Too Late the Morrow

by Richard Townshend, Bickers

  ‘Yes. And I know why. Don’t worry about it, Christopher. I don’t give a damn and neither does the C.O. In the circumstances, we’d probably have done the same.’

  ‘That’s a relief to hear.’

  ‘But, being rather older and wiser, we’d have taken care not to be caught out. Anyway, on this squadron the only thing that’s held against anyone is L.M.F.’

  Lack of moral fibre, the euphemism for a display of cowardice, was the fear at the back of everyone’s mind: the shame of being overwhelmed by it themselves and the dread of being endangered by it in others.

  In the Operations block, which housed the Operations Room and Intelligence section, the squadron Intelligence officer reviewed the segment of the war in which Christopher and Malahide were about to participate.

  ‘The enemy order of battle has changed in the last six months. A large portion of the squadrons in France have been moved to Russia, Norway and the Mediterranean. The ones with which we’re mostly concerned are based at Cherbourg, Brest and Bordeaux. There are eighteen F.W. Two hundreds, the Condors; eighteen H.E. Treble-ones; forty-three J.U. Eighty-eights; and an estimated fifteen H.E. One-one-five torpedo-bombers. Recently the Condors have given up attacking convoys: now that all merchant ships have machine-guns and twenty-millimetre Oerlikon cannons, too many of them were being shot down. They’re too slow. Their sole job now is to shadow convoys and lead the U-boat packs to them. They’re also still a considerable menace to our anti-submarine aircraft: although they’re slow, they’re fast enough to take on a Whitley and they’re very heavily armed.

  ‘The chaps you have to look out for are the fighters based on the Brest peninsula: M.E. One-one-os and J.U. Eighty-eights. Their job is as much to catch you fellows as it is to intercept the Whitleys, Hudsons and Sunderlands coming back from patrol.’

  Christopher asked where the Trevanney Whitleys usually patrolled.

  ‘In the Bay of Biscay. That’s the place to catch the U-boats before they can reach the Atlantic and do any damage. Those we miss, we have a good chance of catching on their way back through the Bay on the way to their bases at Brest, Lorient and La Pallice.’

  The 1.0. pointed these out on the map. ‘I presume you know the leading particulars of all these enemy types: speed, ceiling and armament.’

  ‘We had them pretty well rubbed in at O.T.U.’ Christopher turned to Malahide. ‘Anything you want to know, Harry?’

  ‘Nothing: except what it’s actually like to fight one.’

  The 1.0. refrained from telling him that it was unlikely to be long before he found out. He himself was well past the age of most air crew, in his late forties. In the Great War he had been an artillery officer before wounds, and illness contracted in Gallipoli, forced his transfer to Intelligence. He had joined the Volunteer Reserve because he was interested in flying and had a son who was a pilot in the regular R. A.F. He thought it indecent to make any comment which sounded jocular to the air crews when he was unable to share their risks.

  There was one thing about a briefing like this, thought Christopher. There were no sophistries, no opiates. One heard the facts undistorted by optimism. Most aspects of life in the civilian world were based on an avoidance of facts because they were usually ugly, discouraging or frightening. If war had any virtue at all, it was that it did not allow anyone who was fighting it to twist the truth. There was no place in it for men with faces sharp with hidden knowledge, complacent in their deceit. Only politicians tried to maintain their perfidy in time of war.

  Neither Christopher nor Malahide needed to refer to his notes to recall the weapons and the speed of the enemy aeroplanes they expected to have to fight.

  The Focke-Wulf Condor was a four-engined behemoth which did not exceed 225 m.p.h. but had two cannons and four machine-guns above, below and on both sides of the fuselage, to defend it against attack from any direction.

  The Junkers 88 appeared in both bomber and fighter variants and, in any mark or version, was much faster than a Beaufighter and equipped with upto eight machine-guns or three machine-guns and four cannons.

  The Messerschmitt 110 was capable of 350 m.p.h. and had an armament of two cannons and four forward-flying machine-guns, with another machine-gun for the air gunner to protect its tail.

  Christopher checked over this inventory of lethal information in his mind and debated with himself, as he had often done in recent weeks, whether he would rather have his initiation as a fighter pilot against a slow Condor with its well-sited guns or a faster and more manoeuvrable adversary over which he could enjoy some advantage in fire power and agility.

  He was trying to prepare himself for what must inevitably happen and he understood that the tactics he was working out were adapted to fit his own deficiencies and skills rather than those of his opponent, which he could not foresee, or the qualities of their respective aircraft. That was as much as anybody could do. He did not live by maxims and he did not see how anyone else could, but everybody had to understand at some time or other that you could cut your coat only according to your cloth, and that was what he was trying to do. He and the Beaufighter together were capable of just so much, and how much that added up to he was not at all reluctant to discover.

  *

  Dawn and dusk were the times when the Whitleys setting out from or returning to Trevanney were most threatened by enemy fighters. Then, the Me 11 Os and Ju 88s could approach most closely before they were seen. At dusk, they could flee in rapidly gathering darkness before avenging Beaufighters could destroy them. The Whitleys’ crews who were at the end of an eight-and-a-half hour patrol were tired: their vigilance had been blunted and their reactions made slower by fatigue.

  Christopher and Malahide had to spend three days familiarising themselves with the way things were done by their new squadron, learning the landmarks in their area and the approaches to the nearest diversionary aerodromes, carrying out an armed navigation exercise over the sea, and air-to-air firing practice. On the fourth morning they were to fly on a dawn patrol in company with Gorman.

  There was frost on the ground and a thin mist lay in an opaque layer close above the ground. Men’s breath condensed in white blobs while they moved about the blast pens and perimeter road and clambered onto wings and engine cowlings at their work. The young W.A.A.F. driver in battle dress and a leather jerkin, her crumpled peaked cap pushed to the back of her head, who had driven the two pilots and their navigators to dispersals from the officers’ mess gave Christopher a perky grin and a wink. She held up her thumb.

  ‘Good luck… sir.’

  There was a sidling hint of sexual invitation in her eyes and the hesitation but Christopher hardly noticed it. All he understood at that moment was that everyone on the squadron knew it was his and Malahide’s first operational sortie and it unreasonably made him feel raw and untried, rather foolish and quite fiercely resentful. He was no novice and he wished he were able to give general notice to that effect. He had more operational hours than some of the pilots who had been several months with the squadron.

  The Whitleys operated at between 500 ft and 750 ft, which was the height band at which their radar equipment and their visual searching were most efficient. By both means - the second aided by powerful binoculars - they could detect a submarine’s periscope; but waves and white horses both cluttered the radar screen with ‘sea returns’ and deceived the eye. Five hundred feet was the prescribed height at which to fly, but it was not popular with the Whitley captains. Radio altimeters had not yet been introduced to general reconnaissance aircraft and there was a margin of inaccuracy in their instruments. Even if they really were at 500 ft above the sea, they were poorly placed if an engine failed. On one engine, an aircraft weighing twelve and a half tons when fully laden with six 500 lb depth charges could drop more than 500 ft before its pilot could put on more power and trim the aircraft to maintain altitude and climb. For that reason many captains ignored instructions and flew at altitudes of up to 750 ft.

  Because the
aircraft they were protecting flew so low, and the enemy fighters which pursued them had to fly at about 5000 ft in order to spot them against the grey and white sea, and at long range, the Beaufighters patrolled in a band from 5000 ft to 10000 ft so that they could have the best chance of seeing the Me 110s and Ju 88s and would have the advantage in height. Since the Beaufighter weighed over nine tons, it had high acceleration in a dive and could overhaul a faster adversary when it stooped steeply from a considerably greater altitude.

  Communication between the Beaufighters and their base was by wireless telegraphy and Morse code. Radio-telephony, as used in single-seater day fighters, lacked the range; particularly at low level. R/T was used between the pilot and Flying Control at take-off and landing, and between aircraft when flying in pairs or otherwise within voice range. For security, permission to take off was given by the flash of a green Aldis lamp or a green Verey cartridge.

  Christopher completed his cockpit checks. Gorman, whose aeroplane was a few yeards to his left, looked at him and raised a hand. Christopher raised his in acknowledgment. The two Beaus made off along the taxy track, reached the end of the runway in use and turned into wind. A final run-up of the engines, a green flare, another hand signal from the leader and they began their take-off run. Christopher felt that his aircraft was cussedly making a deliberate attempt to pull with extra strength towards the right this morning. He knew that scores of eyes were watching to see how neatly he took off. Three seconds after he saw Gorman’s wheels leave the ground he was also airborne and his wheels locked up only two seconds after he had watched Gorman’s fold.

  Five minutes after they had overflown the Scilly Isles and turned onto a south-westerly heading they saw a Whitley labouring home from a night spent over the Bay of Biscay.

  ‘I’ll be glad to see those in five hours’ time,’ Malahide said.

  ‘The bar won’t be open.’

  ‘It’s not my thirst I’m thinking about, it’s me bum; it’s going to be numb.’

  ‘Let’s hope we run into Jerry and have an excuse for going back to rearm.’

  ‘Now that would be extra grouse.’

  ‘What’s there to grouse about?’

  ‘Hell, you’ll have to learn the Australian language. ‘Extra grouse’ means beaut… wonderful… the best there is.’

  ‘As in ‘an extra grouse sheila’?’

  Christopher heard a rare sound. It was Malahide chuckling.

  ‘You’ve got the idea, sport. Like that fabulous little drop that drove us over from the mess.’

  ‘Oh, you fancied her, did you?’

  ‘My word. She looked as game as a piss-ant.’ Silence reigned once more. Christopher, constantly searching the sky ahead and to both beams, reflected on the curious analogy which could relate an insect with an unattractive name to an object of amorous interest or lust. He knew that he could rely on Malahide not to relax his vigilance in searching the sky astern and to port and starboard, while presumably he wove dreams about the cheeky little ginger-nobbed M.T. driver with the bright orange lipstick - a mistake, he felt - and a spot of engine oil on the tip of her nose.

  He would be glad to see Malahide take up a new interest. As an off-duty companion his attractions were limited and Christopher had been going around with him more from duty than from inclination. He had twice had to douse the flames of an incipient brawl between Malahide and much larger men: one an Army officer and the other a civilian. Both rows had erupted in pubs, and, each time, it was Malahide who had started them.

  Far away and low over the water he could see a Sunderland flying boat on its way to its base in Hampshire from a thirteen-hour anti-submarine patrol. German fighters did not attack those singly. They called them Flying Porcupines, for they bristled all over with guns.

  ‘You’ll see a Sunderbus half a mile on our starboard presently, Harry. That’s the way to travel.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll apply for a boat squadron next tour. I could do with a kip and a decent bit of steak every time I go on an op.’

  The Sunderland carried a crew of thirteen and there were bunks and a galley in which they could take it in turns to rest and where meals were cooked. These crews were the envy of every other Coastal Command crew and it was popularly believed that they fed on steak, bacon and eggs on every trip: a great treat in those days of food rationing.

  Seeing the huge aircraft - more than 85 ft in length and with wings which spanned almost 113 ft - grow larger in his sight as the distance between them narrowed from two miles to some one thousand yards, Christopher wondered what it would be like to take it up to its Service ceiling of 18000 ft and look down on the ocean from such Olympian security, with ten Browning guns surrounding him and a bunk at hand when he grew tired, a hot meal assured. The pilots who flew them must often wish they could soar up as high as that instead of trudging along close to the sea at the same height as all the other anti-submarine aircraft. He would never know what it was like to cruise up there in comfort and a feeling of remoteness from the gunfire, depth charges and flotsam floating on burning oil of a battle with a U-boat. He did not want to know. He preferred to be where he was, on the lookout for enemy aircraft which he could shoot down into the sea in flames. He had still not overcome his disappointment at not having been sent to a Hurricane or Spitfire squadron a year and a half ago, and flying a Coastal Beau was some consolation.

  He felt that he ought not to be having these roving thoughts out here on the fringes of the Atlantic. They were on too broad a gauge and he had been sent on patrol with a narrowly defined purpose on which he ought to focus whatever thoughts he had. He used not to drift off into such speculations when he flew a Beaufort on shipping strikes, and he supposed it was because in those days his task was even more narrowly defined and less shapeless. On a strike he knew what he was going to do. He knew he would be in a fight before he turned round to go home. What was more, he flew at a height of twenty to fifty feet above the water, which was a bemusing and deceptive altitude at which to move at over two hundred miles an hour. Especially with the lives of four other men in your hands. You had to keep your mind on the operation every second of the way.

  This morning he did not know whether or not he would even see the enemy let alone go into action. Flying at seven thousand feet allowed him to relax somewhat, even though he had to hold formation on Gorman. And although he knew he had a crewman on board, he was out of sight and therefore easy to allow to slip out of mind. He had no rear view mirror in which he could see the pear-shaped blister several feet astern under which Malahide sat. He felt pretty much alone despite Malahide’s occasional announcement, over the intercom, of their position.

  Malahide said ‘I can see her now. Big cow, isn’t she?’

  ‘Big and boring.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the navigators have time to get bored. Not when they’ve got to take the cow a thousand miles out to sea and back without losing their patrol line.’

  Christopher smiled to himself. He knew the retort was not meant ill-naturedly. It was just that Malahide could never resist an opportunity to be acid or to strike a blow for what he called the navigators’ union.

  Five minutes later three things happened within a few seconds which put an end to any straying of his thoughts.

  Malahide, with an urgency Christopher had never heard before, said ‘Enemy air attack. It’s the Sunderland.’

  Gorman banked and turned to port and Christopher followed him.

  Gorman’s voice came through the mushy background of the R/T. ‘O.K., Two?’

  ‘I’m with you.’ Roger eased the stick a trifle forward to follow his Number One in a shallow dive on a south-easterly course.

  Two or three minutes must already have passed since the Sunderland sent its signal to say it was under attack. That would have been picked up by the Signals section in the Operations block at H.Q. 19 Group. Thence, an order would have gone to Trevanney to divert the nearest Beaufighters. Trevanney had then signalled Gorman and him, giving the map co
ordinates.

  ‘Where is it?’ Christopher asked.

  ‘Fifteen miles on zero-five-zero. Forty miles off Brest.’

  At full bore and diving, the Beaufighters were travelling at six miles a minute. Christopher saw tracer slashing across the sky below in brief spurts before he was able to make out the shape of the Sunderland or any of its attackers. The fire directed at the flying boat was coming from several different directions and he could not tell how many of the enemy there were as they circled round it and shot at it from constantly changing positions and angles.

  Swiftly the hard outlines of the Me 110s emerged against the uniformly grey background of the sea and the early morning sky. He counted four… six… yes, there were six of them. The Sunderland had climbed to twelve or fifteen hundred feet to give itself more room for evasive action than it had at five hundred.

  The four guns in the nose turret and the four in the tail turret of the Sunderland were.303 and the single waist guns on either beam were.5 inch. A stream of tracer from the one on the port side brought a plume of white smoke from one of the 110s, which at once turned southward and began to climb, making as much altitude as possible before its engine seized through lack of coolant.

  Shells from the Messerschmitts’ cannons were hitting the Sunderland but it was switchbacking, corkscrewing up and down and making flat, skidding turns all the time, never for a second flying straight and level. Both turret gunners kept firing in an arc of ninety degrees around their positions. The Sunderland was holding its own but it was making no progress towards England. It was already running out of endurance when intercepted, and its frantic manoeuvres were consuming petrol at a high rate.

  Christopher saw tracer leap from Gorman’s cannons towards one of the 110s. He immediately fired at another. Both of them missed but both enemy aircraft turned sharply away from the Sunderland. The Beaufighters fired at two more 110s and Christopher again saw them break off their attacks. The fifth one turned towards them and tracer shells streaked from its cannon to whip beneath Gorman. It was joined by two more while the other pair continued to circle and shoot at the Sunderland.