Sherlock's Squadron

by Steve Holmes

  Royal Air Force No 617 Squadron were already on the runway at RAF Scampton, five miles north of Lincoln. The operation to attack dams in the Ruhr Valley had been given to No 5 Group RAF which had recently been formed especially to undertake the mission. The squadron was led by Wing Commander Guy Gibson, a veteran of over 170 bombing and night-fighter missions. 21 bomber crews were chosen from the Group to join the new squadron using a specially developed ‘bouncing bomb’ invented and developed by Barnes Wallis. They had trained several weeks earlier in various locations in the UK such as the Peak District and in the sea off Margate.

  The British Air Ministry had identified Germany’s heavily industrialised Ruhr Valley, and especially its dams, as important strategic targets. They provided much needed hydro-electric power, essential to Germany’s war production. The targets were the Möhne, Edersee and Sorpe dams. They had been repeatedly attacked before but only sustained minor damage. Dropping large bombs from high up required a degree of accuracy which was almost impossible, like trying to find a needle in a haystack according to one bomb aimer. The dams were also protected by heavy torpedo nets making an attack from the water impossible too.

  The aircraft the squadron used were modified Avro Lancaster Mk IIIs. It was necessary to reduce the weight of the standard Lancaster and much of the internal armour was removed, as was the mid-upper machine gun turret. The size of the bomb and its unusual shape also meant that the bomb-bay doors had to be removed. The bouncing bomb was part suspended below the fuselage of the aircraft. Before the bomb was released it was spun up to speed by a motor. This would ensure maximum distance, the bomb effectively bouncing up to a dozen times before hitting the dam wall. This would allow the pilots just enough time to climb over the dam wall and over the hills beyond.

  The bombers flew low, less than thirty metres, as they made their approach into Germany. It would allow them to avoid radar detection. Flight Sergeant George Chalmers, radio operator on one plane looked out and was astonished to see that his pilot was flying towards the target along a forest’s firebreak, below treetop level, an indication of how dangerous the whole operation was.

  The first formation arrived over the Möhne Lake as Gibson’s and Hopgood’s aircraft prepared for the first runs. It wasn’t a good start as the Germans were alert and all too aware that they had come under attack. Hopgood’s aircraft was hit by flak and was caught in the blast of its own bomb. The plane was unable to recover and crashed soon afterwards when a wing disintegrated. There were only two survivors.

  Gibson flew his aircraft across the dam to draw the flak away from Martin, who was up next. His aircraft was slightly damaged but nevertheless he made a successful attack on the dam. After Martin’s attack, Gibson, with Young accompanying, led Shannon, Maudslay and Knight to the Eder. The Eder Valley was covered by heavy fog but not defended particularly well, however the forests and the surrounding hills made for a difficult approach. Shannon’s aircraft made six runs, one after the other. Maudslay’s plane then flew in but his bomb struck the top of the dam and the aircraft was severely damaged in the subsequent blast. Shannon made another run and successfully dropped his bomb. The final bomb of the formation, from Knight’s aircraft finally scored a direct hit on the dam.

  The Sorpe Dam was a huge earthen based dam rather than the concrete and steel ones previously attacked. Casualties had been high and only three Lancasters ultimately reached the target. Joe McCarthy’s plane was on its own when it arrived at the target and he realised immediately that a direct hit was almost impossible. The flight path led over a church steeple in the village of Langscheid and gave the pilot only seconds to spare before he had to climb to avoid hitting the hillside at the other end of the dam.

  McCarthy wouldn’t give in. He made nine approach attempts to bomb the dam but wasn’t satisfied with the combined speed, the direction and altitude. Luckily for him and his crew the Germans had believed that the dam was impossible to attack from the air and there wasn’t a single anti-aircraft gun in the area.

  On the tenth attack he gave the all clear to his bomb aimer. He released the bomb and the crew let out a huge cheer of relief as the bomb exploded. However when McCarthy turned the plane he was disappointed to see that the damage was minimal. The main body of the dam itself was intact.

  On the way back to England, again flying at less than thirty metres, two more Lancasters were lost. One was struck by flak near Netterden in Holland and the other brought down near the Dutch coast.

  There were only nine surviving bombers. They began landing at Scampton at 03:11 hours. The last of the survivors put its wheels on the ground just after six o’clock in the morning. The surviving crews were not in a jovial mood as they attended their early morning debrief. They were informed about their missing friends and colleagues. 53 men were killed, a casualty rate of 40%. They had flown to the best of their abilities but told their commanding officers of the near impossible conditions and of the technical difficulties the fog and darkness presented. In all honesty they could be no more than ‘hopeful’ that they had succeeded in their mission.

  At 07:30 hours a Spitfire piloted by Flying Officer Frank ‘Jerry’ Fray took off from RAF Benson to assess the bomb damage in the Ruhr Valley. The photo-reconnaissance plane arrived over the Ruhr River just after first light. He took photographs of the breached dams. He described his experience on return to RAF Benson and his report would later be read out to the survivors of the ‘Dambusters Squadron.’

  When I was about 150 miles from the Möhne Dam, I could see the industrial haze over the Ruhr area and what appeared to be a cloud to the east. On flying closer, I saw that what had seemed to be cloud was the sun shining on the floodwaters.

  I looked down into the deep valley which had seemed so peaceful three days before but now it was a wide torrent.

  The whole valley of the river was inundated with only patches of high ground and the tops of trees and church steeples showing above the flood. I was overcome by the immensity of it.

  The Flight Engineer’s role was a complex one and give the RAF their due, the training was intense. The Flight Engineer was responsible for a whole host of things, at times John would worry how the bloody aircraft took off in the first place.

  The Flight Engineer liaised with the ground crew identifying and solving problems before they became major events. John studied the electrical, hydraulic and mechanical systems of the aircraft and took examinations that would prove he knew the aircraft inside out and back to front. Before any sortie the Flight Engineer was where the buck stopped. He was responsible for everything. He checked the electrics and hydraulics made sure the mechanics were working properly. The fuel tanks in the wings needed to be balanced and the engines double checked for temperature and oil pressure. On the outside of the aircraft the flight engineer had to make over forty checks alone on the flaps and mechanical linkages. On top of all that he needed to ensure that both his and the pilots control panels worked like clockwork.

  John studied hard and passed with flying colours without the need to take any resits. He was feeling quite happy with himself until the Wing Commander officiating the exams brought him down to earth.

  ‘Well done Holmes, you know everything there is to know before the aircraft takes off. The question is, will you be able to cope when the fucker is in the air?’

  The Wing Commander threw a textbook in his direction and he caught it in mid-air. It was at least three inches thick.

  ‘New study material, Holmes. Once you’ve read that back to front we can press on and teach you your other duties.’

  ‘Other duties, Sir?’ John asked rather shell shocked.

  ‘Other duties, Holmes. The Flight Engineer looks out for flak and enemy fighters during the flight. You help the bomb aimer and the pilot too.’ The Wing Commander grinned. ‘And of course if the poor old pilot is shot up by a stray Messerschmitt you’ve failed to spot, you’ll have to fly the plane.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Yes Holmes, w
e even need to train you up as a pilot.’

  John Holmes was lost for words. A few swear words came to mind but as he closed his exercise book for the day he wondered what he had let himself in for. He walked back to the billet that evening a little disillusioned.

  The following morning he was in a better mood, he put the previous day behind him and put it down to missing his family.

  By mid-August all the exams and tests were over. He sat with Taffy Stimson and Lofty Matthews in the King’s Head in Cowbridge, a small village a few miles from the camp. They had been given the night off. Tomorrow was the big day, tomorrow they would be handed their results.

  All three were quietly confident. Many of their colleagues had been sent home at various times during the many months they’d been at St Athans but all three had made it to the final day and now it was down to percentages. The sergeant’s stripes and coveted brevet would be awarded to the men achieving between 60 per cent and 70 per cent; anything above that and the trainee would become an officer. All three agreed they had no aspirations to become officers and thought it unlikely that they would achieve the necessary marks.

  ‘Let’s enjoy the moment, lads.’ John Holmes raised his pint of bitter. Lofty and Taffy reached for their glasses.

  ‘Cheers,’ they announced in unison.

  ‘Where to after this?’ Taffy asked.

  No one knew.

  The three men had become very close but there were literally hundreds of RAF stations all over the country, however the fact they had all finished their training at the same time and had all chosen to fly the Stirling gave them a glimmer of hope that they would be sent to the same place.

  It was August 16th 1943 when the three men officially became sergeants. John Holmes topped the marks on 69 per cent, narrowly missing out on becoming an officer. Taffy and Lofty were both just a couple of marks behind. A small presentation ceremony had taken place mid-afternoon and the three men sat in the billet sewing their sergeants’ stripes and their brevet onto their uniforms. They had been given five days’ leave and informed a letter would be sent home advising them where they would need to report for duty.

  John almost caressed the brevet as he placed it above his breast pocket and prepared to sew. His mind was in another place as he daydreamed he was stepping off the train, meeting up with Dorothy, wearing the uniform with a renewed pride. He was proud and his Dad would be so proud. He deserved it. He had worked harder than he had ever worked before and at times it was a struggle, at times he’d wanted to quit. But he hadn’t. He’d battled through like he always had done, like his father had taught him.

  John had moved into Belle Vue Terrace with Dorothy and her parents. It was a huge three-storey terraced house and John and Sara Ellen Shaw had allowed them to take over the top floor of their home. It was perfect, two bedrooms and a bathroom. Dorothy had already decorated the smallest of the bedrooms for baby John and a small crib stood in the corner by the window. John walked over to the crib which contained his son. He couldn’t quite believe how much the child had grown.

  ‘Does he spend his whole life sleeping Dot?’

  Dorothy walked over and peered into the crib. She stroked at his hair and for a moment his eyes flickered and John thought he was going to wake up.

  ‘Pretty much so, he’s good as gold through the night too.’

  John wrapped an arm around his wife and pulled her towards him. ‘You’re a lucky lass. A child as good as gold and Flight Engineer Holmes here for five days to pander to your every whim.’

  John kissed her gently on the lips.

  ‘Let’s make the most of it, I don’t care if you have to wake the little fella but do it…I need to go and see my parents. I’ve something I need to show Dad.’

  The letter arrived first thing on Monday morning. John had to report to a place called Waterbeach in Cambridgeshire.

  The airfield looked very ordinary as the bus pulled up to the main gates. An armed sentry inspected the paperwork the driver had handed to him and waved him through. The bus drove for about half a mile and ground to a halt. The driver shouted half a dozen names from a list. John Holmes was the last name called.

  ‘Your stop, lads,’ the driver bellowed down the bus. ‘1651 Heavy Conversion Unit.’

  As the men climbed from the bus he shouted after them.

  ‘Give Jerry hell, see you do.’ The doors closed and he was off.

  John felt strangely nervous, a little apprehensive. He’d spotted several planes on the short journey to his unit, more planes than he’d seen in the many months he’d been stationed at St Athans. This was it. This is what he had trained for. It was at RAF Waterbeach that John would finally fly in a Stirling. The RAF wasted no time. Within the hour he was booked in, shown his billet and issued with new essential supplies, a flying suit, a service revolver and an individual parachute. There was no turning back… now it was getting serious.

  It was at breakfast in the mess hall the following morning that John met up with two old adversaries. The RAF cook had placed a final piece of bacon on his plate; he thanked him politely and turned around to look for somewhere to sit. There were forty or fifty tables in the mess hall each sitting half a dozen men. As his eyes scanned the room they were drawn to a tall man with a familiar profile. The square jawline and slightly hooked nose were unmistakeable and a sight that brought a smile to his face. Lofty Matthews crammed half a sausage into his mouth, chewed for a few seconds then turned to talk to the man sat next to him. He started to talk to Taffy Stimson.

  John literally ran over. Any apprehension he’d felt the day before deserted him instantly.

  ‘Mind if I join you, gentlemen?’

  Lofty and Taffy nearly fell off their seats.

  ‘Well bugger me, John!’ Taffy announced.

  ‘I’d rather not Taffy,’ John quipped, ‘if that’s okay with you.’

  Lofty shook his hand vigorously and Taffy ruffled at his hair like a father would with his small son. Suddenly RAF Waterbeach didn’t seem such a lonely place.

  Unfortunately the lectures were not over. John couldn’t wait to get up in a Stirling but the RAF didn’t appear to be in much of a hurry. He asked one of the lecturers last thing one night.

  ‘When do we start flying sir?’

  The officer was a man in his mid-fifties with slightly thinning hair and he looked John up and down as if he were stupid.

  ‘Patience is a virtue my man. Don’t be getting too keen.’

  ‘But Sir, it’s what I’ve trained for. I am keen.’

  The officer stacked up a pile of papers and sunk back into his seat.

  ‘You’ll need a crew before you do anything.’

  ‘Yes Sir I know,’ said John. ‘When will that happen, how is a crew selected and how…?’

  The officer held up his hands.

  ‘Whoa, soldier boy I’ve had a long day, remember what I said about patience. Your crew will find you soon enough.’

  The remark puzzled John.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Sir… the crew will find me?’

  ‘That’s what I said didn’t I?’

  ‘But aren’t crews selected? How can they find me?’

  The officer had stood up and was already walking towards the door.

  ‘I’ve had a busy day, Holmes. I need a bite to eat and perhaps a few pints and a good night’s kip.’

  ‘But Sir, I need to know. I –’

  The officer turned around. He’d placed a finger to his lips.

  ‘Just be patient, Holmes.’ He laughed out loud. ‘Be patient…that’s an order. They’ll find you.’ He closed the door quietly and John was left on his own.

  The last colours of the sunset were fading into a dusky pink as it painted the whole sky. It was an incredible sight but John was lost in his thoughts.

  Taffy Stimson and Lofty Matthews had been ‘found’. They told John at breakfast three days later.

  ‘What do you mean, they just asked you?’ said John.

 
‘They asked me,’ said Lofty between mouthfuls of another huge cooked breakfast.

  ‘They asked you?’

  ‘They asked me.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Taffy. ‘Came up to me and said they needed a Flight Engineer for their crew. Said they liked the look of me. I was walking across the airfield late yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Taffy buttered a piece of toast and looked up.

  ‘They seemed like nice fellows so I said yes.’

  John had lost his appetite and laid down his knife and fork.

  ‘You’re taking the piss aren’t you? This is the RAF. Things like this just don’t happen by chance. If I know the RAF, crews will be carefully selected and even tested together to see if they bond.’ He directed the statement to Taffy. ‘You don’t get found and you don’t just put your life in the hands of total strangers because they seem like nice fellows.’

  Before they could take the argument any further a stranger pulled at the empty seat by their table.

  ‘Is this seat taken, chaps?’

  Lofty Matthews spoke first. ‘You take it, my friend, you’re welcome to join us.’

  The man introduced himself as Bob Crosby, a gunner from Newcastle upon Tyne.

  Henry Vanrenen instructed his crew. While he spoke they listened… always. Although a native Australian, the pilot was the personification of a sophisticated quintessential English gentlemen. If it wasn’t for his slight, almost undetectable Australian accent you’d have thought he’d come straight from Eton. When he spoke he commanded a presence. Six feet tall with a shock of wavy hair and with such a supreme air of confidence the female civilian workers on the camp and the WAAFs found him irresistible. The day’s instruction and lectures were over and Vanrenen wanted some action.