Paul Brickhill

by The Dam Busters

  At precisely 9.25, Gibson in “G for George.” Martin in “P for Popsie,” and Hopgood, in “M for Mother,” punched the buttons of the booster coils and the wisps of blue smoke spurted as the engines whined and spun explosively, first the port inners, the starboard inners, the port outers and the starboard outers. They were going through their cockpit drill while the crews settled at take-off stations, running the engines up to zero boost and testing the magnetoes. A photographer’s flash-bulb went off by Gibson’s aircraft; Cochrane was there too, standing clear of the slipstream. Fay stood by “P Popsie,” waggling her fingers encouragingly at the crew.

  “G for George” waddled forward with the shapeless bulk under its belly, taxied to the south fence, swung its long snout to the north and waited, engines turning quietly. “P Popsie” turned slowly in on the left, and “M Mother” on the right. Gibson rattled out the monotonous orders of his final check.

  “Flaps thirty.”

  Pulford, the engineer, pumped down 30 degrees of flap and repeated, “Flaps thirty.”

  “Radiators open.”

  “Radiators open.”

  “Throttles locked.”

  Pulford checked the nut on the throttle unit.

  “Throttles locked.”

  “Prepare to take off,” Gibson said and checked through to all the crew on the intercom. “O.K., rear gunner?” “O.K.” And then all the others. He leaned forward with his thumb up, looking to left and then to right, and Martin and Hopgood raised their thumbs back. Pulford closed his hand over the four throttles and pushed till the engines deepened their note and the aircraft was throbbing… straining; then Gibson flicked his brakes off, there was the hiss of compressed air and they were rolling, all three of them, engineers sliding the throttles right forward.

  The blare of twelve engines slammed over the field and echoed in the hangar, the tails slowly came up as they picked up speed in a loose vie, ungainly with nearly 5 tons of bomb and over 5 tons of petrol each. Gibson held her down for a long time and the a.s.i. was flicking on no m.p.h. before he tightened back on the wheel and let her come unstuck after a long, slow bounce. At 200 feet they turned slowly on course with the sun low behind.

  McCarthy eased “T for Tom” off the runway twenty minutes late and set course on his own. At 9.47 Dinghy Young led Astell and Maltby off. Eight minutes after that Maudslay, Shannon and Knight were in the air. Anne waved them off. The final five, the reserve aircraft, did not take off till two hours later. By the time they arrived in the target area Gibson, if still alive, would know where to send them.

  CHAPTER VII ATTACK

  GIBSON slid over the Wash at a hundred feet. The cockpit was hot and he was flying in his shirtsleeves with Mae West over the top; after a while he yelled, “Hey, Hutch, turn the heat off.”

  “Thank God for that,” the wireless operator said, screwing the valve shut. The heat in a Lancaster runs down the fuselage but comes out round the wireless operators’ seat, so he is always too hot, while the rear gunner is always too cold.

  The sun astern on the quarter threw long shadows on fields peaceful and fresh with spring crops ; dead ahead the moon was swimming out of the ground haze like a bullseye. Gibson flew automatically, eyes flicking from the horizon to the a.s.i., to the repeater compass in its rubber suspension.

  The haze of Norfolk passed a few miles to port. In the nose, Spafford said, “There’s the sea,” and a minute later they were low over Southwold, the shingle was beneath them, and then they were over the water, flat and grey in the evening light. England faded behind. “G George” dropped down to 50 feet, and on each side Martin and Hopgood came down too, putting off the evil moment when German radar would pick them up. You couldn’t put it off indefinitely; about twenty miles from the Dutch coast the blips would be flicking on the radar screens and the orders would be going out to the flak batteries and fighter fields.

  Martin ranged up alongside and there was a light winking as he flashed his Aldis lamp at them.

  “What’s he saying, Hutch?” Gibson asked.

  “We’re going to get screechers tomorrow night.” Hutchinson picked up his own Aldis and winked back, “You’re darned right. Biggest binge of all time.” Hutchinson didn’t drink. Terry Taerum, Gibson’s navigator, spoke: “Our ground speed is exactly 2031/2 miles an hour. We will be there in exactly one hour, ten minutes and thirty seconds. We ought to cross the coast dead on track. Incidentally, you’re one degree off course.” The last part was the standing joke. The pilot who can fly without sometimes yawing a degree or so off course has yet to be born.

  In the ops. room of 5 Group H.Q. at Grantham, Cochrane was walking Barnes Wallis up and down, trying to comfort him. Wallis was fidgety and jittery, and Cochrane was talking of anything but the bomb, trying to get Wallis’s mind off it, but Wallis could think of nothing else.

  “Just think what a wonderful job you made of the Wellington,” Cochrane said encouragingly. “It’s a magnificent machine; been our mainstay for over three years.”

  “Oh dear, no,” lamented the disconcerting scientist. “Do you know, every time I pass one I wonder how I could ever have designed anything so crude.”

  A black Bentley rushed up the gravelled drive outside, pulled up by the door and the sentries snapped rigidly to attention as Harris himself jumped briskly out. He came into the ops. room. “How’s it going, Cocky?”

  “All right so far, sir,” Cochrane said. “Nothing to report yet.” They walked up and down the long room between the wall where the aircraft blackboards were and the long desks that ran down the other side, where men were sitting. Satterly was there, “The Gremlin,” the intelligence man and Dunn, chief signals officer, sitting by a telephone plugged in to the radio in the signals cabin outside. He would get all the Morse from the aircraft there; it was too far for low-flying planes to get through by ordinary speech.

  Harris and Cochrane talked quietly, and Wallis was walking miserably with them but not talking, breaking away every now and then to look at the big operations map on the end wall. The track lunes had been pencilled in and he was counting off the miles they should be travelling. It was 10.35 when Cochrane looked at his watch and said, “They ought to be coming up to the Dutch coast now.”

  The sun had gone and the moon was inching higher into the dusk, lighting a road ahead across the water; outside the dancing road the water was hardly visible, a dark mass with a couple of little flecks.

  Taerum said, “Five minutes to the Dutch coast,” and the crew snapped out of the wordless lull of the past half hour. “Good,” Gibson said. Martin and Hopgood eased their aircraft forward till the black snouts nosed alongside Gibson and veered out to make a wider target, their engines snarling thinly in gusts above the monotonous roar in “G George.” Flying so low, just off the water, they seemed to be sliding very fast along the moonpath towards the waiting flak.

  Spafford said, “There’s the coast.” It was a black line lying dim and low on the water, and then from a couple of miles out on the port side a chain of glowing little balls was climbing into the sky. “Flak ship,” said Martin laconically. The shells were way off and he ignored them. The sparkling moon-path ended abruptly, they tore across the white line of surf and were over enemy territory. “New course 105 magnetic,” Taerum called, and the three aircraft swung gently to the left as they started the game of threading their way through the flak.

  The northern wave made landfall about the same time, sighting Vlieland and turning south-east to cut across the narrow part and down over the Zuyder Zee. Munro led them across the dark spit; it was so narrow they would see the water again in about thirty seconds and have another seventy miles of comparatively safe water, but without warning there were flashes below and up came the fiery little balls. Munro felt the shock as they hit the aircraft, and then they were past and over the water again. Munro called on the intercom, to see if the crew were all right, but the earphones were dead.

  Pigeon, the wireless op., was standing by his shoul
der shouting into his ear, “No radio. No intercom. Flak’s smashed it. I think everyone’s O.K.” Munro flew on several miles, trying to fool himself they could still carry on, but it was no good and he knew it. Without radio he could not direct the attack on the Sorpe; could not even direct his own crew or get bombing instructions. Swearing, he turned for home.

  Inside the Zuyder the water was dark and quite flat, treacherously deceptive for judging height. Geoff Rice slipped down a little to level at 60 feet by his belly lights, but the lights were not working properly and lured him lower as he tried to get a fix. A hammer seemed to hit the aircraft like a bolt and there was a tearing roar above the engines. Rice dragged her off the water, but the belly was torn out of her and the bomb had gone with it. The gutted fuselage had scooped up a couple of tons of water; it was pouring out of her and the rear gunner was nearly drowning in his turret. Marvellously she still flew but was dropping back, and when they found the bomb was gone Rice turned her heavily back towards England.

  The remaining two, Barlow and Byers, skirted their pinpoint on the cape at Stavoren and ten minutes later crossed to the enemy land again at Harderwijk. No one knows exactly how soon it was that the flak came curling up at them again, but there is a report that as Barlow’s aircraft hit the ground the bomb went off with a blinding flash, lighting the countryside like a rising sun for ten seconds before it died and left nothing. It was either then or soon after that Byers and his crew died too. Nothing more was heard from him. Only McCarthy was left of the Sorpe team, flying sixty miles behind, and perhaps that is what saved him.

  Over Holland, Gibson, Martin and Hopgood were down as low as 40 feet, playing hide-and-seek with the ground, the bomb aimers calling terse warnings as houses and trees loomed up, and the aircraft skimmed over them. They were cruising fast and under the cowlings the exhaust manifolds were glowing. Once the three pulled up fast as the pylons of a power line rushed at them, and they just cleared the wires.

  Four miles to port they saw the flare-path of Gilze-Rijen, German night-fighter field, and a few miles farther on they passed just to the left of the night-fighter aerodrome at Eindhoven. They could expect night fighters now; the ops. rooms for miles around must be buzzing. Martin and Hopgood closed in on each side of Gibson for mutual protection. They should be able to see any fighter coming in because he would be higher, while they, low against the dark ground, would be hard to see, and that was their strength. Also their weakness where the flak was concerned. Their aircraft were higher, outlined. Just past Eindhoven, Gibson led them in a gentle turn to the north-east on the new course that would take them round the bristling guns of the Ruhr.

  A few miles back the other two vies of three were on course too. Dinghy Young pin-pointed over the canal at Rosendaal and turned delicately to take them between the fighter fields, but Bill Astell did not seem sure this was the exact turning point. He bore off a little to the south for a minute and then turned back, but had fallen half a mile behind and was a fraction off track. They did not see him again, and it must have been quite soon after that the flak or fighter, whatever it was, got him.

  Fourteen left.

  The leading three slid across the border into Germany and saw no light or movements anywhere, only darkness filled with the beat of engines. Taerum thought they were south of track, so they edged to the north, a little nervily because this was the treacherous leg; they were coming up to the Rhine to sneak between the forewarned guns of Huls and the Ruhr. Just short of the river some twelve light flak guns opened up without warning; the aircraft gunners squirted back at the roots of the tracer and then they were out of range. No one badly hit. The Rhine was rushing at them and up from a barge spat a thin line of tracer, but they were past before the bullets found them.

  Two minutes later more guns opened up, and this time three searchlights lit on Gibson. Foxlee and Deering were shooting at the searchlights. One of them popped out but the two others held, and the air was full of tracer. The rear gunners came into action, the searchlights switched to Martin, blinding him, and Gibson could read the big P on the side of the Lancaster. Every gun was firing, the aircraft juddering with the recoil, and then they were through with throttles wide.

  Ahead and just to the left another searchlight sprang to life and caught Gibson. Foxlee was firing instantly, holding his triggers in a long burst, his tracer whipping into the light. It flicked out, and as they went over in the dying glow they saw the gunners scattering. Tammy Simpson opened up from the rear turret till they were out of range. You can’t take prisoners in an aircraft.

  They were past and shook themselves back into formation. Hutchinson tapped out a flak warning, giving the exact position, and way back in Grantham, Dunn picked it up and the powerful group radio re-broadcast it at full strength to all other aircraft.

  Gibson swung them north around Hamm, whose marshalling yards will for years be notorious. Taerum said, “New course, skipper, 165 magnetic,” and then they were hugging the ground on the last leg, slicing between Soest and Werl. Now the moon was high enough to light the ground and ahead loomed the dark hills that cradled the water. They climbed to the ridge that rimmed the horizon, crossed into the valley, and down below lay the flat sheet of Moehne Lake.

  It was like looking down on the model: the same saucer of water, the same dim fields and across the neck of the lake the squat rampart hugging the water, crowned by the towers. In the half-light it looked like a battleship, but more impregnable. Reinforced concrete a hundred feet thick.

  The dam came suddenly to life, prickling with sharp flashes, and the lines of angry red meteors were streaming into the sky and moving about blindly as the gunners hosed the area.

  “Bit aggressive, aren’t they?” said Trevor-Roper. The pilots swung the aircraft away and headed in wide circles round the lake, keeping out of range and waiting for the others. There seemed to be about ten guns, some in the fields on each side of the lake near the dam, and some—a lot—in the towers in the dam.

  Gibson started calling the other aircraft, and one by one they reported, except Astell. He called Astell again at the end, but Astell had been dead for an hour. After a while Gibson gave up and said soberly over the intercom., “Well, boys, I suppose we’d better start the ball rolling.” It was the end of the waiting and the start of action, when thought is submerged. He flicked his transmitter switch:

  “Hello all Cooler aircraft, I am going in to attack. Stand by to come in in your order when I tell you. Hello * M Mother.’ Stand by to take over if anything happens.”

  “O.K. Leader. Good luck.” Hopgood’s voice was a careful monotone.

  Gibson turned wide, hugging the hills at the eastern end of the lake. Pulford had eased the throttles on and she was roaring harshly, picking up speed and quivering, the nose slowly coming round till three miles ahead they saw the towers and the rampart of the dam, and in between, the flat dark water. Spafford said, “Good show. This is wizard. I can see everything.” They came out of the hills and slammed across the water, touching 240 now, and Gibson rattled off the last orders :

  “Check height, Terry! Speed control, Pulford! Gunners ready! Coming up, Spam!” Taerum flicked the belly lights on and, peering down from the blister, started droning: “Down… down… down… up a bit… steady, stead-y-y.” The lights were touching each other, “G George” was exactly at 60 feet and the flak gunners had seen the lights. The streams of glowing shells were swivelling and lowering, and then the shells were whipping towards them, seeming to move slowly at first like all flak, and then rushing madly at their eyes as the aircraft plunged into them.

  Gibson held her steady, pointing between the towers. Taerum was watching out of the blister, Pulford had a hand on the throttles and his eyes on the a.s.i., Spafford held the plywood sight to his eye and the towers were closing in on the nails. Gibson shouted to Pulford, “Stand by to pull me out of the seat if I get hit ! “There was a sudden snarling clatter up in the nose; Deering had opened up, his tracer spitting at the tower
s.

  The dam was a rushing giant, darkness split with flashes, the cockpit stank of cordite and thought was nothing but a cold alarm shouting, “In another minute we shall be dead,” and then Spafford screamed, “Bomb gone!” loud and sharp. Seconds later they rocketed over the dam between the towers. A red Very light soared up as Hutchinson pulled the trigger to let the others know, and then the deeper snarling chatter as Trevor-Roper opened up on the towers from the rear.

  It was over and memory was confusion as they cork-screwed down the valley, hugging the dark earth sightless to the flak. They were out of range and Gibson lifted her out of the hills, turning steeply, and looked back. A voice in his earphones said, “Good show, Leader, Nice work.”

  The black water between the towers suddenly rose and split and a huge white core erupted through the middle and climbed towards the sky. The lake was writhing, and as the white column reached its peak and hung a thousand feet high, like a ghost against the moon, the heavy explosion reached the aircraft. They looked in awe as they flew back to one side and saw sheets of water spilling over the dam and thought for a wild moment it had burst. The fury of the water passed and the dam was still there, the white column slowly dying.

  Round the lake they flew while Hutchinson tapped out in code to base. In a few minutes Gibson thought the lake was calm enough for the next bomb and called:

  “Hello ‘M Mother.’ You may attack now. Good luck.”

  “O.K. Leader. Attacking.” Hopgood was still carefully laconic. He was lost in the darkness over the hills at the end of the lake while the others waited. They saw his bellylights flick on and the two little yellow pools sliding over the water closing and joining as he found his height. He was straight and level on his run; the flak saw him and the venomous fireflies were darting at him. He plunged on; the gap was closing fast when the shells found him and someone said, “He’s been hit!”