Torpedo Attack

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Alden was still watching him closely. 'Are you sure?'

  'Yes, sir, quite sure.'

  Is he protesting too much? Alden said, 'I hope you're right. You'll have a bloody miserable existence if you're feeling it's all a bit too much for you, and you force yourself to go on.' He smiled slightly, to make the accusation less painful. 'You don't want to throw up in the turret every time, and have to clean it up, do you?'

  'I won't, sir.' It was a stout assertion but there was a troubled look in those usually honest eyes. 'I won't let you down, either, next time Jerry makes a pass. I haven't before, have I?'

  'No,' Alden agreed kindly. 'You certainly haven't.' He shifted the subject onto a diverging track: 'We'll be due for crew leave in a couple of weeks; anyway.'

  There was no reply. Dymond-Forbes looked away. Alden hoped he had given the boy some comfort. He hoped also that he had convinced him more than he had managed to convince himself: he still harboured strong doubts about his gunner's motive for wanting to change his aircrew category.

  Alden said nothing to his second pilot until they were in the mess at lunchtime. 'Forbes came to talk to me this morning. I can't decide whether it was something he intended to do anyway or whether he was pre-empting anything that I might tackle him about. He's going to apply to remuster to pilot.'

  'That's rather a shrewd move.'

  'That's what I thought. I must say I have my suspicions.'

  'Did you say anything about his being sick yesterday?'

  'Yes. I told him that if he is susceptible to airsickness, he won't be an air gunner much longer, let alone a pilot. He insisted he doesn't suffer from it and it was something bad he'd eaten in the village that made him ill,’

  'Did you believe him?'

  'I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I don't believe he suffers from air sickness. But I still think yesterday's performance was nerves.'

  'So do I. He beat you to the punch in case that was what you'd accuse him of. As for applying to remuster: he'd be away from ops for about a year and a half, by the time he went to the States or anywhere else overseas on a course, did the course, then came back to U.K. and then went to O.T.U.' (Operational training unit.)

  'If he were assessed Exceptional or even Above Average he'd probably be retained overseas to do an instructor's course. And then have a cushy war instructing overseas or at home,’ Alden said.

  'I hadn't thought of that. Meanwhile, he's got to press on with ops… with us. If he's shaky, he's not going to be much use, a liability in fact.'

  'I don't think so. He might not be keen, but once he's airborne, he's got to do his job properly or risk being chopped by a Jerry fighter.'

  'And what about flak? An air gunner can't fight a flak position off.'

  'I wonder if I'm reading too much into his being sick at that precise moment yesterday; as soon as he heard that Taffy's gunner had got the chop? And being unfair over his reason for wanting to remuster?'

  'No, I think you're right. But it doesn't mean that he's L.M.F. We all have off days. I still think what he needs is to stick it out, do another op as soon as possible, and wait for leave in two weeks with the rest of us.'

  'I don't think he can endanger the crew. I'm thinking of him. Being L.M .F.'d is a vile business humiliating for the man, detrimental to the squadron. I'd do anything I could to prevent it.' L.M .F. meant 'lack of moral fibre.'

  'Have you spoken to Bruce?'

  'Not yet: I don't like to rush things. But I will. Anyway, he'll want to see Forbes about his application before he forwards it to Jack Hanbury.'

  'You know, Derek, we're probably maligning the poor little devil. He's never shown any lack of guts, and he probably did have some kind of food poisoning.'

  'Hope you're right, Lala.'

  Courtney said, 'We don't want that sort of messy business on the squadron, I agree. My own view is that a type's better off getting the chop, if he is L.M.F., than going through all the horrible drill of being disgraced and posted to wherever it is that they collect the poor bastards before they strip them of their flying badges and rank. Most of them probably end up by being even worse off: getting kicked out of the Service and re­ enlisted in the infantry. All they end up with is a tough life and a short future. And if an infantryman shows funk in action, he's liable to be shot by his own mates. At best he can be sure of a court martial and a long sentence in some hellish military jail... if he doesn't get a death sentence and a firing squad.'

  Alden had never been in a boxing ring or a fist fight, but he felt as though he had been punched, or perhaps kicked by a mule, in the stomach. 'Making that clear to anyone who's on the brink of going L.M.F. would be the best possible deterrent!'

  'I'll introduce it into the conversation when I see Forbes about his application. He's not an obvious L.M.F. candidate. I always thought he was a good type.'

  'Who knows what anybody's breaking strain is; even one's own?'

  'True enough, Derek. I believe in simple remedies: the best thing for a windy type is to be chucked in at the deep end.'

  'That has been known to drive men mad,' Alden commented wryly.

  'Send them on leave and they drive themselves round the bend, agonising over their next op. Better to face it at once.'

  'I'm sure that's what the C.O. would say!'

  'Sure, press on regardless.'

  When Alden read a familiar name on the next day's casualty list he wondered how Elizabeth Waring's fiancé had been killed: on a Rover patrol or leading a formation in an attack against some definite objective.

  Although not callous about death, so many members of his own squadron and the other squadron at East Crondal had been killed, in so many ways, that he had become impervious to the depth of pity that he would have felt less than a year ago.

  Elizabeth was the first woman seriously to engage his affections and he had the bitter thought that it was inconsiderate of Fate not to have waited until she and Roy were married: as a Regular squadron leader's widow she would have had a useful pension. He felt ashamed as soon as the cynical thought formed.

  Write to her with condolence? It seemed hypocritical. He hadn't liked the chap and he hadn't liked the realisation that she had kept himself on the hook as a sort of reserve. There was nothing wrong in a girl going out with more than one admirer. She was right not to hasten the important choice of a husband. But he had never gone as far as considering marriage, not while there was a war on and he seemed to be in a line of work that involved heavier than average risks, and she had probably divined this. She was certainly not obtuse and he had never made any declaration of affection.

  I'll wait a few days, he decided. He had never been impetuous and there was no reason to act out of character now. He had the much more important matter of the next Rover patrol to occupy him.

  At briefing, in the small hours of the following morning, he kept taking quick looks at Dymond-Forbes. The whole crew had gone to bed by nine-o'clock, but having to rise at two-o'clock was not conducive to an alert and eager demeanour, despite a good breakfast before leaving their messes. The seven other crews looked no more lively than Alden's. Dymond-Forbes was just another resigned-looking listener, no more or less jaded or vivacious than anyone else. Now that air gunners and wireless operators were required to attend the general briefing, an innovation of Group Captain Jameson's at Hanbury's suggestion, the inadequately ventilated Operations Room quickly became stuffy. Alden fancied that there was a stale niff in the place, suggestive of hasty or omitted ablutions, scruffy garments and tainted breath. He fretted to get out and gulp fresh air before being confined for five or six hours in the cockpit.

  The eight sorties were to take off in quick succession and make their separate ways to the coastal shipping lane between the mouths of the Scheidt and Borkum, the nearest of the East Frisian Islands. Every crew had its allotted area in which to hunt for targets of opportunity. Alden's was the most southerly, and considering the importance of Antwerp, which stood on the Scheidt, there should be
a lot of maritime traffic in it. Many of the crews were bound to be disappointed and find nothing. Alden was glad that he was unlikely to be one of them. After being called from sleep so early and undergoing all the stresses of a long flight over water plus the threat from fighters, flak ships and shipborne barrage balloons, to return without a sighting would be futile to the point of exasperation of the most eroding kind.

  As soon as they emerged, people began to light cigarettes and pipes. Dymond-Forbes began cramming tobacco into his two-shilling Ropp cherrywood and was soon puffing clouds of latakia-scented smoke.

  'Like a ruddy shunting engine, you are, Brackets,' Noyes told him. 'We ought to call you Puff-Puff.'

  Alden saw his gunner grin as he responded, and could not tell whether it was spontaneous or forced. 'I resent the implication, Knocker. There are three or four satisfied Waaf around camp who could assure you I'm by no means a puff-puff.'

  'Garn, yer mean pouf, yer ignorant college-boy.'

  'Same thing.' Dymond-Forbes sounded as though he hadn't a care in the world.

  I hope he hasn't, thought Alden. Wish I could say the same. The defences whither they were bound were formidable and they would surely be within range of flak batteries at some stage of their search.

  It occurred to Alden that the best opinion on the real state of their gunner's morale could well be given by Sergeant Noyes. But that was one view that he definitely could not canvass.

  Noyes was responsible for drawing a homing pigeon from the station lofts. Coming from a family of keen fanciers, who had won more than a few trophies with their racing birds, he took special pleasure in this duty. It introduced a homely note to the grim ritual of preparing to go out and fight the enemy, when Noyes climbed aboard the lorry with a pigeon cage on his lap and began chatting to it. He was in form, this dark morning long before sunrise.

  'Good bird, this one is. I can tell, see. Likes 'is oats… reg'lar little Taffy Jenkins 'e is, an all. Any time anyone 'as to let 'im go, 'e'll be 'orne in record time with the message... full revs and boost to get back among the pretty little 'ens, see.'

  Flight Sergeant Jenkins was still on leave, but it would take more than his absence for a couple of weeks to dim his reputation for amorous enthusiasm. Noyes's declaration brought laughter and lightened the journey to dispersals.

  Take-off had been timed to get the Beauforts to their areas at dawn, in the hope that ships' crews would not spot them until it was too late to take evasive action from a torpedo. There was to be a second operation in the late evening, when eight more Beauforts would be timed to reach their respective Rover patrol areas shortly before dusk, allowing them enough time to find a target and attack it, then turn for home under cover of fast-gathering darkness.

  'I'm glad we're on now and not this evening,' Lalabalava said. 'We'll have more time to find a decent target. And the One-one-Os will be out at dusk.' The Me110, with its even heavier fire power than the 109, and much greater endurance, which permitted a long pursuit, was now being used mostly as a night fighter. Being on a day sortie did slightly reduce the odds against a Beaufort; in theory, anyway, and it was a comforting one.

  Before climbing aboard Alden took a last look at his air gunner. Dymond-Forbes stood apart from the others, wearing a fixed expression as though his thoughts were far away. He was fiddling with the tapes of his 'Mae West' life jacket and kept chewing his lower lip. There appeared to be a slight sheen on his cheeks: was he sweating with fear?

  Alden called to him. 'How about putting 'another notch on your gun today, Forbes?'

  Dymond-Forbes's head jerked round. He looked startled; and momentarily lost, gathering his thoughts. 'The… the chances should be pretty good, sir.' He managed a sickly grin.

  'They're moding '(modifying)' the turret with a second gun: we should get ours very soon.'

  The news hardly seemed to strike this air gunner as momentous. 'I'd rather they gave us a couple of Brownings.'

  'That'll come...' And eventually they'll have to give us a more reliable engine, Alden added silently. In the meanwhile, we press on with fingers crossed.

  He already mistrusted his engines. He wished he could feel as much confidence in his gunner as he had until their last op. But self-preservation was the strongest of all animal instincts and young Forbes would fight like a tiger if they were attacked. Would he have the nerve any longer to hold his fire until an attacking fighter came within effective range of his K gun, or would he blast off a whole drum while a Messerschmitt was still too far away and then be unable to defend the Beaufort while he changed drums and the fighter could do as it liked?

  Wait and see. There was no alternative to stoical acceptance.

  A tail wind carried them across the North Sea with unwelcome swiftness. The Belgian and Dutch coastline emerged from the indefinite murk where sea and sky merged on the horizon.

  A small convoy was making its way into the mouth of the Scheidt: two files of cargo vessels, three in each. In the van and astern two flak ships escorted them. There was not much that was imponderable about a flak ship: on average, they mounted six quadruple 20 mm and four single 37 mm guns; sometimes one or two less of each. It was a formidable armament for so small a craft.

  'Pilot from gunner… two One-o-nines, three­o'clock, high.' The gunner's voice sounded steady.

  'Remember the Ansons the other day,' Alden said. 'We can do even better.'

  The Anson was obsolescent and also carried only a K gun in its dorsal turret. A couple of weeks earlier, three of them had astonished the R.A.F. and the Luftwaffe by not only surviving a battle with nine Me109s over the Channel, but also shooting down two and damaging a third: an outdated aeroplane whose top speed was less than 190 m.p.h. Alden hoped that his reminder would hearten his own gunner.

  He began to dive to attack altitude. 'We'll go for the last one in the starboard file.' She was a broad-beamed single-funnel tanker and Alden thought briefly of the British merchant seamen whose tankers were torpedoed every week, blown to bits or roasted in burning oil and petrol. There could be a particular satisfaction in sinking a tanker.

  'Pilot from gunner, fighters diving.'

  'Tell me when to take evasive.'

  'Stand by, sir... Now!'

  Alden swung the Beaufort to port in a turn while he held his dive, then dragged it round to starboard into a twisting climb.

  He turned port again and resumed his dive towards the ships. He heard the dorsal gun fire a long burst.

  With flames gushing from its engine, and smoke pluming astern from the spreading fire, a Me109 dived below the Beaufort and Alden had to make an abrupt change of course to avoid a collision.

  'Well done, Gunner.'

  'Here comes the other, sir.'

  Alden heard the Browning in the belly blister as his observer aimed it, with its mirror, at the enemy fighter.

  'Gunner to Observer...You've hit it... you've hit it...'

  Alden took his eyes off the ships and glanced out of his port window. The second Me109 darted past. There were no signs of damage. 'Pilot to gunner... Are you sure?'

  'Yes, sir, hits on the port wing.'

  The 109 was almost dead ahead as it banked around for another pass. Alden fired the fixed gun in his port wing. He saw tracer lash out and thought he must be hallucinating when his eyes recorded bright orange splashes along the 109's fuselage. Then it was out of his fire. If he really had hit it, it had been for no more than a second.

  'Observer... you hit it, Pilot...'

  'Thought so... finish him off, Gunner, if he comes in again.'

  'Sir.'

  Alden took his eyes off the damaged fighter and sought the burning one. He was in time to see it slam into the sea and there was no sign of a parachute.

  Flak was hurtling up thick and fast, shimmering past the cockpit, from the rear flak ship. The other, at the head of the small convoy, had turned and was steaming towards it to add its own fire from a better position.

  'Pilot from gunner... fighter coming in
again.'

  It was too late for evasive action now. Alden was flattening out at eighty feet and throttling back to 140 knots. Only the tanker figured in his thoughts now. Everything else was in the hands of his dorsal gunner. He heard the K gun again.

  'Fighter breaking off, sir… he's turned away... he's chucking it... I think his engine's hit...'

  Tracer ripped through the cockpit above Alden's head. For a moment the bright splashes made him blink and he lost his line of sight. He made a flat turn and bore away. The tracer followed him. He turned back towards the target.

  When he released the torpedo, the aircraft rose with a jerk, rid of its heavy load. He dived to within a few feet of the waves before turning once more, gently, watching his port wingtip as he banked it downwards, making sure he did not dip it into a wavecrest.

  He held the turn with flak fizzing past overhead. The torpedo's furrow was clearly defined. Watching its track was like being hypnotised, heart in mouth, waiting for it to hit... or miss...

  A searing blue light burst from the tanker, a flash from the detonation at the moment of impact which hurt the eyes. An enormous spherical flux of black smoke boiled around the ship. A torrent of steam shot up through the spreading billows. Two more explosions hurled wreckage out of the mass of smoke, flames and vapour, lighting it with leaping tongues of fire, red and yellow among the black and grey and the scalding whiteness of the steam from burst boilers.

  'We won't stay... more fighters'll be along.' Alden took a long final look at the vast patch of burning oil that was spreading around the half-submerged stern, which was all that remained of the tanker. He set a westerly course, into a headwind. It would be a long plod home but he had never felt more fulfilled in all his life.

  'My dear Derek, You have probably heard the sad news about Roy. Prolonged grief is in vain and he would not have wanted me to dwell on his loss. I am going to take seven days' leave from next Monday. It would be a great joy to spend at least part of it with you. We could book a room at the Stafford, if you would like that: it is quiet as well as most comfortable, and not frequented by the R.A.F., therefore discreet!'