They took off at dusk with no illusions; memories of the dams losses were too fresh and they had a human yearning for the placid if less stimulating days of the Italian trips.
They were an hour out, low over the North Sea, when the weather Mosquito found the target hidden under fog and radioed back. Group recalled the Lancasters and as the big aircraft turned for home weighed down by nearly 6 tons of bomb David Maltby seemed to hit someone’s slipstream; a wing flicked down, the nose dipped and before Maltby could correct it the wing-tip had caught the water and the Lancaster cartwheeled, dug her nose in and vanished in spray. Shannon swung out of formation and circled the spot, sending out radio fixes and staying till an air sea rescue flying boat touched down beneath. They waited up at Coningsby till the flying boat radioed that it had found nothing but oil slicks.
Maltby’s wife lived near the airfield, and in the morning Holden went over to break the news, dreading it because it had been an ideally happy marriage. Maltby was only twenty-one. The girl met him at the door and guessed his news from his face.
“It was quick,” said Holden, who did not know it was his own last day on earth. “He wouldn’t have known a thing.”
Too stunned to cry, the girl said, “I think we both expected it. He’s been waking up in the night lately shouting something about the bomb not coming off.”
Holden came back looking tired and got out another battle order. If the weather was right the raid was on again. Martin came back from leave that morning and demanded to take Maltby’s place. Tammy Simpson, who had been flying with Martin for two years now, noted philosophically and a little querulously in his diary: “Mick’s a fool volunteering. This is going to be dangerous.” Shannon was hoping the weather would be right this time. Moustacheless, he was to marry Anne in a week and was supposed to have left for London that morning to arrange the wedding. Anne had already wangled a posting for herself to Dunholme Lodge, an airfield near Coningsby.
At dusk in the control tower McCarthy watched the heavy aircraft lift off the runway and head east. Over the North Sea the Lancasters kept loose formation in two boxes of four. It felt like the dams raid all over again; they were down to 50 feet to fox the radar and on strict radio silence. The faster Mosquitoes would be taking off now to pass them somewhere on the way in and set about the flak as the bombers arrived. Over the canal itself the weather Mosquito radioed back that it was perfectly clear.
The bombers crossed the Dutch coast and there was no sign of flak. Holden seemed to be flying a perfect course, which was just as well because the moon was up and it was full, throwing soft light over the fields as they moved towards Germany and Ladbergen.
Ahead of them a small town loomed up and high chimneys and a church steeple seemed to be rushing at them. Martin waited for Holden to swing to one side, but Holden elected to bore straight across and climbed to clear the steeple till he was about 300 feet. The more low-flying-wise Martin dropped right down to roof-top height and, on the other side of Holden, Knight and Wilson did the same, till even from the ground they were nearly invisible against the horizon. Holden was limned against the moonlight.
There was one light gun in Nordhoorn and its crew had been alerted. Holden was half-way across when a procession of glowing red balls streamed up, and in a shaven fraction of a second Toby Foxlee was firing back, so that only about five shells pumped up before Foxlee’s tracer was squirting down and the gun promptly stopped.
One of the five shells punched into Holden’s inner starboard wing tank. There was a long streamer of flame trailing back beyond the tailplane; the aircraft showed clearly in the glow and they could see it was going down. The port wing was dropping and then the nose; she was falling faster, slewing to the left, right under Wilson and Knight with a 12,000-pounder on board! Martin yelled sharply over the R/T: “Break outwards ! “
Wilson was just turning away when Holden’s aircraft hit on the edge of the town almost under him; the I2,ooo-pounder went off and the town and the sky were like day.
Martin called the other two anxiously. Knight came right back and said he was all right, but it was twenty seconds before Wilson answered, a little shakily, saying they were jarred by the explosion but he thought nothing serious was broken. A little later they were back in formation, Martin leading. They swept into Germany, grimmer now. Gibson’s crew had been in Holden’s aircraft. Spafford, Taerum, Pulford, Hutchinson; they were all gone.
One by one they picked up pin-points and the canal was only five minutes away when a blanket seemed to come down in front and they found themselves in mist. It was unbelievable. The area had been clear and moonlit half an hour before, no trace of trouble, and now the ground was a smudge, and they edged up to over a hundred feet to be clear of obstacles. The fog had moved in from the east without warning, almost without precedent.
There were locks along the canal and every one was armed with flak. The trouble was that the Lancasters could not see the canal until they were right on it, and then it was too late to bomb. They would have to bomb from 150 feet—because they could not see the canal if they went any higher—and hope the flak would miss, which at that height was unlikely.
All of them tried flying across the canal to pick it up, hoping they could swing sharply on to it, but found it was nearly impossible. Split up now, they searched the area but kept blundering into the flak, and then they turned away and tried again, refusing to bomb till they were certain they were in position. The Mosquitoes had arrived and, with their greater speed and smaller size, were charging back and forth trying to silence the gunners, but could not pick them up in the fog.
Allsebrook is believed to have bombed eventually but where his bomb went is not known. They never found the wreckage of his aircraft either. Wilson was heard briefly over the R/T saying something about going in to attack. The bomb was still aboard when the aircraft hit the ground about 200 yards beyond the canal and made a crater 200 feet across. Divall was heard briefly over the R/T, but that was the last anyone ever heard from him.
The gentle little Les Knight shouted over the intercom, that he could see the water, and then flak was coming at them and they were weaving. Johnson, the bomb aimer, yelled that he could see trees looming ahead and above them, and as Knight pulled up hard the bomber shuddered as she hit the tree-tops, and then they were clear with branches stuffed in the radiators, both pont engines stopped and the tailplane damaged.
With the two starboard engines roaring at full power the Lancaster, with the bomb still aboard, was able to hold her height. No chance of bombing in that condition, and Knight called up Martin: “Two port engines gone. May I have permission to jettison bomb, sir?” It was the “sir” that got Martin. Quiet little Knight was following the copybook procedure, asking respectful permission to do the only thing that might get him home.
Martin said, “For God’s sake. Les, yes,” and as the bomb was not fused Knight told Johnson to let it go. Relieved of the weight they started to climb very slowly.
After the gunners had thrown out all the guns and fittings they could, Knight got her up to about 1,400 feet and headed towards England, the aircraft waffling soggily at no m.p.h. The controls were getting worse all the time until, though he had full opposite rudder and aileron on, Knight could not stop her turning to port and it was obvious he could never fly her home. He ordered his crew to bale out and held the plane steady while they did. When the last man had gone he must have tried to do the same himself, and must have known all the time what would happen when he slipped out of his seat. There was perhaps a slight chance of getting clear in time, but as soon as he took pressure off stick and rudder the aircraft flicked on her back and plunged to the ground. Knight did not get to the hatch in time.
Geoff Rice tried for an hour to find the canal, was badly holed by flak and finally had to swing his winged aircraft out of the area, jettison the bomb and head for home. Shannon was seventy minutes before he got a quick sight of the high banks of the canal, wheeled the Lancaster along the
water and Sumpter called, “Bomb gone!” There was an eleven-second delay on the fuse, so they only dimly saw the explosion. The bomb hit the tow-path. If it had been a few feet to one side, in the water, it would have breached the canal wall.
Martin spent an hour and a half plunging at 150 feet in the fog around the canal trying to give Bob Hay a good enough sight on the few spots where the high earth bank was vulnerable. Now and then he caught a brief glimpse of the water, but it was either at a spot where the banks were low and solid or the flak was too murderous to give them a chance. It squirted at them when they were right on top of it and they had to wheel away into the fog. The aircraft jolted twice as shells punched into it, and once a sudden burst of tracer ripped through under the cockpit so that Martin jumped with shock, one foot slipped off the rudder bar and the big Lancaster swung so crazily he thought it was all over.
The gunners had been firing whenever they got a chance and Tammy Simpson reported his ammunition was getting low. Martin told him to forget the flak and save what he had left in case they got a chance to fight their way home.
Once or twice he was able to come up to the canal diagonally so that it was easier to turn along it, but each time the glimpse of water came too late or the flak was coming point blank at them and they had to pull away.
On the thirteenth run Hay got a glimpse of water in the swirling fog and called, “There it is ! “Martin turned away in a slow and regular 360 degrees circle, opening his bomb doors and calculating the exact moment he should come over the water again so the straighten-up would be gentle. It was a beautifully timed turn; they were low over the sliver of water with no flak, just long enough for Hay to call, “Left, left, a shade right… bomb gone!” and then Whittaker slammed the throttles hard on and Martin pulled her steeply round as the flak opened up.
A little later they hurtled back across the canal and saw the water boiling where the bomb had exploded, a few feet from the bank, just a few feet too far, because the bank was still there.
They were still over Germany and dawn was breaking as they came out of the fog. On full throttle, “P Popsie” was shaking at 267 m.p.h., the fastest she had ever travelled at low level. As they slid round the end of Sylt two last guns sent shells after them and then they were over the sea.
They landed two hours overdue and found Cochrane still waiting. He had heard of the losses from Shannon, who was first back, and his face was leaner and grimmer than ever. Martin was the third back, out of eight. Cochrane knew there would not be any more. He said :
“How was it?”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Martin said. “It didn’t breach. The mist beat us, and the flak.” He told what had happened. Cochrane listened keenly and at the end he was staggered when Alartin said, “I’m very disappointed, sir, but if the weather’s clear tomorrow—I mean, that is, tonight now—I think we can get it, if you’ll let us have another crack.”
“How many crews have you got left?”
Martin thought for a while and said, “Well, there are three of us in my flight, and three more in Shannon’s flight. That ought to be enough, sir.”
“Six ! “Cochrane said. “Out of your original twenty-one ! “
“It ought to be enough, sir. I’m just sorry about last night.”
Cochrane said gently, “I don’t think you have to apologise for anything, Martin. I’ll let you know later about tonight. Meantime you’d better go and get some sleep.” He took Sam Patch by the arm and led him over to the corner and Patch for the first time sensed that Cochrane had let slip the mask of his reserve. There was no mistaking it, and almost no defining it, an intensity about his eyes, his whole face and his voice as he said:
“Patch, I’d like to make Martin a wing commander on the spot and put him in command of the squadron. You know the boy better than I do. Would you recommend him?”
Patch thought for a moment before he made the answer for which he has been kicking himself ever since: “It’s two jumps up the ladder, sir; I’m not sure he’s ready for it. He’s had no experience in administration.”
“Well, I’ll at least get him made a squadron leader and give him temporary command.” Cochrane caught Martin as he finished stowing his kit away and said in his sudden-death way, “You’re a squadron leader now, Martin, and for the time being you’re in command of the squadron.”
Martin looked after the retreating back. A moment before he hadn’t even been a flight commander. Patch said, “Well, you’ve got responsibilities now, Mick. Come and have a walk and talk till you relax.” Martin was too exhilarated to sleep. They paced slowly across the airfield, right to the blast walls of the bomb dump, lonely in its isolation on the far side of the field.
“I didn’t think anything could have gone wrong,” Patch was saying. “I thought we had the perfect plan this time.”
“Oh, we should’ve pranged the thing,” Martin said disgustedly. “That mist. You couldn’t see a thing.”
There was a long silence; the air was fresh, the grass soft and springy under their feet, and Martin, after eight hours in the air, was far from sleep with the light-headed exhilaration you get after you’re so tired you can hardly stand and then get your second wind. He had been awake over twenty-four hours. He said suddenly: “Well, there it is, sir. Two real ops, and six crews left. Maybe this is the end. They’ll make us an ordinary line squadron… or disband us altogether.”
“Probably will be the end if you try that canal again tonight,” Patch said dryly. “You were silly to volunteer again. You’re not immortal.”
“No, sir.”
“D’you think you’d get away with it again tonight?”
“Couldn’t be any worse.”
“I suppose it occurs to you the flak will be expecting you.”
Martin said soberly, “I suppose so.”
“Forget it a while, Mick,” Patch said. “I don’t think the A.O.C.’ll let you try again for a while anyway. He doesn’t like losing crews, and you lost five out of eight last night… six including Maltby the night before. You’ll lose the rest if you go again tonight. We’ve got to think out a cleverer way of doing it.”
There was another silence and Patch broke it by saying tentatively:
“What: d’you think about 617 taking a rest for a while? You’ve taken an awful beating and you’ve got to fill up with new crews and train them. What d’you think?”
Martin said, “No. Let’s do another one right away and get the taste out of our mouths. Otherwise we’re going to get scared of going back.”
“The A.O.C.’ll decide that anyway,” Patch said. “Maybe you’ve had your day on special duty.”
They called at the office on the way back to see about the casualty reports, but Chiefy Powell was already attending to them. Patch took Martin over to the mess for breakfast and sat and talked to him. Patch had not been to sleep for nearly thirty hours himself but he never changed his routine when a raid was on. He never failed to visit every aircraft before it took off; always waited up till the last crew had landed and then went over to the mess with them for bacon and eggs and yarned as long as they wanted him to. He never went to bed himself till he’d seen the last of the boys off to bed. He was a round-faced, heavy-set, youngish man, direct and honest. If you did a good job, Patch would go to tremendous trouble to let you know. If you did a bad job he would tell you how and why, so you would do better next time. If you failed to mend your ways he would crack down hard, and then in the mess that night he would be normal and friendly to the punished one.
As Martin was finishing breakfast McCarthy and the laconic Munro came in, clicked their heels and peeled off sizzling salutes. “Good morning, sir” they chorused, and Martin had the grace to blush. They congratulated him and, in grimmer mood, paid their respects to the dead. Martin gave his first orders. “Will you get cracking on making what aircraft we’ve got left ready for tonight. I’m thinking we’ll be on again. Let me know when the target comes through.” He added, almost as an after-tho
ught, “May be the same target tonight.”
“All right,” said McCarthy. “Push off to bed and grab some shuteye.”
Shannon had only got to bed himself about half an hour before. He had written a little note to Anne, apologising for not being able to go up to London. Anne got it over at Dun-holme Lodge that afternoon. Quite a short note: “Sorry, darling. Couldn’t make it. Been up two nights. Lost six out of nine. Please forgive. I’m rather tired.” For the first time she saw the writing was shaky.
She had been up all night herself in the ops. room at Dun-holme Lodge. About dawn they got a report that five out of the eight were shot down and she was crying when someone ran over and said, “David’s all right. He’s back.” But the tears only fell faster.
Martin got nearly five hours sleep. McCarthy regretfully woke him at two o’clock, shaking his shoulder and saying, “Target’s through, Mick,” until the tired boy shook the sleep out of his head and said, “Where?”
“Somewhere in the south of France. Bridge or something.”
Martin pulled some clothes on and saw Patch over in the planning room. Patch said, “You’re not going back to the canal yet. You’re going with 619 Squadron to have a go at the Antheor Viaduct. It’s on the Riviera, near the Eytie border, and carries the only good railway into Italy from France. If you prang it you’ll stop half the Hun reinforcements to Sicily.”
Martin said, “I’m sorry it isn’t the canal,” and he so obviously meant it that Patch just looked at him.
They found the viaduct without trouble fifteen miles west of Cannes, seeing in the moonlight the 9o-foot stone arches curving across the beach at the foot of a ravine. The idea was to dive to 300 feet and stab 1,000-lb. bombs into the stone with delayed fuses. It was like a coco-nut shy; bang on and the coco-nut is yours, miss by an inch and lose your money. They missed by inches. The bombs went through the arches and exploded on the ground all around; the viaduct was pitted by splinters but that was all. The only real result was that it woke the Germans up to the vulnerability of the railway, and soon after that the flak batteries moved in.
Paul Brickhill Page 10
