The doctor looked at the little chicken scratch marks of ink on the paper. It was all just words. He knew Carter had lied like a trooper. Just like Todd had lied about his back earlier. They were all mad, the whole bloody lot of them.
He watched new men arrive on a regular basis and passed them fit to fly. They were all meat for the grinder, but they willingly went to their fates wrapped in the cloak of duty and patriotism. It was all a little much for him.
He occupied himself with his work and didn’t think about the rest. At Amber Hill he was surrounded by hundreds of healthy young men and women in the prime of life. Aside from the odd muscle pull or cold or accident, there was little to do. Few men returned wounded from ops, so getting six aircrew to evaluate for fitness to fly constituted a sudden rush. He’d not been so busy since the chickenpox outbreak last year. He signed the bottom of the form in a flourish.
“You know best. There’s nothing wrong with you as such, there’s no reason why you can’t fly.”
Carter let out a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, doctor.”
Cleared to fly, the crew stood looking up at their new Manchester in one of the hangars. The paint was fresh and unblemished. The squadron codes had already been painted on the side and an enterprising soul had marked up the bomb symbols of missions flown under the cockpit.
This was the latest version of the Manchester and incorporated all the design improvements which had come from operational experience. The biggest visual difference was the tail. There was no third fin on the fuselage and the two vertical stabilisers were much bigger than they had been before. Carter liked that, bigger control surfaces should make things easier.
The other big change was this particular aircraft had a mid upper turret. Murphy couldn’t wait to get in there. There would be no more cramming himself into the front turret and buggering about trying to keep his feet out of the way of Woods on the bomb run.
They took her up for a flip that afternoon, their spirits high. It was good to get back in the air again and wash out the bad taste of the crash.
At lunchtime the following day, Carter knew there was something up when he saw a Naval Lieutenant sat at Dickinson’s table. He smelt a rat when Kent sat down with them and they huddled, deep in conversation. The nautics lived on the coast. They had their toy boats to play with and you never saw one up in Lincolnshire unless they wanted something. When they did, that was always bad news for everyone else.
Carter noticed the wavy golden rank rings on the mans sleeves. Wavy navy, a hostilities only officer, a hobbyist almost. He was a blonde young man with piercing blue eyes and a full beard and moustache. Amongst all the RAF blue he looked quite dapper in his dark jacket and bright buttons and white shirt. The WAAFs would be eating out of his hand.
Carter absently scratched his right ankle while he ate. The skin was sore and giving him some grief. He’d lost one boot in the lake after the crash and the new pair he’d bought were giving him some trouble. His other boots had been lovely and soft and it had taken ages to break them in. These new ones were still stiff and they had been playing him up the entire time during the air test.
After lunch he went back to his room. He peeled back the sock and hissed. The skin on his right heel was red and there was a gorgeous blister coming up. He lanced it with a sewing needle and squeezed, watching the thick liquid leak out onto a tissue. He stuck a plaster over it and bit on his lip as it stung like blazes.
He lay back on his bed, notepad in his lap while he tried writing a letter to Georgette. He found it difficult trying to put his thoughts down on paper. He smiled to himself as he thought about their time together in York, how she’d felt under him, yielding to him, pushing back at him, how she’d looked at him with such intensity, like she was burning every moment into her mind.
The tannoy sounded and called the crews to briefing. Carter locked the pages in his drawer and shuffled off to the briefing room, favouring his right leg.
His earlier guess was proven correct when the squadron assembled in the briefing room and he saw the naval officer on the stage with the command staff. The room settled down and almost immediately, Dickinson yielded the floor to the visitor.
The naval officer stepped forwards to the edge of the stage, gripping the long pointer in both hands in front of him. All eyes were trained on this navy Lieutenant in hushed anticipation. Someone coughed and it was loud in the room. Carters mouth was dry, there was only one target which merited a personal visit, the Battleship Tirpitz, skulking in the German ports. It was a long way to the Baltic for a Manchester but he could almost hear the navy screaming for it to be sunk before it got into the Atlantic like the Bismarck had done.
“I’m not one for long flowery speeches gentlemen,” he said in the most cut glass accent Carter had ever heard. “I respect you chaps too much to blow a lot of sunshine about something that is so serious. Your target for tonight; is Brest.”
The room got even quieter if that was humanly possible. A pin dropping would have sounded like a hand grenade going off.
“For some time I know you’ve been raiding enemy held ports and going for his shipping. Capital ships can scythe through any convoy they come against and destroy the escort without ever letting them get into gun range. After that the transports are easy pickings.”
He walked over to the big map on the back wall and pointed out the German ports and some on the French coast.
“We managed to stop Bismarck but there’s no guarantee we can do that every time. Look at the mayhem, Graf Spee managed in the south Atlantic before she was brought to heel. Scharnhorst and Gneisenau sank over 100,000 tons the last time they broke out.” There was a murmur of disquiet when he quoted the tonnage figure. “I know you chaps have gone to Brest god knows how many times. I’m sure you’ve been told god knows how many times that it’s important. It must feel like you’re tilting at windmills, having to keep going back but we can’t afford to let them put to sea again.”
He rocked back on his heels as he considered what to say next. He turned around and walked to the back of the stage towards the map, speaking over his shoulder.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what makes this time so important that I’m here?” He span round and faced them. His knuckles gripped the pointer. “What’s different, is that we’ve had word that Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen have been making ready for sea.” That caught their attention.
“Intelligence indicates they’re going to move soon but we don’t know where they’re heading.” He gestured with the stick, sweeping down towards Gilbraltar. “If they get into the Mediterranean, we might lose Malta.” The stick swept towards the wide expanse of the Atlantic. “If it’s the Atlantic, well I think I’ve painted the picture in enough detail for you already.”
He came back to the front of the stage and let the stick thump on the floor, the point digging into the palm of his left hand.
“We’re not going to get many more chances to get in there and stop them before they can start. Sinking them or damaging them enough so that they can’t move won’t shorten the war, but it will stop it lasting longer.”
He handed the pointer to Dickinson who took his place on the stage.
“There it is gentlemen. I don’t think there’s anything else I can add that can emphasise how important this is. We’re putting up every aircraft we can. Maximum effort tonight. I know the last few days have brought a lot of change, but this raid is no different to any of the others we’ve flown. Concentrate, do your jobs, and get home and we’ll have the beers waiting for you.”
That produced a good humoured laugh and the mood lightened.
Carter kept bending down to scratch at his ankle. Walsh leaned over and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “constipated mate?”
“It’s my bloody boots,” he hissed back. He wiggled a finger down the boot and grimaced as it brushed against the plaster.
“I told you to piss on ‘em,” Walsh reminded him. Carter shot him
a cross look as he carried on rubbing. He wasn’t looking forward to flying tonight.
Dickinson handed over to Black Jack and the big man took centre stage, oozing confidence and command presence.
“I’ll not repeat the obvious. We’ve been there enough times I’m sure you could sketch it on a sheet of paper with your eyes closed. When this briefing concludes, individual bombs aimers see me and I will give you your target assignments. Tonight of all nights, I need you to drop when you’re sure you’re on target.” He punched his left fist into his right palm. “If you have to go around again, you go around again. If those bloody searchlights get in your eyes and you lose your aiming point, you go around again. If smoke blots out your view, you go around again!”
They went through the usual suspects. It was a full moon tonight so Linkletter told them to expect fantastic weather and clear visibility over the target.
Kent put up the same target photos they had seen god knows how many times already. The only difference was there were more bomb craters around the ships but they were still there in the middle of it all, the same brooding hulking shapes that defied all attempts to sink them.
“Eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” said Woods as they got on board.
They had been given Scharnhorst. He would have preferred Gneisenau. Covered by camouflage nets and moored against the quay, he would have the line of the harbour wall to follow and aim for. Scharnhorst on the other hand was towed out every night to a mooring point in the middle of the harbour. Woods would have to hit her bang on. A miss would go into the water and just make a very big splash.
He started unpacking his things from his new navigators bag. Everything had gone down in the lake in the crash. He sharpened a pencil and opened the navigators logbook to a new page. He wrote the date and checked the time on his watch as he thought about his leave to London.
He’d taken Jensen to the same hotel they had stayed in before Christmas. It was still the same drab grey city. Full of bustle, rubble and odd glimmers of beauty amongst the destruction. They caught a show, ate well and relaxed.
He unfolded the map and glanced at the track he had sketched out. He twirled the pencil between his fingers as he pondered the timings. They were going to be one of the last off, bringing up the rear of the raid. Woods grimaced. Tail end charley again. The engines started with a roar and Carter taxied out.
No one went off the peri track this time and the squadron got off on schedule. Their new L-London flew like a dream. She rode the night time air like an eagle and easily got up to 15,000ft. Navigation was a doddle. The sky was bright and it was a virtually cloudless night.
They picked up the pinpoint on the peninsula, the snow dusted countryside contrasting sharply with the dark water around it. They had no trouble locating Brest. The skyline was lit up with the flashes of bombs and flak, the glare of flames and searchlights weaving back and forth.
There was a sudden blossom of light in the sky and then a streak of flame rushed to the ground. Jensen called out the sighting and Woods made a note in his log. That was the fourth one he had noted tonight. He closed the log and went up to the cockpit.
“I’m going to get ready, skipper,” he shouted in Carters ear. Carter nodded and gave him a thumbs up. Jensen folded up his seat and let Woods go down into the nose.
Carter came in from the west to cross the length of the harbour like they had once before. The searchlights were late picking them up and Woods could see Scharnhorst in the middle of the harbour. Her guns flickered as they fired into the night sky. He started passing corrections to Carter as the sight drifted.
The searchlights caught them in the final run up. Woods held up a hand to shield his eyes. He felt naked, like a deer caught in a cars headlights as the interior of the dark fuselage was illuminated by thousands of watts of candle power. In the final seconds, Woods lost it. The Battleship disappeared in the glare and he had no idea if he was sighted on empty water or the Scharnhorst.
“I’ve lost her!” he shouted.
Carter cursed. They bounced around as the flak boxed them in. A burst went off in front of them and the Manchester surged through the smoke, the stench of sulphur filling the cockpit. He climbed as they peeled off to the right, circling round to the south, away from the city. Carter wanted more height before going back in.
On the other side of the city, Dickinson was finding things equally difficult. He had already made two runs and each time the searchlights had blinded him. He made his third run from the east. This time he closed the throttles, gliding down from 12,000ft to 6,000ft. The flak nailed him as he let the bombs go.
Bracketed by two bursts, the fuselage was perforated. His mid upper gunner was killed outright and his tail gunner was trapped in his turret as the hydraulics let go. Oil leaked out of the port engine in a steady stream, covering the rear fin. The undercarriage dropped and Dickinson fought the controls as the wheels added extra drag.
Jensen shrank into himself as they made two more runs. Each time, the searchlights coned them and the flak bounced them around and he found it difficult to concentrate on his job. He jumped as the windscreen starred in front of him with a loud crack.
“This is getting tired, Woody,” Carter said through clenched teeth. He gripped the yoke hard, fighting to keep the nose on course. The Manchester fought him as she bucked through the turbulent air.
“Nothing!” shouted Woods. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”
Carter snarled and broke off to port. He let the nose dip below the horizon and watched the altimeter unwind. Passing ten thousand he flattened out and headed inland. Coming in from the south had failed; perhaps they might have better luck attacking from the north.
The flak batteries were still going mad when they came back in. Carter took a wide circle, keeping his eyes on the harbour. The searchlights weaved around, probing for a new victim. They found it. A luckless Hampden was fixed in their glare and the flak began walking upwards. Carter rammed the throttles forward, the engines screaming full belt as they turned in.
“Get ready, Woody. I really don’t want to have to do this again.”
It was all on Woods this time. If he didn’t drop the bombs on this run, it would be even money the crew would lynch him when they got back; if they got back, he contemplated for the first time.
They passed over the harbour at eight thousand. Carter felt naked as a searchlight washed over them. He steeled himself for the flak but it never came.
Woods got lined up, passed a correction and Carter kicked on the rudder pedal to snap the nose back around. Woods waited one more second for the sight to settle and hit the release.
Carter stuffed the nose down, peeling off to the right as he called round the crew. They checked in briskly and breathed a sigh of relief as Brest disappeared behind them.
Woods felt like an old man when he sagged back into his navigators chair. He rubbed a gloved hand over his face and wiped the sweat away. He glanced at his chart and asked Murphy and Todd to get him a pinpoint. He picked his log off the floor and paused. He tugged a glove off and poked a finger in the hole that went right through it. Cold air tickled his face and found a ragged hole to his left in the skin of the fuselage.
Jensen eased off on the throttles and they slowly climbed into the night. His nerves were jangling and it took him a while to settle back down. None of the previous raids had been anything like this.
“Did anyone see the bombs go off?” he asked. No one had. Todd was blinded by a searchlight that had chased them out of the harbour. They would have to wait for the target photograph when they got back.
Carter was never so relieved when they touched down back at Amber Hill. His arms were like lead. He’d not felt so exhausted even by the end of his first tour. He’d let Jensen fly them back and only took the controls again to land. He felt like he could sleep for a week. Those five runs had really taken it out of him even with Jensen’s help.
That had been his fifteenth op. He was halfway through his tour and if the re
st of them were like that, he wondered if he was going to make it. He tempered that gloomy thought with the knowledge that at least they were among the lucky ones who had made it back. The price of their clear run in to the Scharnhorst had been the Hampden they saw coned by the searchlights. It had twisted like a minnow, diving and swooping trying to shake them off, but the guns got them in the end, as they always did.
The erks scowled as they looked at the damage. The fuselage and wings were peppered with holes and Latimer shook his head as he counted the holes on the underside of the fuselage. The new L-London was not so new any more.
Kent was waiting in interrogation with his staff, hovering like a pack of vultures.
“Describe the target?”
“Where there any particular differences in the defences to what you had seen before?”
“Did you hit the target?”
“What were the defences like?”
And so on. Pick, pick, pick questions that grated on the soul. It was quite easy to become flippant in your responses back, even if it was a girl asking the questions. For some of the intel staff it had almost become a game, being able to extract blood from stones was probably easier than getting the little details from tired men with red raw eyes and nerves on edge.
There would always be a wall between the ground types and the crews. They hadn’t seen what they had, how could they? How could you really describe the bittersweet horror of seeing a Hampden, or a Manchester or a Stirling or a Halifax go down, fuel tanks blazing like a Roman candle. Bitter because men were dying, sweet because it was not you and you had been spared once more.
Group Captain Etheridge and the naval Lieutenant floated around the room, listening to the crews as they made their reports. Dickinson had yet to return and Etheridge waited anxiously for the New Zealander to breeze through the door, his face split with that familiar gap toothed smile.
Maximum Effort Page 37
