For once, Walsh was one of the first back. He sailed in and the ground staff cheered before he taxied smartly towards dispersal. Fish Salmon was the next to return. He had a nasty hole in his port wing and he landed gingerly, bouncing twice before getting it on the ground. Three more straggled in over the next ten minutes, then there was a sudden rush, like last orders at the pub. Five Manchester’s arrived one after the other. Some had to circle and wait their turn.
Carter looked for the ID letter on each one as they went past the tower but there had been no L-London yet. He found the waiting agony. Nothing was under his control, he just had to stand there and wait. Church could see how keyed up he was but there was little he could do about it.
Finally, L-London arrived. The tyres squealed as they kissed the runway, the big bomber bounced, once, twice and then stayed down. There was a shower of sparks out of the starboard engine as Jensen closed the throttles.
“My god!” someone exclaimed. There was a huge hole in the port rudder and as it trundled past the tower, Carter could see the tail turret had been damaged. Some of the perspex was missing and his heart was in his mouth as he imagined Todd mangled inside. Even as L-London was turning off onto the peri track, he was pelting down the stairs, chasing after her.
There was the roar of a car engine behind him and Carter waved his arms at the ambulance. It obligingly slowed down and he jumped onto the running board on the passenger side.
“Follow that kite,” he shouted, pointing after his disappearing aircraft. The ambulance caught L-London up and kept pace alongside her as she went back to her dispersal. Someone waved to Carter from the mid upper turret but he couldn’t see who it was.
Jensen dabbed the brakes, gunned the port engine and L-London swung one hundred eighty degrees to face back the way she had come. Latimer appeared out front with his arms held high and he watched as erks dashed in from under the wing and jammed big wooden chocks in front of the main tyres. Once they were in place, Latimer dropped his arms and Jensen cut the switches. The deafening racket from the engines died away as the props windmilled to a stop.
Even before the engines stopped, Carter was off and running, the medic from the ambulance hot on his heels. An erk was putting the ladder in place at the rear entry hatch as it opened. Murphy jumped down and shouted at them to hurry up. Blood was splashed across his face and his eyes were wild. The medic bounded up the ladder into the dark fuselage. Vos was crouched over Todd up by the main spar.
“I’m bloody fine,” roared Todd. “It’s just a headache!” He tried getting up and winced as the pain washed over him. His flying jacket had a ragged red hole in it around the stomach area. Carter wanted to know the trick because the Australian shouldn’t have been alive with a wound that big.
Todd had no idea just how big a mess he looked until they got him out of the Manchester and into the ambulance. A bullet had creased across the top of his head and ploughed a furrow. Dried blood covered his face, his neck and had run down his chest. The medics slapped a fresh dressing on the wound and whipped him off to the hospital.
Carter went round to the nose as Jensen climbed down. His second dicky looked wrung out, he blinked back fatigue as he dumped his parachute pack on the ground.
“Hey, skipper.”
“Welcome back.”
“Rough ride,” said Jensen. His hands were shaking while he tried to fish a cigarette out of its pack. Giving it up as a bad job, he stretched, digging his hands into his back. He rolled his neck and worked his jaw, trying to make his ears go pop. He turned to look at L-London but it took him a few seconds to take it all in.
“Bloody hell.”
“Shaky do, sir?” asked Latimer. Jensen nodded.
“When can you have her ready?” Carter enquired.
“Don’t know yet, sir.” Latimer disappeared to answer a query.
“Bloody 88 nailed us over the target,” Jensen said bitterly. “Spud got him I think, scared him off anyway. He gave us a hell of slap on the backside.”
Everything had been going fine until they reached the target when searchlights had coned them on the final run in. Half blind, Jensen had dived and thrown the Manchester around the sky to escape the grip of the light. Flak had battered them and just as they were sorting themselves out, the nightfighter had pounced.
Carter tugged on his arm, trying to get him into the truck but Jensen pulled away and walked towards the tail. Carter didn’t stop him, he had seen that look before. Jensen was riding high on adrenalin right now, every sense finely tuned.
The left rudder had a huge lump out of it and the elevator hung down drunkenly. Latimer appeared from underneath and hooked a thumb back at it.
“Cables are sheared on that side, sir.”
Carter was impressed. To get back with that kind of damage took an outstanding feat of airmanship.
“Come on,” said Carter, tugging his second pilot towards the waiting truck, “you can tell me all about it.”
It helped to talk and get it out of your system. Jensen did most of the talking at interrogation but the rest chipped in where they could. Kent struggled to keep up taking his notes.
Six hours later they visited Todd in the small station infirmary. A Nissen hut had been turned into a ward for minor injuries. A nurses station was at one end and there were ten beds, five down each side of the hut with a central aisle. The nurse balked at being descended on en masse. Carter sweet talked her round and got them fifteen minutes.
“No more mind,” she told them, her tone stern. “We mustn’t tire him out.”
Todd was sat up in bed, noisily discussing the nights raid with the bomb aimer. His head was swathed in bandages. He was very pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. He perked up considerably when his crew flooded in and surrounded his bed. Murphy handed over a bar of chocolate which was quickly stashed under the sheets. “Typical digger,” chided Murphy, “Anything to get out of ops.”
Todd objected rudely, blowing a raspberry and flicking the ‘V’s at Murphy.
“Anyone got anything strong?” he asked hopefully. Woods hitched his chair closer to the bed and cleared his throat. He looked around shiftily before producing a small hip flask from his tunic pocket.
“The good stuff,” he said, holding the flask out. Todd unscrewed the cap and upended it. “Puts hairs on your chest,” Woods told him.
Todd coughed and some Whisky spilled down his chin. He winced as pain shot through his head, a stabbing flare that went from front to back across his scalp.
“Jesus, that was good,” he breathed. His eyes were watering but he was smiling. The nurse stood up from their table at the end of the hut but Todd ignored her. “They’re all bitches in this place,” he muttered. “They woke me at eight this morning and gave me a bloody sponge bath, like I was an invalid.”
“You are an invalid,” Murphy reminded him. Todd gingerly fingered the dressing.
“This is just a scratch,” he said bullishly. He had asked for a mirror when they changed his dressings and saw the channel the cannon shell had gouged across the top of his scalp. He counted himself lucky. Another inch or two lower and it would have taken his head off.
The 88 had just appeared out of nowhere. Swooping on them from above, it had opened fire at close range, raking their backside. All Todd remembered was a bright flash and a massive thump across the head and a slap in his stomach before the world went dark. One round even passed through his trouser leg missing the skin by inches.
The controls had jerked out of Jensen’s grip and the damaged Manchester had plunged towards the ground, probably the only thing that saved them. The searchlights lost them and the fighter broke off. Woods dumped the bombs while he clung on for dear life in the nose as they went down.
It took every scrap of strength Jensen and their terrified temporary second dicky could muster to pull them out of that dive. This was no surprise now, considering they only had one elevator, but they didn’t know that at the time. They had pulled out over t
he burning city at three thousand feet, rocked by flak and the roiled heated air from the fires. It had been a long flight back. Jensen had to have the yoke pulled right back into his stomach just to keep it level. They undulated up and down, taking it in turns as their arms got tired.
The rear turret doors had been jammed solid and it took them twenty minutes hacking away with the fire axe to get them open. When they first saw Todd slumped over his guns they thought he was a goner. Air shrieked past the gashes in the turret, howling like a banshee. They dragged him back to the main spar and propped him up.
His face had been covered in blood and his stomach and legs were wet with red. Vos shot him up with some morphine expecting the worst. When Woods opened his jacket he’d expected to find his guts hanging out, instead he found a damaged thermos flask tucked inside his clothes. A 20mm round had hit the flask and doused the Australian in tomato soup, lucky boy indeed.
They talked for a few more minutes and then the nurse looked pointedly at the clock on the wall. They took the hint and shuffled out. Carter split off from them and went to see the MO about his cold.
He sat on a bench opened his mouth, got prodded and poked and was told to get dressed again. The doctor wrote on his notes.
“Excellent progress,” he said, putting the lid on the fountain pen. “A few more days like that and you’ll be fit to fly. “
Carter groaned, realising there were no short cuts round this one. The doctor sent him on his way and Carter poked his head round the CO’s door. Church was surrounded by paperwork and Saunderson was shoving various bits of paper under his nose for signature. Church waved him in and pointed to a chair in front of his desk.
“What can I do for you, Mister Carter?” he asked as he peered at an Air Ministry directive. “The doctors already told me your prognosis.”
“Isn’t that a breach of some rule?” Carter asked.
“Of course not, old chap,” Church soothed. “Make it quick, we’re on again tonight.” Carter nodded, he’d heard the tannoy announcing briefing at four. The air was already alive with the sound of aircraft being air tested.
“I wanted to recommend, Jensen for the DFM.”
Church put his pen down and propped his chin on his hands. He nodded and reached for a bit of paper.
“I thought you might,” he waved a copy of Kent’s interrogation form. “Write me something up and I’ll sign it, I think he deserves it too after last night.” He glanced at his watch. “Now you better get some sleep, I want you in Ops again tonight.”
Carter controlled himself enough not to groan. He wanted another night in ops like he wanted a gammy leg. The only consolation was he wouldn’t be sweating the wait until his crew got back this time. Due to the losses last night, there were more crews than kites so Church was giving his mob the night off.
Before he turned in, Carter strolled over to the hangars to find Latimer and his crew slaving away on L-London. They had been working hard. The rear turret had already been taken off and was sat on a trolley. Sand had been scattered underneath to soak up a puddle of leaking hydraulic fluid. The damaged rudder had been removed and they were in the middle of clearing the runs of debris to rig new elevator cables on both sides.
He peered at the turret. Everywhere was smeared in red although exactly which was blood and which was tomato soup wasn’t clear. The port side was torn up. The perspex was starred and panels were missing. A 20mm shell had exploded at the back of the turret and made a right mess of the feeds for the ammo trays.
Latimer came over wiping his hands on some cotton waste. He looked exhausted and Carter doubted he had been to bed.
“She looks a lot worse than she is, sir,” Latimer assured him.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“A few days and we’ll have her ready for you, sir.”
“Just don’t kill yourself doing it,” Carter responded.
Latimer grunted and went back to work. Dog tired, Carter went back to his billet to find Walsh buried under a mound of blankets, snoring away as always.
38 - Paraskevi
Carter glared at the offending aircraft above him. For once, it wasn’t the engines that had let them down. Latimer and his erks had worked their usual miracle and four days after being shot up, L-London was ready to be airtested. Carter had taken her up only for the hydraulics to fail. The rear of the fuselage was awash with hydraulic fluid and a steady trickle was spilling out of a previously unpatched bullet hole. It looked like the stricken bomber was having a piss on the tarmac.
Murphy got out and squelched his way over to the crew truck, his pants soaked with hydraulic fluid. Todd followed, quiet and a little more subdued than usual. Jensen was bickering with Vos and Woods over a Lord Haw Haw broadcast they’d heard on the radio the night before.
Carter noted the bomb symbols painted under his cockpit window on the port side. There were nineteen little bombs. One more and he had a weeks leave coming, seven days away from the madness with Georgette. He mentally heaped abuse on the MO. If the cold hadn’t grounded him, he would already be on leave. The squadron had flown three nights on the trot to Essen. 363 got lucky and only lost one more aircraft on the 9th and 10th, making it five crews and six aircraft for the three nights of operations.
The closest Carter had got to the action was flying a desk next to Wheeler in ops each night. He’d had to endure another night of agony on the 10th when the CO borrowed Woods after his own navigator had been wounded the night before. Woods had been phlegmatic about the experience on his return, “he’s okay, skipper, but he isn’t you.” Carter rather liked that compliment.
Sitting and watching on the sidelines while his own crew were up was hard and he’d told Georgette as much when he saw her yesterday. She’d silently sipped her drink while she listened to him. She could see new lines of strain by his eyes and could tell he wasn’t sleeping even if he neglected to mention it.
He threw a glare at his broken bomber one last time and went over to the truck. He just knew something was going to happen, it was Friday the 13th after all. The sense of doom he always had on this day had descended as soon as he woke up. Even as a child he’d never ventured far and always stayed inside if he could. As he got older he would never ride on public transport or even get on a bicycle, let alone drive a car. Dumb superstition it may have been but he was always overwhelmed with a terrible sense of foreboding and there was little anyone could do to convince him otherwise. When Latimer told him L-London was ready for an airtest he was less than thrilled.
In a black mood, he had rounded up his crew and trudged out to dispersal. Sat in the cockpit he moved the yoke around. New elevator cables had been rigged and he was happy with the movement. Then the hydraulics had decided not to play along and spoiled everything. Latimer had been very apologetic, taking it personally that his aircraft had failed. Carter assured him it was fine but inside he was just relieved it hadn’t been anything more serious like an engine fire.
The day took a further turn for the worse when the tannoy summoned them to briefing. This was it, something he had avoided all his life and now tonight of all nights, he was being asked to go out and fight. To round things off, with L-London U/S they would be going in the squadron spare, Q-Queen.
Briefing passed by him like a blur. The target was Cologne, but if anyone had asked him for any details, he’d have just given them a blank look. It took him an age to get ready and his limbs felt so heavy he needed a hand to pull him up into the back of the truck. He felt sick to his stomach as he tried to concentrate while doing his usual walk around.
He wasn’t the only one battling personal demons. In the tail, Todd was steeling himself for the coming mission. It was his first time going up since he’d been wounded. In truth, he should probably have still been tucked up nice and warm in a hospital bed but he’d talked the MO into passing him fit. When he shut the turret doors behind him, it had felt like a coffin lid closing on top of him. He tried keeping himself busy. He checked the guns,
the belt feeds and spent ten minutes polishing the perspex.
Once he’d done that, he just sat for a while, staring at the grass outside in the dark. They would run the tractor towed mower over it soon, then there would that wonderful smell of freshly cut grass, the smell of spring. He jumped out of his skin when Murphy knocked on the turret doors and opened them.
“Come on, we’ll be starting up in a minute.”
Todd nodded dumbly and got out of the turret, making his way up the fuselage to the back of the main spar. The engines started, the fuselage vibrated from the raw power and he bit down hard on his lip as they started moving.
They took off at nine and climbed into the night sky. Q-Queen needed virtually the entire runway to get off the ground. Carter took his time. He got the wheels up fast but held her low, just clearing the trees at the far end. He let the airspeed build up before climbing slowly away. Jensen looked sideways at him. He knew something was wrong because Carter wasn’t his normal self. He was tense, almost leaning over the yoke and he barely blinked. Jensen put his hands lightly on the controls.
“I’ll take her for a bit if you want, skipper?”
There was no verbal reply, but Carter nodded and released the controls. Jensen took over and nursed Q-Queen ever higher. He hadn’t flown her before, but he’d heard Todd and Murphy moaning about their previous experience in her. Not much had changed. She was still the hack spare that was used and abused by everyone on the squadron.
Jensen got them up to twelve thousand feet as they crossed the coast, following the line of the Haringvliet, an estuary of the Rhine-Meuse delta. Carter took over as they skirted north of Eindhoven and ran east.
Ahead of them was the Ruhr, the industrial heartland of Germany. All the popular Bomber Command holiday destinations were found here and Carter knew them by heart, Essen, Duisberg, Hamm, Dortmund, Oberhausen and Gelsenkirchen. Even at altitude you could smell the poisonous fumes of the chimney smoke, the chemical tang stinging the nostrils.
Maximum Effort Page 45
