Linkletter spent hours scrutinising the meteorological reports, updating his charts. At briefing, he predicted clear skies aided by bright moonlight but there was a good chance of heavy cloud on the return with the possibility of some fog. It might clear as a low pressure front moved in.
The raid was a shambles, they fought headwinds all the way there to find the area blanketed in 10/10ths cloud. Large fires and searchlights made the clouds glow and Flak guns fired blind at them through the clag. They never saw a sniff of the target so they released their bombs on a cluster of red flares and struggled home.
On such a bright night, the nightfighters were active and claimed a number of easy victims. Todd and Murphy spent a tense few hours, straining to see in the dark. Vos kept watch from the astrodome while Flynn froze in the front turret.
363 had one early return and lost two aircraft that night. Neither of the casualties were from his Flight. One was shot down not long after crossing the Dutch coast. The other was caught by flak over the target.
Carter had five hours restless sleep then got up. He had a frank discussion with Pullen then took a Lanc up for a test. After lunch he summoned Pilot Officer Lambeth. He’d come to the squadron just after they converted onto Lancs but he only had a handful of ops to his name due to a number of early returns. The subject of some gossip in the Mess, Lambeth was becoming labelled a fringe merchant. He’d come back early last night as well and Carter decided that something needed to be done.
There was a nasty phrase that could be used for this, LMF; Lack of Moral Fibre. LMF was the bogey man that stalked squadrons and claimed victims in the night like Jack The Ripper. It wasn’t something that could be defined very easily.
A chap might be fine one night and then on the next op, it just became one too many. The spark would be gone and pressing on regardless of risk no longer held any attractions. There were other names for it like Twitch. Men who lost their nerve were shuffled off a station quickly before the sickness spread to others. Their files were stamped with a big red W, for Waverer. Officers lost their commissions and were booted out of the service. NCO’s were reduced in the ranks and given menial tasks for the remainder of their service life, forever reviled and whispered about.
Carter had seen some decent men sacrificed on the altar of necessity because the stress and strains had become too much. He also knew that it was not such a cut and dried issue as some might think. Someone might have just had a child and suddenly started worrying about whether or not they would live to see them grow up. A chap might have just seen his best friend get his head blown off, or not return from an op. There was lot to play on a mans mind. A gunner on Carter’s last squadron had walked into the CO’s office one day and torn off his Air Gunners brevet badge and quit, just like that. He’d done twenty trips. He had never been wounded but he’d reached his limit and that was it.
Applying his instructor rationale, Carter was not prepared to make a snap judgement; but it didn’t look good for Lambeth. He wanted to talk to him about it first to see what he had to say.
There was a knock on the door and he came in, a tall figure with rounded shoulders. A shock of ginger hair topped a pale nervous face. Lambeth remained at attention and Carter did not invite him to sit down which spoke volumes in itself.
“I have a decision to make, Lambeth. It’s not a pleasant one and it will be the hardest decision I’ve had to make since I took up command of the Flight.”
Lambeth swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Carter closed the training record and put the file to one side. He shot a look at Lambeth, conscious of the fact he was looking at himself as he had been eighteen months ago, fresh and untainted.
“You returned early last night,” he said directly.
“Yes sir.”
“And it’s not the first time,” Carter said, his tone accusatory.
“Yes, sir,” Lambeth replied, his voice flat.
“What do you have to say?”
“I had engine problems,” Lambeth said simply, as if those four words were explanation enough.
“And last night?” he asked, pushing for more detail.
“I couldn’t get above nine thousand, sir. The starboard engines weren’t giving full power. I wasn’t about to risk my crew at that height, I’d have been a sitting duck.”
That was a reasonable explanation. A year ago, nine thousand was just about okay. Today, the flak would blow you out of the sky. Carter just had one problem with what Lambeth said.
“It might interest you to know that I flew your aircraft this morning.” Carter stared hard at him, looking for a discernible reaction. “Squadron Leader Pullen checked it out as well. He couldn’t find anything wrong and neither could I.”
“I’m not making this up, sir,” Lambeth protested. “I couldn’t get any power to climb last night.”
Carter nodded slowly. Little things could make all the difference. One or two things could dent your confidence and all of a sudden, a little fault became a bigger issue.
“I know there are teething problems. I also know that you seem to have had more than your fair share of them. People are starting to talk.” Lambeth flinched at that. “Do you really want LMF stamped on your service jacket?”
“No, sir,” said Lambeth, his voice quiet as his composure cracked. He shuffled on his feet and his chin dropped.
“Then get a grip man!” Carter shouted. “I’ve seen nineteen year old boys shaking with fear but it didn’t stop them going out there and going off to war. You’ve got mens lives in your hands. They’re relying on you to lead them. If you don’t do this, you’re going to regret it the rest of your life.”
The silence grew heavy as Carter let that sink in. He sat back in his chair and looked at Lambeth, unimpressed.
“So there it is. You have two options. You’re either going to go on the next op; or your going to be posted from here. I need crews that will press on despite the difficulties but not take foolhardy risks.”
An image of Archer flashed into Carter’s head when he said that. Archer, the man who had pushed his luck just once too often. At that moment, Carter softened ever so slightly.
“There’s a fine line between caution and cowardice,” he said softly.
“I’m not a coward…sir,” Lambeth replied immediately, finally stung into a response. For a moment, his eyes flashed defiance, nostrils flaring, his face flushed.
“Then I look forward to seeing that. You can go, Lambeth.”
Dismissed, Lambeth left the office. Carter sat back and turned to his paperwork. Before he could even get started there was a hard knock on the door and Everett poked his head round.
“We’re on again for tonight. Op orders coming through now.”
Carter almost shot out of his seat, the admin forgotten in an instant. It looked like Lambeth was going to have to show his mettle sooner than he thought.
Church led the squadron that night while Everett took a turn in Ops. Still smarting from the earlier rebuke, Lambeth was surprised to see Carter waiting for him at dispersal. He came out of the ramshackle hut the erks used, a mug of tea in his hand.
“Bright night, mister Lambeth,” he said cordially.
“If you say so, sir,” Lambeth replied stiffly.
“Let’s have a walk around shall we?”
Carter passed no comment as he watched Lambeth go through his pre-flight checks. He got into his aircraft to get settled before start up. Carter went back into the erks hut and emerged a few minutes later with his flying kit on.
Woods had thought he was mad when he first mentioned this idea in the afternoon.
“Don’t do it, skipper,” he pleaded. “We can’t lose you now.”
“You’re not going to lose me,” Carter had assured him although they both knew that was an empty sentiment. “Todd’s extending his tour,” he said in his defence. Woods had snorted.
“That’s different. Skipper, if you do this you’ll just be a passenger waiting for the chop.”
It had seemed like an inspired piece of leadership earlier. Now, climbing up the ladder into the nose, Woods words came back to haunt him. Carter would be exactly that tonight; a passenger.
“Don’t mind me,” he said as he came into the cockpit. “Just pretend I’m not here,” he suggested.
They took off and Lambeth was cautious, nursing the engines. During the climb, the crew bantered on the R/T, chatting freely, very relaxed even with the extra passenger on board who could hear everything. The talk continued after they crossed the coast and were on their way. Carter had promised himself he wouldn’t do this, but finally, he had enough. He cut in on the R/T and demanded silence.
“Accidents waiting to happen, the lot of you!” he raged. “God knows how you’ve survived so far. How can you do your jobs if you’re constantly jabbering.”
He looked around the cockpit, taking in the airspace. He saw another Lanc above them to port about half a mile away.
“Was anyone going to report seeing that?” his voice flayed them. “Wake up gunners! That’s your job!”
He did the rounds of each station, giving them something to do. Carter lashed them all the way there and back. They were slow getting to height and he nagged at Lambeth.
“Height is life. You know that. A few extra thousand over the target makes all the difference. You should be climbing hard all the way there.”
Lambeth nodded curtly and increased their angle of climb. After staring at the sky through the astrodome, Carter was bored and his legs were aching from standing. He had never been such a spare part before. Even when White and Jensen had been flying, he would be right there, watching them and evaluating their performance. As an OTU instructor he had stood watching but never for this amount of time.
After another hour he went down into the nose to have a look see. The bomb aimer got up and shouted in his ear, “I need to go to the loo.” Carter nodded and the man squeezed past him.
Carter lay down and looked out of the bomb aimers bubble. He had never been in the nose before during an op. The moon was bright and the tops of the clouds were almost glowing.
The flak started not long after that. A constant scatter of explosions above and below the clouds. Carter could feel the pock, pock, pock, as a cluster of shells went off near by. There was a flash ahead of them and then a long streak of flame heading for the ground.
“Kite going down in front of us, about three miles on track,” he reported.
“Navigator, note that please,” Lambeth ordered crisply.
The flak continued to jolt them around and Carter hung on, a mere spectator. There was a tap on his shoulder. The bomb aimer was back. He checked his watch, half an hour had gone by. They swapped places and Carter lingered for a few more minutes, looking over his shoulder before going back up to the cockpit.
He went back to the navigators station and looked at the chart. He went up to the astrodome and looked around. Either side of him was the great sweep of the wings, the yellow tipped spinning discs of the props glittering as they caught the moonlight.
The big bomber undulated along. Carter always thought it was eerie. It was black as far as the eye could see but he knew that there were over one hundred other aircraft out there, all heading in the same direction.
The undulations turned into heavy bouncing and buffeting. Lambeth leaned over the yoke, peering forward. Carters eyes went wide with sudden realisation.
“Take her down, NOW!” he shouted into the R/T
To his credit, Lambeth didn’t question. He reacted on instinct and the Lancaster plunged down. Carter clung on as a Handley Page Halifax loomed out of the darkness above them. They missed each other by a few feet.
“Jesus, that must have given their tail gunner a scare,” said Lambeths’ engineer.
“What about me?” shouted the bomb aimer. When he saw the twin tail of the Halifax appear in front of him, he really thought that was it.
Carter blew out his cheeks. That had been too close. That was another one of his lives gone. The crew chattered for a few minutes, getting the surge of adrenalin out of their system. Lambeth let them talk and then called them to heel, getting them to settle down and focus.
“Lunatic. Raving lunatic, that’s what you are!” Church shouted. He strode back and forth in Etheridge’s office in agitation. He was still in his flying gear and his eyes were wild. He stopped pacing and stood in front of Carter. “Are you out of your mind? What on earth possessed you to do it?”
“I felt I needed to lead by example, sir. Show them I believed in them.”
Church almost laughed. He shrugged off his flying jacket and dumped it on the chair in front of Etheridge’s desk.
“There are other ways to do that.”
“Maybe. But Lambeth is in my flight. I wanted him to see he had my trust. I’m not prepared to tar someone as LMF until I’m sure.”
“And what do you think now?”
“Lambeth just needed some confidence in the kite and his own abilities. He’ll be okay I think.” All the anger and frustration seeped out of Church. He turned to the station commander. “Do you want to add anything, sir”
Etheridge scratched his cheek slowly and stared at Carter.
“No. I think you’ve covered everything. That’s all, Carter; just don’t do it again.”
After he left, Church looked at Etheridge.
“How do we go about getting the silly sod a medal?”
53 - Unreasonable Haste Is The Direct Road To Error
The early morning recce photos showed the Bosch factory was untouched. Harris sent them back to Stuttgart for the third night in a row. It was Rostock all over again but there was no great fire this time, no great pall of smoke to mark where they had been.
Ground haze foxed them and decoy fires drew the main force north, with most of the bombs falling around Heilbronn twenty miles away. The Ruhr remained a problem to be solved.
After three nights on the trot, there were no ops the next night. The beer flowed in the Mess and the squadron let its hair down. Two bicycles were produced and the sofas were moved around to create a space. The men divided into two teams for a relay race. Each rider had to do a lap of the room while drinking from a pint pot. The Flight Commanders went first.
Everett had the lead until he tipped his head back to finish his pint off. He couldn’t see where he was going and missed turning the corner. He ploughed into a knot of men and was thrown over the handlebars. He ended in a tangle of limbs and by the time he struggled free he was well behind. He also had to pay a penalty and drink an extra pint for dropping his own.
Carter got back to the start, finished off his pint and then handed the bike over to Harding who promptly shot off round the course with a comfortable lead. Despite the early advantage, 'B' Flight lost after it turned out the middle runners didn’t know how to ride a bicycle. They fell, crashed, got up, fell again and straggled round the circuit before getting back to the start.
The party went into the night and for once, Carter didn’t leave early. After three busy days he needed to relax. At around one, things were starting to wind down and Carter decided he’d had enough.
He staggered along with Woods as they supported each other on the way back to their billet. Halfway there they stopped at a bench and collapsed onto it. Woods finished off a bottle of beer he had been carrying. He banged the bottle and peered at the spout, seeing if any more would come out. When he was sure it was empty he chucked it over his shoulder.
“Are you planning any more joyrides, skipper?”
“Not in the near future, no,” Carter slurred.
“Good.” Woods fished in his pockets for a cigarette and came up empty. “Don’t do it again, please.”
“What are you, my mother?”
“Yes I bloody am,” Woods said shortly. “At this moment? I am. You know I’m the poor sod who would have to tell, Georgette if something happened to you. What would I tell her?”
“Yeah, well….,” Carter said
guiltily. Woods levered himself up.
“Come on, let’s get to bed.”
Merlin was waiting for them. As the door opened, a furry blonde missile shot towards them and bowled them over. They lay on the ground seeing stars while the Labrador went from one to the other, tail wagging as he licked their faces. Woods hauled himself up and took the dog for a walk while Carter poured himself into bed.
He woke up refreshed and went for a walk. When he got back, Woods bed was empty. He fussed Merlin for a few minutes, shaved, put on a fresh uniform and went for breakfast, his stomach growling.
He found Vos and Woods in the Mess, hunched over their food. Neither of them looked very energetic. Carter had a tough time deciding which of them was more green around the gills. Woods was nibbling on toast, while Vos was struggling to cope with a bowl of porridge. He left them to it and went to dispersal. Latimer was there as usual.
“Morning, sir.”
“Everything okay?”
“Top notch, sir.”
“How are the men holding up?” he asked.
“Some of them are pretty tired,” the NCO said. “Three days on the trot is asking a lot.”
Carter nodded in understanding. It was no mean feat getting a Lancaster ready for war. Kites had to be serviced and tested. An engine change could add hours to a working day. In good weather, that wasn’t so bad, but Carter remembered the winter months when the crews had worked on the kites in all weathers.
Latimer felt sorry for the armourers. He was content keeping one aircraft in top condition. The armourers had to clean and service all the guns and each Lancaster had eight .303 Browning machine guns. All of the ammunition had to be belted up and that was thousands of rounds.
Finally, before every op, the bombs had to be made ready. That was a detail job. You couldn’t rush something like that. Personally, Latimer considered anyone who mucked about with explosives to be mentally unstable.
Maximum Effort Page 59
