! Tony’s too proud, anyway.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t Moakes ask to be crewed with someone else?’

  ‘Because he enjoys needling Tony, I should think. And because he hopes that Tony will put up some ginormous black and he’ll do all the right things and get bags of credit, I shouldn’t wonder. Nasty bit of work, Moakes. I’m worried about Tony… I’m very fond of him, although he is a bit of a clot in some ways. He was a very loyal second dicky and we had a good crew.’

  The faces of his dead air gunners and of poor blind Beaky Ufland flitted past Wheldon’s mind’s eye. He shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Don’t worry about it now… don’t worry about anything. Tony can look after himself… you taught him how to… he thinks the world of you.’ She raised herself on one elbow and peered down at him, but it was pitch dark. He felt her warm breath on his cheek and tightened his arms around her, pulling her naked breasts down to press against his chest, feeling her quickened heartbeat throbbing.

  *

  Vachell’s crew was on the Battle Order for the first time.

  ‘Operational, then, Tony,’ Wheldon said.

  Vachell’s glum look did not suggest any gratification at the result of some weeks of assiduous training when vile weather had permitted. ‘The Wingco’s given me our target: Cologne.’

  ‘That’s a compliment: to your observer’s navigation, anyway.’

  It was also an unpleasant reflection on Vachell’s enthusiasm: it implied that, left to make his own choice, he would have opted for the shortest possible trip; Bremen or Hamburg.

  ‘You know I had a mag drop when I was running up before a nav exercise the other night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I did, and that sod Moakes tried to make out the magneto was serviceable. You remember when I had to scrub a nav exercise with no oil pressure in the starboard engine, an hour after we’d taken off?’

  ‘Yes, I remember that.’

  ‘Moakes kept on about it, as though I’d sabotaged the ruddy engine.’

  ‘Don’t pay any attention to him. Give him a kick up the arse.’

  ‘I’ve bollocked him, but it only makes him worse: he’s resentful… he’s the type that bears grudges.’

  ‘I wish I could think of some way you could shut him up, Tony.’

  ‘I’m working on it,’ Vachell said darkly. ‘I’ll find a way. I can’t put up with him much longer.’

  They were both on the Battle Order for that night, and Wheldon, who had picked Stuttgart as his target, was due to take off five minutes after Vachell. Their crews went to dispersals in the same lorry and their aeroplanes stood side-by-side. Wheldon, about to start his engines when he had completed his preliminary checks, with the other Wellington’s engines already running, heard one stop. He turned to look in that direction and heard the second engine die away. He saw both propellers stop turning.

  Vachell’s crew emerged. Wheldon put his head out of his port window and called ‘What’s up?’

  Vachell came and stood beneath him, looking up. ‘Bloody damn starboard engine mag drop.’

  ‘Bad luck, Tony.’

  Wheldon started his motors and was airborne a few minutes later.

  *

  Vachell came morosely into the mess bar and walked over to where Wheldon was standing with his crew, sharing laughter and friendly conversation. He envied them as he ordered a pint of bitter.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ Wheldon asked quietly.

  Vachell had, at last, flown his first operation as captain and unloaded his leaflets over Cologne, three days after his cancelled mission.

  ‘My observer’s gone sick: appendicitis.’ He never spoke of any of his crew by name, except the loathed Moakes. ‘The Wingco’s given me an officer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Type called Potts, a P.O. It seems he joined on a short service commission a year ago and he’s just finished training.’

  ‘A sprog. Hard luck, chum. You’ll have to fly nav exs all over again to break him in.’

  ‘I don’t mind that so much. But he’s being awkward.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Doesn’t like taking orders from a sergeant.’

  ‘He must be a prick, then.’ There were three other commissioned observers on the squadron who flew with N.C.O. captains and readily accepted their command. They addressed the other members of the crew, all N.C.Os, by their first names and were, in return, called by theirs or their nicknames. Crews customarily spent much of their leisure time together, and these officers went out to pubs and cinemas with theirs. There was complete comradeship with no loss of respect.

 
‘Makes me call him sir, on the ground, and calls me Sergeant.’

  ‘Good God! Wait until the flight commander hears it: he’ll tear Potts off a strip.’

  ‘He makes us all call him sir, when we’re not flying, and he’s a lousy navigator. We’ve just done a nav ex and he lost us, going to the Isle of Man and back.’

  ‘Well, if he’s no good, you can have him sent back for further training. But you’ll have to wait a couple of weeks to get the evidence.’

  ‘That’s what I intend to do. But it’s not only that he’s such a shit and so bloody awful at his job. Moakes is sucking up to him like mad and they’re already as thick as thieves. I know damn well they’ll gang up against me.’

  ‘How can they do that?’

  Vachell turned red and blinked several times, avoiding Wheldon’s kindly anxious eyes. He lowered his voice further. ‘Moakes keeps hinting that I find excuses for scrubbing sorties… whether they’re exercises or ops. I’m sure he’s already started poisoning this blighter Potts. Potts looks like a ferret, anyway, and shifty with it.’

  ‘If they try that game, Tony, you can make an official issue of it.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I want to do. Don’t worry: I’ll fix them both in my own way.’

  Wheldon looked worried. ‘This is serious, Tony. If your second pilot and your observer—above all, an officer—are stirring up trouble in your crew, you’re not only entitled to go to the flight commander about it, you damn well must.’

  ‘I can handle it,’ Vachell muttered. ‘Have a drink. Let’s forget my rotten crew… well, the others are O.K., but Moakes and Potts leave a nasty taste in my mouth.

  *

  Squadron Leader Sumner was not disposed to allow Pilot Officer Potts more than two more navigation exercises to shake down with his crew. Within four days, they were on a leaflet raid to Essen.

  Two weeks later, Macleod, puffing heavily on his blackened, stubby briar, a sure sign of uneasiness, remarked diffidently to Wheldon ‘My predecessor… Tony…’

  Wheldon looked at him in surprise. A hesitant, sententious introduction to what Macleod intended to say was unprecedented. He was usually the soul of Scots directness.

  ‘What about Tony?’

  ‘Moakes has been shooting his mouth off. And I heard Potts blackguarding him. Moakes tried to buttonhole me and I told him to take his scandalous gossip elsewhere. In fact I told him to drop it.’

  ‘You mean about Tony having to scrub twice out of five sorties?’

  ‘Exactly. Of course it looks bad; even if they’re only leaflet jobs. But each time, the ground crew have found that there was exactly the unserviceability that he complained about. He’s just been having rotten luck.’

  ‘It’s time someone had a word with Moakes. As I’m the senior flight sergeant on the flight… the squadron, in fact… I’ll speak to him. I’ll warn him that I’ll have him in front of the station commander if he doesn’t stop making malicious accusations against his aircraft captain. If necessary, I’ll speak to Potts too, and warn him, officer or not. With my length of service…’

  ‘Aye, I’m relieved to hear you say that, Pete. Poor laddie, he’s looking gey sick and sorry these days.’

  But Wheldon did not have the opportunity. On the day following, he and Vachell were among ten captains, five from each flight, who were summoned to the Operations Room with their second pilots and observers.

  Wing Commander Norton was looking more pleased with life than anyone had seen him since the squadron began leaflet raids. The group captain was present, but only, it appeared, as a spectator. It was Norton who opened the briefing.

  It’s our turn to put the seaplane base on Sylt out of action. Various other squadrons have pranged it, by both night and day. They haven’t done enough damage to knock it out completely. The aircraft there are used for mine-laying. For a while, Jerry did switch to using land-based squadrons, but he’s reverted to seaplanes again. If we put up a good show on Sylt, there’ll be more fun to follow: the enemy has seaplanes on other islands as well: Borkum and Norderney.’ He spread a map on the table and pointed to the T-shaped island of Sylt, which was joined to the mainland by an artificial structure, the Hindenburg Dam. ‘Here’s the seaplane station: it’s actually called Hornum. As you can see, Sylt is right on the Danish border: so we must be particularly accurate with our bombing. It’s far off-shore, so there will be no excuse for anyone who bombs Denmark.’ This was not the signal for any show of amusement. The Wing Commander’s face was stern as he looked around at his listeners.

  ‘Bomb load five five-hundred-pounders and a canister of incendiaries. Instantaneous fuses. Take-off at last light, at two-minute intervals. Orders are that no one is to bomb from higher than ten thousand feet. We are the only squadron on this operation. We shall fly out at five thousand and that will be our maximum permitted bombing height. I say maximum.’ He paused again. ‘We’ve each got two minutes over the target, enough time to bomb accurately and get out of the way before the next man bombs. Anyone who doesn’t go low enough to make sure of hitting the target, and breaking away fast, will risk having someone else’s bombs land on top of him.’ This time there was a ripple of low laughter.

  ‘To maintain the time interval all aircraft will cruise at two hundred indicated air speed. Routes are straight out and straight back. The I.O. will tell us all about Flak in a moment. All I need say is that it’s a fairly strongly defended target, but there’s virtually no threat from fighters. As you know, it’s almost impossible to see another aircraft at night. Tonight’s full moon won’t help the enemy much, but it will help us over the target. By the time the second aircraft arrives, I hope my H.E.s and incendiaries will be helping to illuminate the place a bit more.’ Norton looked as though he relished the prospect of causing explosions and fires more than anything that had happened since Christmas.

  Leaving the Operations Room, Wheldon noticed that Vachell was looking pensive and secretly pleased, and that he was walking by himself while his second pilot and observer were together and in animated discussion.

  *

  Although the expectation of meeting heavy Flak as low as 5,000 ft, where they would also be within range of the light guns, was not one that instilled much pleasure, Wheldon blessed the Wing Commander for decreeing 5,000 ft as their height on the way there. It would be cold, but not as chilling as at 10,000 ft and there would be no need to use oxygen.

  His was one of the four aircraft carrying cameras, which meant that they would have to stay long enough over the target to ensure good photographs. He spent the greater part of the route out in thought about his bombing height. The Wing Commander, of course, could be relied on for one of his fiery displays of dash; which meant bombing from as low as he could without blowing himself up in his own blast. That was admirable, but not necessarily essential in order to bomb accurately. Wheldon was always conscious of the men who had been killed and wounded, flying with him on his earliest raids. There was also the unpleasant thought in his mind that, since his first Nickel operation over Munich, all his leaflet dropping sorties had been placid. They had been shot at by heavy Flak, but it had not come close and he had avoided it with climbing and diving turns, weaving and switchbacking. Twice they had passed close to fighters patrolling the enemy coast, but on each occasion he had seen the fighters’ exhaust flames in time to take evasive action before they were able to open fire. It was unlikely that this long run of operations from which F for Freddie had returned unscathed could continue. Tonight would give the enemy a good chance to bring it to an end.

  His greatest anxiety was about the accuracy of Rhys’s navigation. Good though he had become, he was not of Ufland’s calibre. Twice he sent Macleod to the astro dome to take star shots for comparison with Rhys’s and twice he handed over to Macleod while he made his own checks. Rhys’s reports on their position and progress were more frequent than usual and began to convey a note of irritation and resentment. It was, none the less, an effort for Wheldon to restrai
n himself from nagging his observer for even more frequent information.

  He caught his first glimpse of the seaplane base when still 15 miles distant. It showed like an opened furnace, throbbing with the heat and glow of darting flames, bathing the sky with its blood-red glare.

  With four minutes to go, there was a vivid series of bomb bursts. Red and yellow flames leaped up and the incandescent glow of incendiary bombs spread a silvery-golden carpet of fire that soon began to burn as redly as the explosions.

  Tracer from 37 mm guns streaked across the darkness, 88 mm shells burst in profusion.

  ‘Bomb doors open,’ said Wheldon. ‘Levelling off at five thousand feet. Ready, Taffy?’

  ‘Bombing, bombing, Skipper… steady as you go… left-left… right… left-left a bit… right abit… rightabitmore… steady… steady…’

  The heavy Flak was bursting above them. The light stuff hadn’t hit them yet. Wheldon could see aircraft and hangars, burning buildings, a burning seaplane.

  ‘Bombs gone.’

  Freddie gave the familiar response to relief from its heavy burden, rising of its own accord in pace with the immediate surge of relief that the crew also felt. The photo flare cast its white radiance over the scene of havoc. Wheldon banked steeply and turned away, looking down and exulting in the new fires and the thick smoke, the rubble, a collapsed hangar, the dust that mingled with the smoke.

  It was Vachell’s turn next. Wheldon circled beyond the light shed around the burning target area, waiting for Vachell to bomb. Two minutes passed and there was no more bombing. Another minute passed, and then another. Another half-minute. A Wellington came in sight and was instantly caught by a searchlight. Two quadruple 20 mm guns sent long bursts into the Wellington’s belly and engines. It was at 5,000 ft and as it fell past Wheldon, burning, he saw from the letter on its side that it was not Vachell’s.

  ‘What the hell has happened to Tony?’

  ‘I hope to God he hasn’t had to scrub again,’ Macleod replied.

  The possibility was too unbearable for Wheldon to be able to make any response. He said ‘Course for base please, Taffy. Well done, nice bombing.’