Figure 7.9: Col’s Stirling ‘A’ Apple after being attacked by a night fighter and struggling back to crash in Kent, August 1942. The people appear to be local residents and an RAF recovery crew. ‘A’ Apple flew again, but only as a training aircraft. (Collection John Johnston)
Figure 7.10: Lancaster KO-A, sister craft to KO-N of 115 Squadron, in which Col bombed Hamburg on 24-25 July 1943. A week later KO-A was lost without trace on the last raid of Operation ‘Gomorrah.’ KO-N was itself destroyed in a crash a week after that, killing all seven men on board. (Collection Col Jones)
Figure 7.11: Otto Fries in 1943. (Collection O-H Fries)
Figure 7.12: Otto’s boyhood village, Herxheim am Berg, west of the Rhine city of Ludwigshafen. (Stephen Harris)
Figure 7.13: Otto (right) and Fred, beside their ME110, 1943. (Collection O-H Fries)
Figure 7.14: A Heinkel HE219 from Otto’s squadron, showing underwing markings to avoid being fired at mistakenly by German flak crews. (Collection O-H Fries)
Figure 7.15: Lancaster bomb aimer’s position, seen here at RAF Coningsby in 2008. (Stephen Harris)
Figure 7.16: The wreckage of Otto’s ME110 the first time he was shot down, in August 1942. (Collection O-H Fries)
Figure 7.17: Otto’s second ‘kill’: a Lancaster shot down at Nettersheim, south of Cologne, in October 1943. (Collection O-H Fries)
CHAPTER 8
ON A WING AND A PRAYER
Col’s Ditching in the English Channel was the only time he had to abandon his aircraft, but far from the only occasion his life hung on a thread – times he felt the brushing of what he referred to as ‘the wingtips of lady eternity’. On several occasions his aircraft was caught in the blaze of searchlights. The triangulation by teams of searchlights created a tepee-like effect of light beams, with the bomber caught where they crossed. Aircrew called this being ‘coned’, and unless the pilot could pull off a dramatic evasive manoeuvre, the bomber would often be held there, floodlit, while the flak batteries zeroed in for the kill. Col experienced coning for the first time over the Baltic naval city of Kiel in April 1942, and then survived another daredevil exploit near the same city just a few days later. His diary describes what happened after OJ-‘D’ Donald, flown by Jock Watt, took off on the night of 28 April.
Kiel. We nearly had it. Never thought I should see Lakenheath again – and neither did anyone else. W/Cdr Mitchell (75 Squadron) said afterwards that he was low and saw us coned. Did not give us a hope. It was the same perfect visibility; but when we got a quarter of an hour from the target, the first of the searchlights blinded us. From then on, we were never quite out of them. We were not coned for more than five minutes at a time; but they were always getting on to us.
Kiel is hot – I should say one of the hottest places in Germany. It is nearly as bad as Hamburg and is worse than the Ruhr. We seemed to be the only kite there, because I did not see a searchlight playing anywhere else. They gave us everything they had and as I lay there I could see the black puffs coming nearer and nearer. The others said the same afterwards. Jock Watt said afterwards that he nearly told me to jettison. For him to say that shows how bad it was.
In the middle of it all, with the target still five minutes away, I saw a line of flame shoot past my windows in the bomb bay. We had been attacked by a fighter, who had come into his own flak! Bags of guts, that Jerry! The cannon shells shot over the port wing and just over the skipper’s head, while some came on a line with my windows in the bomb bay. Well, if the atmosphere in the crew had been tense before, what the hell was it now? Then Jock Watt showed the sort of man he is. He simply said with a funny kind of half chuckle, ‘the cheeky bastard!’ Well, though we were still cursing and though we still had the worst ahead, the tenseness went from the crew. Amazing! Just typical of Jock Watt.
Managed to edge him over to port gradually, coping with the searchlights until we managed to let our bombs go; just near the docks. We went like hell out of the target area and never saw the fighter again. Jock went over Denmark at 50ft just for the sheer devilment. We saw the countryside just as though it had been day and saw houses and hedges and ploughed fields and irrigation ditches and all the rest of it.
They returned to the Kiel area four days later, Col’s 11th op.
Seem to be specializing in ‘shaky dos’. Went gardening [mine-laying] in Kiel Bay, just south of Langeland. Another perfect night, and I saw the pinpoint [landmark] I wanted 30 miles away. Told Jock to tell me when we had it on our port beam three miles away just in case I lost sight, and we casually lost height down to 600ft. We had just got to the pinpoint, actually I was just about to say ‘bomb doors open’ when, out of the blue, as unexpectedly as leave, up it came. Damn! – just immediately behind our spot, if there wasn’t a convoy anchored for the night, protected by flak ships. Al Shoreman, wireless operator, counted 13 guns on one ship and both Sandy Hill and Douggie Seagrave opened up as we sailed over. They could not have missed. We let them go, and like a bat out of hell, Jock put the nose down and turned hard port. He did not think he would ever pull out but be did, 50ft over Langeland.
But we still had one on, so back we went into all the shit and corruption. Tried to let it go. Tried to let the convoy have the two 500 pounders we carried in our wings; but I think we missed with them and the mine stayed on. Looking back, I think we were mad to try to bomb the convoy with 500 pounders from 600ft because that is asking for trouble. Safety height is 3000ft.
Came home without incident. The lads saw a horseman on the Danish sands and wanted to open fire, but the skipper said it might be a ‘free Dane.’ The tide was dead out. Jock told me months afterwards at Waterbeach that when we dived after the second effort, we were 10ft off the water.
Col’s ditching in the English Channel came just a month later, but even after this he did not stay out of danger for long. Less than two months after being pulled from the water he survived an episode that was about as close as any bomber crew came to hand-to-hand combat with ground defenders without actually getting out of the plane. The sequence of events began at one minute to midnight on 28 July 1942, when he took off from Lakenheath with another skipper, Flight Lieutenant Al Greenslade.
Went to Hamburg in ‘B’ Beer 6hrs 05mins – one of the shakiest trips yet – bad met. – icing – coped with that – came out of cloud only over the target – went down to 10,500ft – perfect visibility – full moon – everything spread out below.
Intense flak heavy and light – worst searchlights I have ever seen – caught as soon as entered target area. Could never get out at all. There was supposed to be a large raid there, but for a variety of reasons a good many machines turned back. Icing conditions were very bad. We managed to cope with them, and when we got to the target we received their undivided attention. It’s bad enough when there are a large number of machines, but to be there alone was a bit awkward. Just as we turned to the target, I saw one lonely kite bombing. It was caught in the searchlights, so that it looked just like a silver moth in a chink of light through an ill-fitting door. That kite got away and in we went. Well, it was a nightmare of a bombing run – the longest bombing run I have ever made. All we did was to dive and twist and climb and weave like a mad thing. I was lying in the bomb bay, where I could see all the searchlights below. Everything they had was on us; and believe you me, the Germans are good at ground defence. Worked our way into the target by dint of much weaving and dodging – opened bomb doors and let them go – satisfaction of seeing them fall into right place. But still caught in searchlights – could see the heavies below us and see the tracers flying past. Strong smell of cordite from heavy flak. The light tracer was flashing past all round us, and the gunners were giving the skipper instructions where to go. All I could say was that we would have to get further over to starboard, because below on to the left was the river, so we had to get further over to the right.
Just when we were nearing the part of the city we had to bomb, a shell hit our starboard outer engine, so it went
on us. Everyone was very calm, and all the engineer said was ‘well, skipper, you had better feather that engine [turn its propeller blade edges to the wind] or it will catch fire.’ Skipper put the nose down and I literally rose into the air and floated in the bomb bay. Took me 30secs to get from bomb bay back to my chair – instruments and maps all over the place – flung on floor – hell of a job finding them. (Speedo touched 370 mph.) Cecil Watkins wireless operator/air gunner had similar experience down near the flare chute. He also floated in mid-air and was flung all over the place. He was hanging on like grim death, with his legs trailing out in the air behind him. That is a hell of a job.
Levelled out over the south-west suburbs of Hamburg at 50ft, and thus lost searchlights. Set course 252 degrees Compass and battled along just above the ground. Then altered course 304 degrees Compass to hit the coast, still at zero ft. It was too low to map read, so I just told the skipper to make straight for the coast and we would sort ourselves out later. Shot at by every gun from Hamburg to coast – tracer coming up, not up, but across at us. [Stirling’s] gunners had the time of their lives. Everyone but the engineer and I did, in fact. The captain was shouting like a boy, and the gunners were having competitions. Shot up gunposts and one’s first burst went ahead of us and that was the only one he fired, because we accounted for the gun crew. We were so close at such point-blank range that in the moonlight we saw the gun crew, hit by our guns, stagger and fall as we shot. Opened up at every searchlight we saw, both in outskirts of Hamburg and across Germany – gunners put out 15 between them – shot up a village and passed a train. Unfortunately, gunners had stoppages, so could not deal with it. They fired until their guns would not fire any more.
We came out down the mouth of the Elbe, which is positively the worst place in Germany to cross the coast. Hit the coast in Elbe estuary. Searchlights were playing on the water in an effort to pick us up. In the light of one of the searchlights we saw shells skipping along the water. They were being fired from Cuxhaven. We were so low at one stage that rear gunner called out, ‘eh, Skip, if you go any lower I’ll get my feet wet!’ Every island had a gun or a searchlight – some both – and they gave us all they had. More islands should be marked on the map, and then we would know when we’re past the last of them. They kept looming up every few minutes, one after the other.
The islands once past, the question was whether our juice would allow us to go out to sea and then fly west, or whether we should turn west at once and skirt the Frisians [chain of islands off the north Dutch coast], chancing the fighters – and us with no guns. They all had stoppages. The rear gunner fired 3000 rounds, the front gunner 2750 and the mid-upper 2000 rounds. What a night!
I decided that even if we had to ditch the kite near the English coast, it would be wise to go out to sea, we did for 20mins. Ground speed 147 mph. Then we went 270 degrees and Cecil tried to get some loops [radio position signals] – not much joy. Then I worked out roughly how far we had to go to get clear of the Frisians and gave a course for home. Could not use the Gee [navigation device], and loops not much good; too low probably, 1500ft. Finally, got a loop that put us 57 miles from the coast and on track. Had no track of ground speed, however, and did not know how long that would take. Think the fix put us too near, in any case.
Engineer gave warning about juice, so when we saw the coast coming up, even though we knew where we were (Haisborough Light), we got a QDM [a magnetic bearing]. I was unwilling but had to admit that the procedure was wise. Found we were nearly on track. Just stooged on waiting for the beacon. It came – and all was well. The engineer told the captain that he must on no account make more than one circuit of the aerodrome before landing because the tanks were nearly dry. We had just enough to get down and no more. It was no more than the truth, because just as we landed, the starboard inner died on us. The point is that we had been hit in the tanks and three engines use more juice than four, strange as it may sound.
Supposed to be a big do, but all except No.[3] group scrubbed – only some 100 got to target. Had 13mins petrol left when landed. It subsequently transpired that 64 actually got to target. Our losses were 34.[1]
The final near miss Col recalls in his diary occurred two-thirds of the way through his first tour of operations, on the way back from bombing Mainz on 12–13 August 1942.
Mainz is a cathedral town, the seat of Catholic authority in Germany, one of a string of Catholic Cathedral cities along the Rhine’s west bank and known to the German pilots as the Pfaffengasse – Priests’ Alley. I visited Mainz and these other cities several times for their beauty and historical significance. One of Mainz’s main attractions is the sublime stained glass windows created in 1977 in St Stephan’s Church as a symbol of post-war reconciliation, by the French-based Jewish artist and Russian émigré, Marc Chagall. These windows line the transept and chancel, enclosing the altar, and depict scenes from the Old Testament. By day, they bathe the church’s interior in blue light, as if suspended in the waters of a tropical reef. This masterpiece replaced the windows blasted out during three bombing raids on Mainz, between 12 August 1942 and February 1945, the first of which Col took part in. Although neither this church nor several others were spared in those raids, Col thought he and his crew had been saved by divine intervention that night when OJ-‘A’Apple came under attack, with Jock Watt once again in command of their Stirling.
Went to Mainz like a bird – good navigation – 8-9/10ths cloud but dropped a flare and pinpointed the island in the plan. Saw it through a hole in the cloud. But, damn it, by the time the skipper, good old Jock Watt (what a man!), turned the kite we had lost it. Got there at 01.43 and did not set course [for home] until 02.23 – 40mins and we never saw the target again. Started off at 11,000ft and went down to 7,000ft to try to get below the cloud. No joy, but had icing even at that height. Decided to return home.
It was not until we were about halfway back that things started to happen. We had been stooging along at 11,000ft not far above the cloud layer gently weaving as was Jock Watt’s invariable custom when over enemy territory. I remember that there was no cloud but bright starlight. It all happened at once. A bang and a clatter, and the smooth, horrible sound of ripping silk and many snakes of fire. The ME110 came so suddenly out of the cloud underneath, to fire one long, raking burst that we had time only to identify it before it had gone as suddenly as it came. It did not return and why, no one will ever know. Perhaps it was Jock Watt who said it was the mercy of God, but it was more, and that is why I have called this story the Mercy of God – and Jock Watt.
Watt’s account of the episode is contained in a combat report completed soon afterwards at Lakenheath. It includes the following:
The E/A [enemy aircraft] was commencing its attack when first seen firing an approx. 10 seconds burst of cannon and m/g [machine-gun] fire. As it closed in from port quarter our rear gunner, Sgt Hughes, fired two short bursts at a range of 750 feet and E/A broke away sharply to port when about 300 feet away. Again our rear gunner fired two short bursts at this range, aiming at the cabin of the E/A, which was clearly outlined and in a steep bank. No strikes were observed on the E/A, but Stirling was damaged, the port fuel system being hit, causing petrol to escape and for a short time black smoke and flames were observed coming from the region of the port inner engine and also from near the W/Op’s [wireless operator’s] position. In addition, both M/U [mid-upper] and front turrets were rendered inoperative, and the power operation of the undercarriage put out of action. The flames died down quickly as Stirling took evasive action by making a steep diving turn to port and E/A was not seen again as cloud cover was entered immediately after.[2]
Col’s diary describes this sequence in richer detail:
The plane was shot to pieces – our ME110 had seen to that; we knew we had no guns; we knew the controls had been damaged; we knew we did not have enough petrol to make base. But it was not until the engines began to cut one by one as we tried to get the undercarriage down to land at that welc
ome strange ‘drome that we knew things were grim.
I think Jock Watt had known all the time, as very little about a kite and her engines ever escaped his notice. That was why he was so brusque when things were going well, but became ‘so gentle’ and ‘so kind’ – I think he thought it was likely to be the last of so many ops flown together. It nearly was – but that is the story as well as being the reason for its heading – that was the Mercy of God. What followed was Jock Watt’s part in it. The fighter stayed for only one burst, but that was enough. The front and rear turret were put out of action and the turret jammed with the guns facing the opposite way from that in which the fighter had struck. The hydraulics of the mid-upper were shot away and the guns would not fire.
A fire broke out in the port inner [engine] and another inside the machine itself. We knew that the tanks had been badly holed, because over all was the overpowering smell of vaporising benzene. We did not know at the time that the entire petrol system had been disorganized; the engineer did though, and his work in coping won him the DFM. Nor did we know that the oxygen system had been destroyed – which was just as well, because when we smelt the vaporising petrol, we breathed the more deeply into our oxygen masks as we flew on, or rather staggered through the air like a woman with a middle-aged spread. We became increasingly aware of a heaviness in the head. But we did not know we had no oxygen.
The ME110 attacked from not more than 100ft, so it could scarcely miss. It must have been led by some means right on to us. When we had recovered from the first stunning shock – I don’t know how long that took for, at times like that, time means nothing – there was a rush to do something. The front gunner who, irony of all ironies, had come from Training Command to get experience, yelled to us to get him out of his turret. The wireless operator struggled with the fire; the engineer juggled in a frenzy with his petrol controls; the mid-upper cursed his gun audibly over the intercom.
Under a Bomber's Moon: The true story of two airmen at war over Germany Page 10