Bomber Command
Page 22
After crossing the coast the air-gunners tested their Brownings with a short burst to ensure efficiency and readiness. The following exchange would be typical:
‘Navigator to pilot – course 097 – airspeed 185 knots – on track.’
‘Pilot to navigator – thank-you – changing course now to 097 at 185 knots.’
‘Enemy coast ahead,’ announced Flight Sergeant Steve Putnam the bomb-aimer over the intercom. Aged 21, Steve was a Canadian from Winnipeg, who had almost completed his pilot’s training in Canada when he was advised to transfer to a bomb-aimers’ course. He spent most of his time in the nose of the aircraft and always carried an empty milk bottle, in case he needed to urinate. That particular part of his anatomy which relieved the need became stuck in it on one occasion, during a long flight, much to the glee of the rest of the crew.
Now we were over hostile territory, not that we had been particularly safe from fighter attention over the North Sea. Now we would have searchlights and flak to deal with too. We were becoming used to this, gaining more and more confidence with each op, but we knew we could not afford to become over-confident or careless. I remembered the first one; after the target had been confirmed and the time of take-off approached, I had felt very unwell and had almost persuaded myself that I was unfit to fly, that I would be a danger to the rest of the crew and ought really to report sick. It had taken a great deal of will-power to convince myself that I was not really ill, just scared stiff. After that, it had been a bit easier. The waiting was the problem; once in the aircraft, all the crew members had their specific tasks to perform and involvement with the job in hand left little time to think of other things.
At a pre-arranged point, a further change of course was made; the track to the target usually entailed at least two such manoeuvres in an attempt to confuse the enemy as to the target. A further minor course correction was necessary, arising from a glance at the H2S and my subsequent calculations of wind speed and direction. The H2S was a blessing; this navigational aid had been developed quite recently and our squadron, often known as the ‘try it out squadron’, was one of the first to use it. Dead reckoning using the Mercator’s chart was still essential but this new aid was very valuable in obtaining a fix. The Gee set was still installed and could be useful, but it was limited in range because it relied on synchronised radio signals from England, which could be jammed by the Germans, while astro-navigation could not give an accurate fix. The wireless operator too had to maintain silence, except in case of dire emergency, as Morse-code signals would be picked up and homed in on by the enemy.
Then the first attack came. ‘Enemy fighter to port,’ called Flight Sergeant Dave List, the rear gunner and his Browning guns began to chatter spitefully at the intruder in their air space. Aged 21, Dave came from Newcastle. He didn’t have a ‘Geordie’ accent though, as his home town was the Newcastle in Australia. He had volunteered to travel halfway round the world for the purpose of sitting, cramped and cold, despite the electrically heated suit, in the most exposed, most lonely and most dangerous part of the aeroplane. He called himself a fatalist, taking the view that, if his time was up, he would not survive. While maintaining there was little purpose in searching the skies for enemy aircraft for his own sake, he assured the rest of the crew that he would keep a keen look-out in case he could save their lives! Was he serious, or was he indulging in an Aussie leg-pull? On the assumption that the latter was the case, the rest of the crew had made a point of thanking him effusively when he announced that generous concession! Dave was an excellent gunner, having qualified with high marks on his particular course, which included instant aircraft recognition as well as gunnery.
Sergeant Wilf Marson the mid-upper gunner joined in and the enemy broke off to choose another target. He was the baby of the crew at just 18 years old, having falsified his age in order to volunteer at the age of 17. Amused by the initials of his position in the aircraft, he told his friends that he must be a MUG to sit there for hours, searching the skies for something to shoot at. His home was only a few miles north of Lincoln. He always carried an old Home Guard helmet with him on operations, which he carefully tied around his groin. Many aircrew members particularly feared two fates: burning to death and suffering damage to the ‘family jewels’. Wilf was determined to avoid the latter if at all possible. He was the joker of the crew. Small and wiry, he smoked an enormous pipe and had an imaginary dog, a figment of his fertile imagination. He ‘walked’ it around the perimeter, to the pub and even took it on the train to Lincoln, talking to it and praising or scolding its behaviour. Many a spectator was puzzled, to say the least. Wilf called this ‘dog’ Fido, named after the fog dispersal system recently installed on either side of the main runway.
The two gunners had sent a twin-engined German fighter, a Ju 88, spiralling down in flames on one trip, much to their delight and the relief of all. Most operations were like this. Enemy fighters were often spotted, but there was no point in attracting attention unless they attacked. Some did attack and were either driven off or broke off the engagement for some reason. Such attacks had sometimes resulted in minor damage to the aircraft, but so far none of the members of our crew had been injured and Wilf’s helmet had been superfluous. On two or three occasions anti-aircraft fire had torn jagged holes in the wings, but the overworked, dedicated and efficient ground-crew were adept at such repairs, so that the damaged aeroplane was quickly made serviceable again.
Window was ejected and then, spot on the ETA, the target loomed ahead. It could hardly be missed. Myriad searchlights probed the night sky and occasionally an aircraft was caught in the interlocking beams. A blazing bomber spiralled down in flames, while another suddenly exploded. The crew of that one did not have time to suffer. Innocuous-looking but deadly white puffs, like balls of cotton-wool, blossomed around us: as expected, in ‘Happy Valley’ the flak was heavy tonight. The cotton-wool puffs were close now and E-Easy rocked, as if in protesting at the intrusion. Then began the run-in; straight and level. Now came the really hairy half-minute or so.
After the bomb-aimer had released the load, the aircraft would leap, owing to the sudden loss of weight, but it would be necessary for the pilot to stay as straight and level as possible until the camera had done its job. The resultant photographs would indicate the accuracy of the bombing and also give valuable information as to probable damage when they were analysed by the experts. For that reason Bomber Command pilots had been recently instructed that they must not weave over the target.
‘Bomb-aimer to pilot, left, left – steady, right, – steady . . . steady . . . bombs gone.’
Simultaneously and before I could enter that fact and the time in my log-book we were coned by searchlights. The interior of E-Easy was starkly illuminated. All air-crews dreaded being caught by the lights as the operators rarely allowed their victims to elude them. Anti-aircraft shells or a night fighter’s bullets would soon target them and all too few returned to base to tell the tale. Norman threw the aircraft into a dive, turning violently to port at the same time. The searchlights pursued E-Easy relentlessly and the flak increased in intensity. The aircraft shuddered like a wounded beast as the anti-aircraft shells exploded; in the harsh light it was obvious that the starboard wing had been damaged. The flak stopped suddenly, but the crew knew the likely consequence. Sure enough, Dave announced, almost conversationally, ‘Ju 88 to starboard – dive, dive’. The gunners’ Brownings burst into action. But they were already diving. Norman fought for control. Then came disaster; our gunners’ fire had no effect on this occasion. I escaped death by inches as tracer bullets appeared lazily across my vision from left to right. This illusion of laziness was caused by the fact that tracers were regularly spaced among the equally deadly other bullets in order to help the gunner direct and correct his fire.
The port wing burst into flames. ‘Jock’ Mason, the flight engineer made valiant efforts to divert the fuel supply to a different wing-tank. ‘Jock’ was a typical Scot, dour, do
wn-to-earth, good at his job and reliable. He had reached the ripe old age of 22. His friends sometimes called him ‘granddad’. He had been an engineer with a reputable British motor manufacturer before volunteering for aircrew and spent many of his non-duty hours fussing around the aircraft’s engines with the mechanics.
Norman’s calm voice was heard over the intercom, checking the well-being of the crew. No reply came from the wireless operator, but we others reported in, one by one. Seconds only had passed, but already it was obvious there would be no bacon and egg tonight after landing and debriefing. As the op was an early evening one, that treasured meal in wartime Britain, always keenly anticipated, was due on our return, rather than before the trip. Often on a long operation, perhaps of eight hours in duration, crews were served with a meal beforehand. Some air-crew were unkind enough to suggest that by serving the meal after the operation, a saving of rations was very likely.
Inevitably, the dreaded ‘Abracadabra, Jump, Jump’ order was issued, calmly, by the pilot.
‘Skipper, I can’t get out,’ called Dave from the rear turret.
‘The navigator will come to help you,’ said Norman reassuringly, as if such a minor problem would soon be solved.
I drew the blackout curtain behind me and was about to move when Dave announced, ‘I’m OK now, Skipper.’ I could not help my vast relief that I would not now have to struggle to the rear of the blazing aircraft. Relief turned to shock as I looked to my left and saw ‘Hank’ Wood the wireless operator, or what remained of him. The bullets that had passed across the navigator’s table had not missed Hank, who was now quite unrecognisable. The shock was even greater in that I had never before seen a dead body, even one that had passed away peacefully. Hank, a Londoner, was 20 and dated a different girl every night of the week when he was not flying and wrote letters to several others. His line-shooting to his colleagues consisted of boasting about his many conquests. His line-shooting to some of his conquests followed a different pattern. He would sit in the Mess, writing to one of his ‘Popsies’, as airmen usually called their girlfriends, pretending to be flying over Germany while he wrote and professing his undying love and hopes to see her in the not-too-distant future, should he survive the current operation! Hank could send and receive Morse code messages at well over twenty words per minute.
By this time Norman had managed to pull the Lanc out of its steep dive in order to enable his crew to bail out. Had he been unable to do so, our evacuation would have been almost impossible. I quickly reported Hank’s fate, clipped on my parachute, removed my oxygen mask and moved to the escape hatch in the nose. As I passed Norman, still fighting the controls in order to keep the aircraft as steady as possible, my pilot, Skipper, friend and colleague briefly took one hand from the controls and waved goodbye. ‘Greater love has no man . . .’ – we both knew that Norman had no chance of survival. If he relinquished the controls, E-Easy would spin violently. The hundreds of gallons in the tanks would probably cause a major explosion at any second. Even if, by some miracle, he managed to reach the hatch, it would not have provided him with a means of escape; he had often joked about it: ‘I’ve tried out the hatch for size and I’m far too fat for it to be any use to me,’ or words to that effect.
Reaching the nose, I saw that the hatch had been removed and Steve and ‘Jock’ had gone.
Now it was my turn. E-Easy was now burning fiercely. I dived out. At that height the temperature was far below freezing point and my oxygen supply was non-existent. It was inadvisable to use the ripcord on the chest parachute too soon, in case the aircraft exploded immediately and it was necessary to fall towards breathable air and a warmer temperature as quickly as possible, but it was also important to avoid blacking out before pulling the D-ring. The few seconds’ delay in my doing so was certainly not force of habit. I had not had this experience previously and sincerely hoped I would never repeat it. As the chute opened several seconds later I saw our aircraft below and in front, plunging earthwards in a ball of flame. A minute or two earlier I had escaped death by inches, now I had survived by seconds – but I had thoughts only for Norman, Hank and any others of those close friends who could not escape the inferno.
I drifted down. The quietness now was almost unbelievable, entirely free from the barely perceptible sounds that are not even registered in the brain in what is thought of as total silence, on a quiet night in the countryside or on a deserted mountain. Not only was it an enormous contrast from what had just happened, but it was also a silence I had never before experienced. It was all so peaceful and, in spite of my predicament, almost relaxing. The fall seemed unending; it must have taken at least 30 minutes. Then I saw clouds below and suddenly with no warning I just stopped, standing upright! The chute collapsed around and on me.
‘Now I know where I am’ I thought. ‘I am at the Pearly Gates and at any moment St. Peter will greet me.’ However, as I came to my senses, which no doubt had been partly befuddled by lack of oxygen, I realised what had happened. The cloud was actually a ground mist, the same type of mist we had left behind such a short time ago. I had landed gently in a ploughed field; so much for the warning that landing by parachute was similar to jumping off a high wall. As I gathered up my parachute I also gathered my wits, deciding what to do next. Fortunately I was wearing the new type of flying boots with laced shoes on the feet to which the legs were attached; so many others had lost the old type while bailing out. In order to avoid attracting attention I cut off the tops with the knife provided, then tore off my navigator’s brevet and insignia of rank. A nearby straw-stack offered a hiding place for the parachute, harness and Mae West; I ripped the chute into several pieces and pushed them under the straw, retaining one small piece. I knew that I had torn the parachute so that it could not be used by the enemy, but had no idea why I kept a piece of it. This was no time to think of mementoes and I wasn’t a sentimental type! Then I sat by the stack for a few minutes, deciding what to do.
Orientating myself by the Pole star, I trudged south, hoping to find a copse or wood to hide in until any probable search had been called off. However, after a few hundred paces I climbed over a low bank and found myself on a narrow road, along which I walked. By now the moon was shining brightly and I was able to identify what looked like a village ahead. Deciding to bypass it, I prepared to take to the fields again, but before I could do so, heard footfalls and a man’s voice called Gute nacht. Although a few German phrases were posted in the Mess for such an eventuality, I now wished I had learned to speak the language better. However, the meaning was obvious, so I returned the greeting as best I could. One small hurdle had been surmounted. Jumping another bank, I crossed another field and – my luck was in – saw trees ahead. Approaching, I found it was indeed a small wood in the corner of the field. I entered, pushing my way through bracken and bushes and sat down. I would wait until midnight, when all should be fairly quiet, before resuming the journey. Looking at my navigator’s Omega watch, I could see well enough that the time was 21.25. ‘What a lot has happened in a few hours,’ I muttered to myself. A favourite quip among air-crew was ‘Join the Navy and see the world; join the Air Force and see the next.’ Well, I hadn’t done that – not yet, but I thought again of my friends, who had so recently died. Hank was dead and Norman could not possibly have survived; of the other four, how many had been as fortunate as I?27
Taking into consideration the time of the attack and other factors, research into the Abschussliste (Claims listings) indicates that E-Easy was most likely hit by Oberfeldwebel Erich Becher of 2./NJG6, who claimed four victories before his own death in aerial combat on 24 February 1944. A dozen Mosquito night fighters that flew on the Düsseldorf operation were unable to prevent enemy fighters destroying this Lancaster and most of the 18 other heavies that were lost. One was P-Peter, a 57 Squadron Lancaster at East Kirkby flown by 1st Lieutenant D West USAAF who was killed, as were four of his crew. Two others evaded and one was captured after landing. Another American died when F-Fred
die and Warrant Officer Robert Allen Young RCAF’s crew on 408 Squadron at Linton-On-Ouse was presumed lost off the coast of Holland. The body of Flying Officer Henry S Oien USAAF and two of the five Canadians aboard were never found. Three bodies discovered in a dinghy washed ashore on 12 November near Rockanje were buried in a cemetery in Rotterdam.28
Five other bombers crashed or were written off on the return and a further 37 bombers were damaged. L-Leather, a Halifax II on 10 Squadron at Melbourne crashed and burnt out a mile north of the American base at Shipdham in Norfolk in which six of Pilot Officer Robert Cameron’s crew died instantly. Ernie Bowman, a member of the local Home Guard dragged Sergeant Jack Winstanley the rear gunner from the wreckage but he died from his wounds on 5 November. Bowman was awarded the BEM for his brave rescue attempt. D-Dog, which was badly shot about during sustained night fighter attacks that injured three of the crew returned to Melbourne an hour after L-Leather crashed but was declared beyond economical repair. The Australian pilot and three of his crew were decorated for ‘their fortitude and skill in overcoming great difficulties in order to ensure their return.’29
Two more missing Lancasters were on 76 Squadron. One of these was flown by Flight Lieutenant Denis Hornsey who was on his 18th trip. He had flown some operations on Whitleys in 1941 before being returned to OTU for further training. At 33-years of age he was older than most aircrew and he suffered from poor eyesight so he wore corrected goggles on ops. He once said that as far as ‘Butch’ Harris was concerned, a pilot’s operational life represented just fourteen bomb loads – ‘That’s economics you know.’ Hornsey’s Halifax was shot down over Belgium on the way to Düsseldorf by a night fighter flown by Leutnant Otto Fries of II./NJG1. Hornsey evaded successfully and made a successful escape through France to England. He was awarded the DFC.30 One of his crew evaded capture but was finally caught close to the Swiss border. The rest of the crew were captured after they bailed out.