Air Strike

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  It was a figure of speech, for there was nowhere literally to go. And if he made this show of bravado from a mental comparison of himself with Clark Gable, Errol Flynn or Gary Cooper in some equally inextricable situation, it was as good a way as any other of finding out how brave he really was and inspiring his troops. Like, most acts of this kind it was caused by anger. He and his men had taken enough and the only way to get the ordeal over, one way or another, was by a concentrated and determined outburst of violence. It was the urge known to all assault troops throughout history and this time it worked once again.

  When the regiment took part in the second wave of the Salerno landings a month later, Maj. Corrado wore the ribbon of the Silver Star.

  Seeing the weight of fire on Red Beach from German machine-guns in the sand dunes and the deadly 88 artillery pieces in the foothills, the whole scene lit by the macabre glare of bursting star shell, he wished he had been wounded that dawn a month ago instead of winning a medal. A wound would have seen him comfortably in hospital at this moment: a cool, clean hospital staffed by cool, clean American nurses; perhaps even as far from the battle line as Tunis or Algiers. As things were, how could he expect to land on this devastatingly defended shore without being hit? And if he were hit, he would lie in some first aid post or advanced dressing station in dirt and squalor and under fire. No cool, clean nurses here; just hot, sweaty, battle-stained G.I. medics.

  Waiting aboard the landing craft, watching the first wave of L.C.I.s bob up and down across the light popple on the sea’s surface, was even worse than seeing German tanks and armoured cars come towards them that other early morning.

  The enemy had sewn mines in the shallow water at the beach’s edge — surf mines was their name — and Corrado saw an L.C.I. hit one of these. The men in the landing craft were tossed high and far.

  German bombers were attacking the moored invasion fleet, hidden in the gloom of early light from the day fighters which were already on their way from Sicily. The night-fighting Beaufighters of Desert Air Force which had shot down so many of them during the night air raids on the troop convoys added to the din with their engines and the thud and rattle of their guns.

  An L.C.I. which had hit a surf mine was burning. There were other fires on the beach, where just-landed equipment had been shelled. Another craft was tossed up on another mine and more bodies were flying through the air, another fire flamed at the water’s edge.

  Pete Corrado wished he wasn’t here. So did Tommy Pienze.

  Corrado heard a sharp intake of breath beside him as the landing craft ploughed landwards, and looked over his shoulder. “Pretty, ain’t it?” Bad grammar for a Princeton alumnus, but he had kept low company since those days. He pointed ahead, to where the three beautiful ancient Greek temples at Paestum were now clearly outlined, their white marble glowing pink in the sun’s first rays.

  “Me, I’d rather see the Long Island Railroad track ashore there: that’s what I call real pretty.” Pienze’s teeth were chattering.

  “You’re looking at three of the most famous ancient monuments in the world; and all for free. Guys pay thousands of dollars to come here...”

  “Not on a tourist trip like this, they don’t. I’ll take my ancient monuments in my own time: like when we make Naples.”

  Their landing craft touched the shore, the ramp slammed down and they pelted out on to the beach with bullets sending up spurts of sand around their ankles. Over-riding his immediate, and natural, fear, the thought that crowded Corrado’s mind was that every stride took him closer to shelter but it also took him closer to Naples. He had temporarily managed to forget that; until Pienze, goddamn him, mentioned the place.

  Chapter Eleven

  The American airfield construction engineer battalions performed their usual prodigious feats and soon there were airstrips in many unlikely places from which the advance on Naples from the Salerno beach head could be given close air support.

  To one of these Fiver’s Lot flew in within three days of the landings.

  And now, with the sudden appearance of so many new airfields, came the technical problems inseparable from flying. These small aerodromes would have to serve during the coming winter, and in Italy’s heavy rainfall and snow there would be mud. In Sicily the temporary airfields had been wanted for only a short time; and in the desert there had been no mud problem. But now it was not possible to operate merely from hardened sand or earth: prepared steel plate had to be laid. Runways had to be from 650 to 1,400 yards long and should have been 50 to 100 yards wide. Sometimes dangerous chances had to be taken by building shorter and narrower runways than were really necessary. P.S.P. had to be used sparingly, because there wasn’t much of it: it took up a lot of room, and weighed heavily, in any form of land or water transport.

  From this stricture which created the hazard of accidents on taxiing, taking off and landing, grew a fresh requirement: the careful control of aircraft movements to reduce the risks. To exercise this control was the function of the Aircraft Control Branch and its flying control staff, quite a different part of the Service from the Fighter Control Branch whose operations controllers directed fighters, by the use of radar and radio, on to enemy aircraft and other targets. In Desert Air Force there had been no need for a large Flying Control organisation. Its own system had been evolved by the formation of No. 1 Mobile Operations and Reporting Unit, a convoy of four caravans, with hinged sides to let down so that the fighter controllers and others could look into the square formed by the four vehicles when parked. A large map table on the ground showed aircraft movements. In this way, some control was exercisable over the air space. In addition, the wings had a rudimentary local flying control organisation: usually consisting of an old-fashioned “Duty Pilot” who did the chore for twenty-four hours at a time, and a crew to lay the mobile flare path. Communication with aircraft was by Verey pistol, Aldis lamp or R/T pack set. But this would no longer cope adequately; and there was another element to consider as well: now that aircraft were operating daily over the sea, an Air Sea Rescue organisation had to function and be co-ordinated and controlled.

  As Vincent said, on their first day at their first Italian base: “We’ve got used to being shot at by the enemy, and we’ve even learned to put up with a certain amount of flak from the Royal bloody Navy, our own ack-ack, and, of course, our gallant cowboy allies; but if we’ve got to run collision risk as well, on the ground let alone in the air, I’m going to apply for Redress of Grievance.”

  Fiver happened to hear him. “Right, Vince: you can go and relieve the Duty Pilot now; and I’ll allow you to do the job for the next forty-eight hours. That’ll eliminate collision risk for you for a while, and give you a chance to become an expert on flying control.”

  Vincent scowled but make no protest: it was part of his game never to show that he had lost a move. He grinned at the other pilots before leaving them: “Have a good time, suckers. I’ll think of you where the flak’s thick enough to walk on and the air’s as crowded with other kites as rush-hour in Piccadilly.”

  Warren said, “It won’t seem so congested with you out of the way.”

  Still grinning, Vincent went about his duties, socks wrinkled down his spindle shanks, battered old cap at a cocky angle, suede desert boots down-at-heel. He’d miss a bit of fun, but he was assured of still being alive this time tomorrow and the day after. Now that they had to make their ground attacks at low level, enemy bullets and cannon shells were flying around them more thickly than ever. The old technique of diving from 18,000 or 20,000 ft and releasing their bombs at 10,000 to 13,000 ft was not suitable in the terrain and against the kinds of targets that conditioned their operations now.

  They had to experiment when in action, because there was no time for dummy runs.

  On their next sortie, led by O’Neill, who was never short of reasons for postponing his ground duties, they were briefed for an attack on an engineering factory which the Germans had taken over as a repair depot for armoured an
d other vehicles. It stood, four stories tall, in the midst of a small town set in a bowl surrounded by hills.

  Fiver was as full of happy anticipation as a child at Christmas.

  “Four thousand as far as here,” he said, showing them a point on the map. Then we’ll go down to 2,000 and when we’ve identified the place we’ll dive to 20 ft, which will give us ample clearance over the factory wall (it was 10 ft high)... in case anyone’s still clot enough to be at 20 ft when he flies over it.” He paused for laughter. “If anyone is, he’ll go down in the squadron diary as our first Kamikaze pilot.” More laughter. “I won’t know exactly where we’ll release our bombs until we get there. So keep an eye on me, and wherever I let mine go will be the release point for the rest of you: as you fly over it or in line with it.”

  Yule, who sometimes found his C.O.’s briefings even more stark than this one, had to admit that there was not much more he could say. The moment at which they released their bombs would depend on their speed and any changes of height forced on them by obstacles about which they were ignorant.

  “Remember,” O’Neill continued, “the more bombs we can put into the ground floor and the first floor, the more disastrously the building will collapse; and the more damage we’ll do to equipment.”

  Yule was unwise enough to ask, “Can we hit the ground floor, sir?”

  “Some of us, may, Toby, some of us may.”

  The laughter that greeted this feeble enough retort arose as much from nervous tension as from the implicit suggestion that Fiver was confident he would and dubious of Yule’s ability to emulate him. For the approach to the target was going to be fraught with several severe hazards. The manufacturing plant had originally been built on the outskirts of a small town which had spread as the factory grew, and now surrounded it. This meant an approach along the main road: which fortunately was a handsome thoroughfare, broad and tree-lined. The trees, of course, presented their own danger. With trees and houses on both sides, the echeloned Spitfires would be unable to spread widely. The 10 ft wall was a nuisance only because it stood in the way of any bombs which fell short. It was not a flying hazard, because it seemed to be so close to the factory buildings that, even if it had been lower, no aircraft crossing it even at 20 ft would have room to avoid flying head-on into the building. There were protective machine-gun emplacements on the factory roof.

  As if these discouragements were not enough, the break-away would not be without its own perils. Like many little towns in the Apennines, this one stood on an isolated rocky pinnacle. The factory was well down its slope. Behind the factory, houses climbed the hillside. Beyond, across the broad surrounding valley, rose other hills, ridge upon ridge. To either side were higher ones.

  The only compensation was that the area around the town was lightly defended, so there would be no great worry about flak. The squadron wondered, therefore, why Tustin looked so worried and why the admiring Crab bustled about the place instead of keeping within his own domain of office and Orderly Room, and had come to hear the briefing.

  As for the core of the whole business, the precise moment of bomb-release, that was the most chancy and unknown quantity of all. The essential fact was simple enough: a bomb released by a fighter-bomber flying straight and level would follow the aircraft’s flight path for a certain distance and then curve downward. The trajectory it followed depended on the aircraft’s speed at the moment of release and, of course, the weight of the bomb. The latter was constant, as they always carried two 250-pounders. Thus where a bomb fell depended also on the aircraft’s height when it was released. Fiver had told them the speed at which he expected to run up to the target, but this would be conditioned by what they found when they arrived at the avenue along which they would fly the last half-mile.

  If the area around the factory had been metalled or paved, bombs falling short and striking it horizontally would have ricocheted into the buildings. In fact, however, there was only gravel lying on the baked and compacted earth: which might not be hard enough; it would brake the bombs and absorb much of their blast.

  That wasn’t enough to make Tusty look so glum or set Crab a-scuttle with his glasses flashing as he shook his head and chuntered under his breath. It was just that the dear old things felt sick at not being able to come with them, the squadron decided. Or, at worst, the dreaded bomb line, about which everyone — especially their own troops — was so sensitive, was worrying them. The adjutant and the I.O. hated criticism of the squadron, and the Army was not slow to squawk if its backside were accidentally strafed.

  The take-off was harrowing, for the airfield had been enlarged while the squadron began its operations, and once again the whole wing was being reassembled. Fiver’s Lot were rejoining their sister squadrons, all three of them. One of these was trying to land, through the rudimentary flying control system, while O’Neill and his eleven other detailed pilots were taking off.

  “Might as well be in the Fleet Air Arm,” Yule grumbled briefly on the R/T.

  “Carrier take-offs are a piece of cake compared with this madhouse,” Warren rapped back.

  “Stop shooting a line and watch where you’re going,” came Fiver’s admonition. Warren had previously been on a squadron which had precariously landed Spitfires on a small aircraft carrier and then, perhaps more precariously, taken them off at extreme range to fly them to Malta, which was heavily besieged at that time; hence his conceit about his flying. Fiver had served, before the war, on a squadron based in a carrier in the days when the R.A.F. flew with the fleet. He didn’t think that Warren was in any way exceptional as a pilot.

  This was no time for random thoughts. Yule was fully occupied with the effort of maintaining station, always a mentally and physically strenuous exercise in close formation flying. Thermal currents striking upward from the sun-baked hills threw the Spitfires about and aggravated the effect of other people’s slipstreams. Only O’Neill seemed not to notice these vagaries and flew steadily on without evident deviation from height or course, as though one of his parents had mated with an eagle. Flak, he ignored with stubborn fatalism on sorties like this when he was in a hurry. He was pressed this morning to strike the target before the enemy had a chance to prepare for an attack by dispersing as many of the vehicles in the factory as possible. Repair work was done on the ground floor and the tanks and other vehicles were driven in through a huge pair of doors at one end, like those of an aircraft hangar. He was hoping the doors would be open.

  Yule was leading a section, with Sgt, Sampson as No. 2 and another Sergeant on his left wing, at the rear of the formation. The ground beneath them switch-backed up and down while they flew steadily at 4,000 ft above the hills and valleys.

  “Target in sight,” came from the C.O., and Yule discerned the conical hill on which the town of Culostretto stood, clearly silhouetted in the midst of a giant bowl ringed by more hills.

  “Going down.” O’Neill’s Spitfire slanted into a 45-degree dive and the squadron followed the line of the wide valley which would lead them to their objective.

  O’Neill called again: “That’s it... eleven o’clock from the church dome... one o’clock from the patch of grass half-way up the hill... easy to see... they haven’t camouflaged it... we’ll go straight in, before they know we’re coming.”

  There was a sudden turbulence in the air around them and familiar black smoke puffs with red flames at their centres pocked the sky. “Before they know we’re coming?” asked Warren wryly.

  Yule remembered Tustin’s uneasiness at briefing. Obviously he hadn’t been happy about the Intelligence reports on which he relied. They’d pull his leg when they got back. Those of them who did... for the flak was coming from two directions.

  The Spitfire on Yule’s left burst apart. From the corner of one eye and from his rear-view mirror, he saw it enveloped in a cloud of smoke and flame. He saw both wings ripped off and sent spinning in opposite directions. He saw the wingless fuselage whirl round along its axis, twisted by the torque
of the engine in the second or two before the propeller stopped. He did not see its pilot emerge and his last view was of the burning fuselage and wings falling separately to the valley floor. The blast from the explosion had almost flung him into Sgt. Sampson, but Sammy had also been hurled aside. Now lower, below tree-top height, flashing down the long wide avenue. Two cars ran off the road and crashed. People stared upward and began to run. Fiver released his bombs.

  The first two strikes on the building were at the base of the front wall. The two bomb holes were almost joined in one huge gap. O’Neill had left no more than 2 ft under him as he crossed the outer wall around the site, and then pulled away almost vertically, seeming to climb the ivy. So much for his injunction to leave 10 ft spare and begin the climb out before crossing that wall. With Fiver it was always a case of do as I say, not as I do. He knew the limitations of his pilots and his own extraordinary ability.

  More bombs struck the front of the factory higher up, some few were better placed, lower down, and a couple more actually hit the ground floor.

  In a blur of trees flashing past both wingtips, and a haze of small houses beyond them, Yule counted the seconds as he led Sammy along the wide avenue. One end of the factory had collapsed.

  Yule was ignited by the same anger that had, weeks before, prompted Corrado to reckless bravery. He wanted to finish this job properly and he was angry at the loss of his No. 3. He felt responsible; unreasonably. Sammy was a better pilot than he was and they were the last two to go in. Yule resolved they would do it with distinction. “Green Two... Going right down... hold it over the wall.”

  At the instant he switched off, Fiver was urgently on the air. “Green Section... the doors are open at the west end... try to get your bombs inside... I’ll lead you in... come over the roof and hard to port.” He waggled his wings.