633 Squadron

by Frederick E Smith

  “This looks like the job we’ve been waiting three years for. Let’s go and have a closer look at her.”

  They were not the only ones showing interest. Men were running towards the planes from all directions. The experts showed unqualified approval. The Maintenance Officer was running a hand dreamily along one of the 12-cylinder underslung Merlins like a man caressing a woman’s smooth shoulder. The Armament officer could have been staring upwards into paradise when he was given a glimpse into the huge bomb bay. Rumour after rumour spread among the air crews and mechanics. One rumour came to stay. This was the kite that eight days ago, on the 30th January, had bombed Berlin in daylight for the first time. . . . Air crews nudged one another, holding their breaths in prayer.

  The A.T.A. pilot broke the wonderful news. Yes; this was the kite, and 633 were going to be re-equipped with her. They were lucky all right—she was a beauty. Her name? She was called the Mosquito....

  * * *

  The phone call came for Grenville in the late afternoon. He had just taken up one of the Mosquitoes, and his eyes were still bright from her performance. He lifted the receiver, gave his name, then froze. Her voice was low, but even the interference on the line could not destroy its melody.

  “I want to apologize for the things I said to you that afternoon. ... I did not know, but now Finn has told me and I am very ashamed. Will you please forgive me?”

  Grenville had to speak carefully: his voice was eager to betray him. “I know how you felt. I’m the one to apologize. I was tensed up and very tired....”

  Her interruption was like a soft hand being placed over his mouth. “There is nothing to forgive. Will you come over with Finn so that I know you have forgiven me?”

  His mouth was dry. “Yes. Yes, I will. As soon as possible.”

  “Thank you. Then good-bye... for the moment.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Grenville lowered the receiver. He noticed with no surprise that his hand was trembling.

  12

  Davies arrived the following morning, holding the same audience in Barrett’s office as on the previous occasion. All his listeners noticed the change in him. He seemed less spry, to have lost something of his quicksilver. It seemed certain he had been told the purpose of the building in the Svartfjord, and was finding the knowledge a heavy burden. The implication made a deep impression on his audience. They listened in silence to his high-pitched voice.

  “Well, gentlemen; you’ve got the first of your new aircraft.” His eyes travelled from Barrett to Grenville. “As some of you have already found out, she’s a beauty. In another week you’ll be fully equipped. You won’t be able to complain then that you haven’t the tools to do the job because you’ll have the finest light bomber in the skies today. First I want to say a few words about her.

  “As you know, she recently did a daylight raid on Berlin. She was unarmed, relying successfully on her speed to bring her back safely. Wonderful job though she is, however, we’ve finally decided an unarmed kite, however fast, is a bit risky for the kind of jobs you might have to do. We next had a look at the fighter-bomber version, but the snag there is that the cannon breeches extend back into the bomb bay, so cutting down the bomb load considerably, and your bays, as you’ll have noticed, have been converted to carry the maximum load of 4,000 lb. So we had a chat with the makers and they did a fine compromise job for us. To get the cannon in, they used two of the short-barrelled type and extended them in front of the nose. That gives room inside for the breeches. Of course, they couldn’t give you four—with a full bomb load you’d be overweight—but they made up with two Brownings for good measure. Naturally, when you’ve got a full bomb load you won’t get the same performance as the unanned version, but you’ve got the satisfaction of knowing that once your bombs have gone, you’ve got a kite that can match any fighter Jerry can put up. Any questions so far?”

  Everyone who had seen the new bomber had noticed one conspicuous thing about her. Grenville commented on it now.

  “I noticed there is no hatch in the nose. How does the observer use his bombsight?”

  “The answer to that one is that he doesn’t,” Davies said. “For the job you’re going to do, a bombsight won’t be any use. A damn good thing, because the makers needed a solid nose for the cannon.” Seeing the puzzled frowns on three of his listeners’ faces, he waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it—I’ll explain everything later on. I’ve other things to talk about now.

  “First, your conversion. I want it done quickly, because I want special squadron training to start in less than two weeks. It’s going to mean a lot of work and a lot of reorganization—I know that. Your gunners, for example, are going to become redundant. They’ll be posted. Your remaining pilots and observers are going to have a lot to learn—and they’ve got to learn it faster than anything has been learned in the Service before. Time is running short, and believe me, time is precious. This thing is bigger than I’d realized. Too damn big.”

  There was a strained look in Davies’s darting eyes as he continued. “Once you are crewed up and have got your kites, we’re sending you up on a daily trip to Scotland. A couple of routes are worked out for you which you’ll always use to make things easier for the Observer Corps. Up there we have a deep valley with a special target site waiting for you. As near as possible it will resemble the target you’re being trained to prang.”

  His voice dropped, his eyes moving in turn from Grenville to Barrett and Adams. “You’ve probably guessed by this time what that target is. I’m not allowed to tell you its purpose—I may never be allowed to—but I can say that you’re out to destroy that building at the upper end of the Svartfjord. But”—and Davies paused expressively—“no one else must know. Your crews are going to get curious when the training starts—when they do, tell them to belt up. No man outside you three must know the target. I can’t stress enough the importance of secrecy. Any man breathing a word of this will be court martialled at once.”

  He paused to let that sink in, then smiled wryly. “Sorry to sound so tough, but that’s the way it is. Now a few words about the training:

  “This valley in Scotland is meant to represent the Svartfjord. Of course, it’s nothing like so deep, but it’s the nearest thing we’ve got like it in this country. At one end of it a target site is marked out. Not, as you would expect, at the bottom of the valley, but instead in a corrie in the mountainside, under an overhanging clump of trees. That’s where you will practise dropping your bombs. The idea is to fly along the mountainside, bank steeply over, pull away, and as you go-release your bomb. Centrifugal force will then sling it at the target. You can see now how useless a bombsight would be. It’s an entirely new technique and will take a hell of a lot of experiment and practice. But we think it can be done—in fact it must be done.” Davies’s voice dropped even lower. “Those of you who have seen the target and know how difficult pranging it in the ordinary way would be, might guess the idea behind this. If you do, keep it to yourselves. I’m not allowed to let the cat out of the bag until the final briefing.

  “Right. In a few minutes we’ll go into Adams’ office and run over all the technical snags. In any case, I shall be going up to Scotland with you and will help out with the early experiments. But now I want to run quickly through file combined operation as Special Services and Lieutenant Bergman have planned it. Here is the general scheme.”

  There was an expectant stir from the three hushed officers. Their eyes flickered for a moment on the fairheaded Bergman who was leaning in his chair, supporting his bandaged arm on his knee. His head was bent diffidently forward, his eyes staring down at the floor. They looked back at the small, serious-faced Air Commodore.

  “If you haven’t all seén the real thing, you’ve seen photographs of the target. It’s at the bottom end of a hellishly deep fjord that is over twenty miles long. We know that Jerry doesn’t believe we have a kite that can make a worthwhile attack on such a target, and until the Mossy came along h
e was right. However, he hasn’t taken any chances—the target is too important. He knows that if an attack does come, the attacking force must fly inside the fjord for a considerable distance—probably from its mouth at the coast. No kite could prang the building from above and equally no kite could dive down on it—the mountains make both impossible. So Jerry has built flak posts all along the fjord sides. Lieutenant Bergman says he has everything lined up there—88, 37, and 20 mm., the whole bag of tricks. If you’ve read your Tennyson, this is the Valley of Death. And if you flew down it as things are at the moment you’d end up in far worse shape than the Light Brigade....

  “Jerry, then, has been thorough. But our Special Services and Lieutenant Bergman haven’t been sleeping either. The Norwegian patriots over there have been organized and are waiting. They know their job, all they want now are the tools to help them do it. And this is one of your next operations....”

  Again the stir of expectancy. The tension could be felt. Davies pointed a finger at the lowered head of Bergman. “On a certain date in April, the Lieutenant will be dropped in Norway again. There he will contact the patriots and make certain everything is ready. He’ll send a message through to us, and on receipt of it you will go out one night on a supply-dropping job. Among other things, the equipment you put down will consist of light machine-guns, ammunition and grenades. . . .” Davies gave a smile at the look on Grenville’s face. “I see some of you are beginning to fit the pieces together.

  “Right. So far so good. The patriots have got tools and will make themselves ready. So will you. At a given date a week or two later, when everything has been checked and re-checked until it’s as perfect as anything can be in this imperfect world, you’ll go out before dawn—bombed up and ready. For weeks before this date you’ll have been going out at the same time, so that no one around will take particular notice of you. But this will be the real thing. You’ll be going out to smash that building in the Svartfjord.

  “In the meantime Lieutenant Bergman and his men will be doing their stuff on the other side. They’ll attack these gun outposts and overcome their crews in a surprise dawn attack. This will actually take place while you are airborne—the timing is most important. There’s no chance of the patriots being able to hold these posts once reinforcements arrive, and the building is so important Jerry will move heaven and earth to get them back once he is alerted. Fortunately these outposts are in isolated places, mostly on high mountain slopes, so however fast Jerry moves he can’t recapture them under an hour or two. And in that hour, gentlemen, you’ll be batting down that fjord in those new Mossies of yours, heading straight for that building. You’ll drop your special eggs in a special way— and then get out smartly. If all goes well, the building will be destroyed and the patriots will get away before the reinforcements arrive. That’s the scheme and it has to succeed. No one must even consider failure—the alternatives are too grave.”

  In the silence that followed, Barrett’s asthmatic breathing could be heard clearly. Satisfied that he had made the impression he desired, Davies ended on a lighter note.

  “We’ll prang it all right, don’t worry about that. And afterwards we’ll throw a party that’ll go down in history.”

  * * *

  During the next two weeks 633 Squadron’s conversion from Bostons to Mosquitoes went on apace. The air gunners were posted and their billets taken by a reserve of four pilots and four observers. Davies had these men sent as a precautionary measure. An emergency might arise, the squadron might be called on to fulfil some earlier mission, and if losses were sustained, they might find themselves short of trained men for the big occasion. A surplus of four crews, trained with the rest of the squadron, should cover all foreseeable emergencies. The wisdom of this move was to be apparent later.

  By the 18th of February the crews were considered proficient enough to enter .the second phase of their training. During this time Grenville, Adams, and Barrett had all been up to Scotland to take a look at the valley from the ground, and during the last five days, with either Barrett or Davies as passenger, Grenville had made innumerable dummy attacks on the target.

  At first it had appeared impossible even to fly close to the target, much less to throw a bomb on it, and it would have been impossible in any plane less manoeuvrable than the Mosquito. The target lay in a depression on the otherwise steep hillside and was overhung by a tree-covered ridge. The difficulty was not so much in making the run-in as in avoiding collision with the steep hill at the end of the valley. At first Grenville practised without bombs, trying to discover the correct approach and maximum safety air speed at which an attack could be made. After he had given near heart attacks to the watchers below, the outcome was an air speed of 280 m.p.h., a run-in over the last 200 yards with vertical wings, a right 90 degree starboard turn to hurl the bomb outwards, then full throttle and a mad climb up and out of the valley.

  The next problem was to find the precise moment to release a bomb. The pilot had to do this, and as things stood it was pure guess work. On the third day Grenville had an idea. He lined up various points on his port engine nacelle with the target and dropped 1 l½lb. practice bombs until he thought he had found a sighting spot. When he returned to Sutton Craddock that day, he had a mechanic paint a red mark on the nacelle. The next day, as he swung the Mosquito over and pulled her back, he waited until the red spot was in line with the target before giving Davies the signal. He learned afterwards from the two spotting quadrant huts that his smoke puff had landed in the middle of the target area.

  That was good enough. Davies had already told him that in the Svartfjord a bomb within fifty yards of the target would be close enough. He ordered similar marks to be painted on the rest of the Mosquitoes. Later on, others would have to take their place when heavier bombs with a different trajectory were used, but the principle and application would remain the same.

  With this experience and knowledge behind him, he was able to give his crews a detailed briefing on the morning of the 18th. After telling them what would be expected of them in the training weeks ahead, he went on:

  “None of you will take any practice bombs today. We’ll spend the afternoon going in and coming out of the valley. You’ll find that quite difficult enough to start with—particularly the coming out! Make your first run-in at 250 m.p.h.—we’ll work up speed later. Get fairly close to the target before banking away, but take it easy at first. We want bombs on the target, not bodies.

  “Keep in touch with me all the time on your R/T, but don’t talk unless you’re the one going in. I don’t want the channel blocked by a lot of chattering old women. And while on the subject of silence get this into your heads. This training and everything about it is hush-hush. I don’t want a word spoken about it, either by mouth or letter. The first man caught talking won’t know what has hit him....”

  The same instructions on security were issued to the ground staff and the training began. As Grenville had expected, it was hair-raising. The first planes to enter the valley went in confidently enough, only to come shooting out a few seconds later like nervous corks from bottles. His earphones were filled with mutters and curses as pilots strove desperately to avoid the hill at the end of the valley. In the two-hour practice that afternoon only Sam Milner and Gillibrand flew near enough the target to have successfully bombed it, and that at the cost of two trees from the ledge above. Gilli-brand’s T Tommy eventually limped home on one engine, a severed pine branch sticking aggressively out from the Coolant radiator in its starboard wing.

  The next day went better. More pilots caught the knack of pulling their Mosquitoes round at the right time, and soon Grenville had them coming in at higher speeds. On the fourth day mechanics fitted light-series carriers and they went out with sixteen ll½lb. practice bombs apiece. All went well that day, although few bombs went near the target. The following day brought tragedy. Dawson of A Flight, who, like Gillibrand, had been delaying his turn more and more for the sake of accuracy, did it once too
often and went slap into the cliff. The blazing remains of his Mosquito went tumbling down to the moss-covered rocks below. Although the accident happened towards the end of the training session, Grenville made every pilot do one more run-in before returning home.

  The Mess was quiet that night. Both Dawson and his observer had been popular and their deaths introduced a grimness into the training, something that had been lacking before among the light-hearted crews.

  Inevitably there was an offender against the security regulations. Not three days after the training started a letter was brought to Grenville by the Station Censoring Officer. If was from an A.C.l Atkins to his girl-friend, Ruby Sampson. After preliminary endearments, it read: We’ve got some new kites now (what a job they are, ducks, you ought to see them) and now we’ve been put on some training stunt up in Scotland. ...

  Grenville did not bother to read on. The ruthless streak in him came to the surface at once. He ordered a full squadron parade and had the offender marched up and down the ranks. On his front and back he wore a placard bearing the words “Take a good look at me. I am the B.F. who can’t keep his mouth shut.” The unfortunate A.C.l Atkins broke into tears before more than half his ordeal was over.

  Drastic though the punishment, its effects was salutary. The letters that followed, from all ranks, were so austere in content they must have brought tears to many a neglected girl. But there was no stopping the rumours that circulated among the men inside the field.

  One of the most startling, voiced by no other than Gillibrand himself, was that they were training to bomb Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest in Bavaria.

  “Stands out a mile,” Gillibrand said, winking at Jimmie. “Can’t be bombed from above, so we’re gonna put ’em through the windows when he and Musso are having a girl party. Clear as the dew-drops on my Aunt Sally’s nose.”

  In this atmosphere of rumours and rising tension, the training went on.