Sherlock's Squadron

by Steve Holmes

  ‘I’ve already said we will be responsible for 2,500 men.’ Baker took a deep breath. ‘Another ten squadrons will be taking part in Operation Tonga… we will be dropping around 24,000 men.’

  John nearly fell from his seat. Before he could take in the numbers Baker continued.

  ‘Our paratroopers will also be responsible for assaulting and destroying the Merville Gun Battery, an artillery battery that Allied intelligence believe houses a number of heavy artillery pieces, the only one in the area if the intelligence reports are right. They have the range to bombard Sword Beach and inflict heavy casualties on our troops and of course they will be doing their best to shoot you poor bastards out of the sky. I want you men to think Sword Beach for 24 hours; we must buy time for the thousands of men who’ll be stepping onto Sword Beach at first light. We must ensure that the seaborne troops cannot be attacked during those critical first few hours when they are at their most vulnerable.’

  Wing Commander Baker smiled.

  ‘Oh…I nearly forgot. Once you’ve dropped the paratroopers during the hour of darkness your work will continue.’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘196 Squadron will be dropping supplies on Sword Beach throughout the day from six in the morning until at least midnight again.’

  Wing Commander Baker ran through the feeding arrangements for the day and told them there would be a never ending supply of coffee on the ground and flasks to take up in the air.

  ‘It will be a long day chaps…the longest day ever, of that I’m sure. Nevertheless we’ll get there if we all pull together. I suggest you relax for a few hours, take a long walk and perhaps a nap later this afternoon.’

  Baker reached across the desk for his cap and placed it firmly on his head.

  ‘That will be all gentlemen. The very best of British to you all.’

  A walk sounded like a good idea to John Holmes.

  ‘Walkies, Patch?’

  The little dog started wagging his tail at the sound of the familiar word. John reached down and patted his head. He looked over to his assembled crew.

  ‘Anyone fancy a wander round the airfield? We’ve a fair amount of time to kill.’

  Taffy Stimson called to him from a few rows back.

  ‘I’ll have a nice little stroll with you Sherlock; my skipper Chuck will have a walk too.’

  They were joined by Lofty and Flight Lieutenant Fred Gribble and his navigator, Len Jones and Reg Tammas and other people who John had met in and around the briefing room and the mess hall. It seemed that the idea of an afternoon stroll appealed to everyone. Patch had never been happier; he had at least a dozen masters to walk him round the base.

  John walked up front with Chuck Hoystead as Patch led the way. Chuck was another Australian pilot that John got on particularly well with. They were all good down to earth men, they were all like brothers to him and he wondered how many would make it back from their next mission, the Allied Invasion of France. And what about the next mission, and the next mission after that? What about at the end of the war, how many would make it through to the end?

  ‘I had a wee dog like that back home Sherlock, a right little bastard he was,’ said Fred.

  John laughed as he bent down to give Patch a stroke. ‘Can’t say that about this fella Sir, he’s a little gem and he waits for our plane to come back every time we take off.’

  ‘So I hear mate, so I hear, the whole bloody camp knows about this little man.’

  The men walked the full perimeter of the airfield, it took almost two hours. Afterwards they went into the mess hall where a continuous supply of pies, sandwiches and cakes had been laid on the whole day. Soon after five o’clock John returned to his billet where he tried to catch forty winks.

  It was no good, too many thoughts were running around his mind.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The grass adjacent to runway number two was in darkness. Until Vanrenen eased Stirling LK510 alongside the paratroopers no one would have imagined that the darkened airbase was awash with troops and equipment. The paratroopers were well drilled and they filed into the aircraft with their personal kit one by one in a perfectly executed exercise that took no more than a minute. Already in the hold of the Stirling was a motorcycle and nine containers of equipment.

  The twenty three aircraft took off one after the other at forty second intervals. They were to fly in formation, in groups of six, the last group up numbering only five. It was no more than ten minutes before each of the Stirlings adopted their correct positions. Reg came over the radio.

  ‘Fifteen minutes until the drop zone, Skipper. Flying in formation, all aircraft present and correct.’

  John peered out into the night sky. He could just about make out the shape of the aircraft flying alongside him. Stirling LK510 was on the extreme left of the group, the other planes flown by Mark Azouz, George Tickner, Fred Gribble, Chuck Hoystead and Keith Proud close by. It seemed noisier than the normal sorties they flew. It was noisier; it was a still night and twenty four engines made a lot of noise. John prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that they’d all be back very soon safe and sound, enjoying a pint of best English bitter in Trowbridge. Vanrenen’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  ‘Keep it together chaps. Flight Engineers and Gunners keep your eyes peeled.’

  There was a slight pause then Vanrenen announced they were beginning their descent to drop zone N. John studied the altitude needle as it began to fall. They’d be dropping the troops and equipment at exactly 1,500 feet.

  There was barely a sound from the packed fuselage where twenty men and equipment sat waiting for the signal to go, ready to drop into enemy territory. Just what was going through their minds, wondered John.

  A sergeant stood up and began to address the men. His face was painted black and brown, striped like a tiger. A face shines in the dark; no use giving Jerry a target. The sergeant spoke well as his men listened. He told them they were heroes, the saviour of the French people and he smiled as he told them they would be the first troops to liberate a French village since the German occupation. He mentioned the village name – Ranville. John recalled seeing it highlighted on the map in the briefing room earlier that day.

  The altitude needle read 2,000 feet. John signalled to the sergeant that they needed to get ready and the sergeant nodded and inched back down the plane. The paratroopers who had sat so still and so quiet began to stir and gradually their voices increased as they wished each other well and began to gather their kit.

  ‘1750’ came across the radio for all to hear.

  ‘16’

  The bomb doors opened and the paratroopers lined up. A blast of cold air whistled through the plane. There was no hesitation, no noise; it was a well-oiled, disciplined machine. The nine large panniers and the motorcycle were heaved out into the black void and the paratroopers leapt out into the unknown. John looked down and could barely make out the chutes opening one by one. Mark Azouz and George Tickner’s Stirlings had dropped their men too. Fred announced he was clear and seconds later Chuck and Keith followed suit.

  ‘Head for home chaps,’ Vanrenen announced and John Holmes breathed a sigh of relief that the first part of the operation was over. As the Stirling aircraft banked to starboard the anti-aircraft fire began.

  ‘Holy fucking shit that was a bit close!’ screamed Len on the rear gun as the whole aircraft seemed to shudder.

  He was more exposed than most and had a bird’s eye view of the shells exploding all around as they lit up the sky. John could see most of the Stirlings around him now as the shells illuminated the area. The German battery firing from down below became more and more accurate and John sensed the shells getting nearer.

  ‘We need to get out of here, Skip,’ he called into the radio before realising the stupidity of the statement. He wanted to bite his tongue, somehow take it back but it was too late.

  Vanrenen latched onto the comment sarcastically. ‘You don’t say, Flight Engineer, I was going t
o hang around a bit, see what Normandy is like in daylight, might nip over for next summer’s vacation.’

  The rest of the crew were laughing and it was a much needed light hearted moment as more and more shells exploded around them.

  ‘We’re hit… we’re hit, Jesus fucking Christ we’re hit, engine on fire.’

  For a split second John wasn’t sure where the voice had come from until he looked out the port side of his aircraft. The flames were coming from a Stirling fifty yards below them, the whole starboard wing was on fire and a black plume of smoke trailed behind it.

  ‘Bail out, bail out!’ the pilot screamed into the radio and it was at that point John recognised the voice. His heart almost skipped a beat as he felt a sour bile rise from his stomach and sting the back of his throat.

  ‘Who is it?’ screamed Vanrenen. ‘How bad is it? I can’t see from up here.’

  Reg turned to John. ‘It’s those bastards from the Merville Battery; let’s hope our Paras sort them out sooner rather than later, Sherlock. We’ve God knows how many trips to go, we can’t be flying through this shit every time.’

  The Stirling was losing altitude, the flames rapidly spreading along the fuselage. John wanted to say it was minor damage, they’d make it back but as the nose of the aircraft dipped and it went into a dive he feared the worst. It was an awful sound as the Queen of the Skies let out a stricken wail. Loud at first but then as it lost height the noise receded. John wanted to put his fingers in his ears to block it out, he wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t tear his gaze away from the aircraft plummeting towards the earth, hoping that somehow it would recover, that the flames would recede and it would level up again.

  John’s mouth was dry as he tried hard to swallow. He had a huge lump in his throat as he recalled the conversation earlier that day as the group of friends walked around the airbase. He relived the words as if he was watching a film at the local picture house. I had a wee dog like that back home Sherlock.

  ‘It’s Gribble Sir… Fred Gribble. Flight Lieutenant Fred Gribble.’

  ‘You’re sure, Flight Engineer?’

  ‘I’m sure, Sir.’

  ‘C’mon Fred, come on-n-n,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘C’mon-n-n Fred, do something.’

  He was oblivious to the 88mm shells exploding around his own aircraft as Vanrenen battled to steady the plane, oblivious of the flames shooting out from the guns on the ground as they found their range. He spotted two chutes opening just above the burning flames.

  ‘C’mon Fred, c’mon’.

  He was on his feet now trying hard to keep the plane in view, the flames were still visible and he anticipated the explosion any second. His heart pounded inside the wall of his chest.

  The plane was no more than three hundred feet from the ground when John’s very existence was plunged into darkness. The explosion was immense as a huge ball of flames erupted below them. He saw no more chutes. Flight Lieutenant Fred Gribble and his crew had gone. He remembered the faces of the crew, the bomb aimer, the gunner and of course the flight engineer.

  ‘We’re hit Skipper, we’re hit.’

  The familiar voice brought John back from his thoughts. It was Doug Handley.

  ‘Starboard first engine on fire, Sir!’ he cried out.

  Another German shell had torn into Stirling LK510.

  The ground crew were trying to calm the dog down.

  ‘Behave little fella or we’ll put you outside.’

  Patch sat at the door of the mess hall while the ground crew took advantage of the late night bacon sandwiches the RAF had laid on.

  ‘They won’t be back for at least half an hour; you’ll get to see Sherlock then.’

  The little dog howled at the door, turning in little tight circles, listening carefully then howling again.

  ‘He’s like a little fucking werewolf. What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He’s missing Sherlock that’s what’s wrong; he can’t bear to be without him.’

  ‘It’s more than that mate. Something’s wrong, something’s happened to Sherlock.’

  Patch was now scratching at the door, barking loudly.

  ‘He wants to be out. Let him out.’

  The flight mechanic walked towards the door, opened it and the dog ran out yelping as it disappeared into the darkness of the night.

  John Holmes had hardly registered the impact as the shell had torn through the wing leaving a gaping hole. His thoughts were for Fred Gribble and his crew. He was almost in a daze.

  ‘Flight Engineer, feather it! Feather the starboard engine Flight Engineer!’

  It was Vanrenen.

  ‘Feather it, Flight Engineer, feather it!’

  The urgency in Vanrenen’s voice snapped him out of his almost hypnotic state and he went into action closing down the lines of fuel to the starboard engine. He watched, almost willing the flames to die out, as Vanrenen changed direction and pushed the plane into a steep dive so that the flames licked up into the night sky and not along the fuselage of the aircraft. The whole wing seemed to be ablaze but gradually the flames died away and Vanrenen levelled the plane out. The wing was a smouldering blackened mess but miraculously it remained intact. Vanrenen brought the Stirling back up to 2,000 feet. John couldn’t take his eyes off the wing, convinced the flames would burst into life again, or worse the fragile wing would break off and disappear into the blackness.

  Vanrenen headed higher and turned for home. The Stirling almost groaned against the effort it took for the three engines to lift the huge plane higher into the sky.

  ‘Air speed dangerously low, Skipper,’ John said into the radio and yet he somehow knew that Vanrenen was well aware just how near the Stirling was to stalling in mid-air.

  ‘I’m taking it up as high as it will let me Flight Engineer, we’ll need a little more height to ride out these shells.’

  John looked out below. The shells were few and far between and those that were fired exploded harmlessly, five hundred feet beneath them.

  ‘Anyone else hit?’ asked Vanrenen, ‘or is it just Gribble?’

  John asked the other crews to report in. It was an agonising wait but one by one Azouz, Tickner, Hoystead and Keith Prowd’s crews radioed in confirming their positions. Only Chuck Hoystead’s plane had suffered a little light damage. All of them were safely over the channel, an hour and twenty minutes from RAF Keevil.

  They’d been flying over the channel for well over an hour. John tapped at the dial with his finger. It wasn’t what a Flight Engineer wanted to see. John’s instruments were showing that the other starboard engine was overheating. He reported the matter to Vanrenen who ordered him to close it down.

  ‘Probably sprung an oil leak, Sir,’ John said as he closed off the fuel supply quickly.

  As always, Vanrenen’s voice seemed unruffled as his dulcet tones reassured everyone in the plane.

  ‘Don’t worry chaps, we’ll make it no problem, the Queen can fly on one engine at a push so the fact we have two is a bonus.’

  John wasn’t so sure and was acutely aware that the aircraft was losing altitude. He wondered what other damage had been done by the shells that had been exploding nonstop all around them. What if the hydraulics had been damaged and the undercarriage failed? He would soon find out.

  A little while later Reg announced they were approaching the English coast.

  ‘Seventeen or eighteen minutes till we land boys, we’ll make it don’t you worry.’

  The other aircraft had all landed safely and both the air and ground crews were inspecting the Stirlings for any sign of damage. Patch sniffed around their feet on the lookout for familiar smells. Mark noticed him and wandered over. He picked him up and ruffled the hair on his head.

  ‘Don’t worry little man, Sherlock’s okay, he’s just took a hit from one of those Jerry shells. He’s hurt but he’s limping home, he shouldn’t be too long.’

  Mark Azouz tried to convince himself but he hoped that that was all that was wrong with the plane. He
couldn’t prevent the stark image of the burning wing from entering his head.

  The little dog cocked his head back and forth as his ears pricked up and he hung on to every word.

  ‘Jesus little fella, I swear you understand every word I say.’

  Patch struggled to get down as he wriggled loose and Azouz placed him gently on the tarmac. His nose pointed up in the air again and his tail started to wag back and forth. Azouz took off his flying helmet and scratched his head.

  ‘Hey lads,’ he shouted, ‘I don’t believe it – he hears Vanrenen’s plane again!’

  One or two of the men stopped what they were doing and listened. They listened for about thirty seconds.

  One of the men spoke. ‘Impossible. If that dog had heard something we’d be seeing them by now.’

  Azouz looked down. Do dogs smile? he thought to himself, because as he concentrated on the face of the Jack Russell he would swear that a big beaming smile had crept across its face.

  For once the night wasn’t still and other Stirlings were firing up their engines ready for sortie number two.

  ‘C’mon Vanrenen… where are you?’ Azouz whispered to himself.

  ‘There’s one I think,’ said George Tickner. ‘Over there, look…’

  ‘I see it too,’ said Azouz. ‘Yes, it’s definitely a plane.’

  ‘Is it Vanrenen?’

  The men watched as the shape of the Stirling came clearly into range.

  ‘She doesn’t sound too clever.’

  One of the flight mechanics spoke. ‘She’s flying on two engines.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Don’t worry lads, she can fly on two no problem,’ the flight mechanic said anxiously. ‘I just wish her landing gear had dropped that’s all. These girls don’t like it too much when they land on their bellies.’

  The hydraulics hadn’t engaged the front landing gear and they were less than 200 feet from the ground. John Holmes didn’t understand; the instrument panel indicated no hydraulic problems.

  ‘Give it another go Skipper, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be working.’