by Steve Holmes
John took an early breakfast with George Tickner and George Humphreys. Eventually it was Tickner who breathed the words everyone was thinking.
‘I wonder how many lads would still be here if we’d just bombed from the outset.’
John recalled Vanrenen’s words all those months ago.
Oh we’ll be in the thick of the action, don’t you worry about that.
196 Squadron had drawn the short straw, there was no doubt about it.
They set out on a bombing raid from Shepherds Grove on 21st February 1945. Six aircraft were flying in formation at around 8,000 feet, the group led by Wing Commander Baker. It was a pleasant evening as they crossed the channel and headed for the French coast but thirty miles over France they ran into thick cloud. It lasted for nearly thirty miles and Wing Commander Baker gave the other pilots instructions to spread their formation out. When they eventually broke through the cumulus Wing Commander Baker’s plane was missing. Chuck took over as Squadron leader and one by one the other aircraft found each other. Despite constant efforts to call in Wing Commander Baker’s Stirling, he could not be located. The rest of the squadron completed a successful operation. Wing Commander Baker’s aircraft did not return home.
John bumped into George on 25th February as he walked Patch across the airfield just before breakfast.
‘Okay Sir, what are you up to?’
George walked with his hands in his pockets as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
‘Back out to Norway, Sherlock, a little later on today. Are you chaps up tonight?’
John shook his head.
‘No Sir, night off tonight, I think I’ll wander into Trowbridge with some of the boys.’
The two men walked for some time. It was a cold, crisp morning with a hard covering of ground frost and the two men blew into their hands as their breath filled the air around them like fine smoke. They talked about home and how the end of the war was in sight. George said he looked forward to getting back home to Australia, John said there couldn’t be many missions left.
‘We’re bombing Berlin on a regular basis now,’ said George. ‘Started on Dresden a few days ago I’m told, and Belgium is completely clear of the Nazis thank God.’
‘They’re on the run, Sir, no doubt about it.’
‘Keep this to yourself Sherlock, but 9,000 planes are on their way to Germany tonight, I’ve a good friend up on a base in Hertfordshire who told me a couple of days ago. Says he’s never seen so many bombers in one place.’
John Holmes whistled. ‘My God, 9,000 you say?’
George nodded. ‘And we’re heading in the opposite bloody direction.’
Tickner turned to face John and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Still… they know best I suppose, we’re dropping a section of SAS lads just south of Stavanger. They’re meeting up with the Norwegian resistance. Should be an easy enough mission and with a little bit of luck I can get back home to some bloody decent weather.’
Pilot Officer Russell George Tickner took off from RAF Shepherds Grove just after midnight on 25th February 1945. They flew northwards skirting the English coast past Newcastle upon Tyne and up towards Edinburgh. George Humphrey pinpointed RAF Lossiemouth on the flight charts right on the north coast of Scotland and wondered if they couldn’t have sent a plane from a base much closer. Lossiemouth was almost on the same latitude as Stavanger. He looked at his watch. They’d been flying for an hour and forty minutes. They turned east as they approached Aberdeen and headed out into the unforgiving environment of the North Sea. The navigator called out the instructions to Tickner as he studied the coordinates on his map.
As the Stirling approached Stavanger the SAS section prepared the parachutes and checked the panniers and boxes that they would be taking with them. George Tickner looked out of the port side of the aircraft.
‘Big lake down there, navigator – is that the one we are looking for?’
‘Yes sir, that’s it. Holen Lake, the Norwegian chaps are waiting on the south bank.’
Tickner reduced the altitude of the plane as he banked round.
‘SAS boys ready?’
Thirty seconds later the panniers and boxes and six bodies of the section of the 1st Battalion SAS dropped out into the freezing cold Norwegian night air. The Germans were waiting. A small craft in the North Sea, five miles from Stavanger had reported seeing the plane approaching German occupied land. The section of German artillery concentrated on the easy target, a low flying RAF Stirling bomber. Tickner’s aircraft took a direct hit in the mid-section of the fuselage. Almost immediately the aircraft was out of control and a fire broke out on board. As George battled with the controls in vain he gave the orders for the crew to bail out. Tickner fought as the Stirling went into a dive.
‘Get out now,’ he screamed into the radio as he realised there was no hope.
Everything happened so quickly, there was no time to locate his chute let alone strap it on and escape. His only thought was the survival of his crew as he continued to bellow into the radio.
‘Going down, mayday, get out, get out.’
Three men managed to escape from the aircraft before it plunged into the frozen lake. The ice was over a foot thick and it ripped the Stirling and the men inside apart.
George Tickner, George Humphrey and John Stevenson were killed instantly. Flight Sergeant Mann and Flying Officer Caldwell made it safely to the ground and were captured by the Germans. Flight Sergeant Quirk, although badly injured was rescued by the Norwegian resistance and hidden in a house in the nearby village of Arendal.
The notice was posted at lunchtime outside the Officers Mess at Shepherds Grove. John stood with Reg. The wording was brief and to the point ‘LJ925 Target Stirrup. Pilot RG Tickner 5954N O757E – Aircraft and crew missing.’ John looked at his watch.
‘Should have been back before six this morning, Reg.’
Reg, for once, was lost for words as he turned and walked away.
Vanrenen and his crew continued to train throughout the month of March 1945. The news in the briefings was good; all good and 196 Squadron had been warned they were to prepare for the ‘final push’.
Germany was under attack from all sides, Wing Commander Turner had told them, and US and British forces had crossed the Rhine at Oppenheim. More divisions led by Montgomery had crossed the river at Wessel.
Wing Commander Turner read out the list of thirty Stirlings who would fly into Wessel to drop troops and supplies.
‘Forget Arnhem,’ he said. ‘This is the big one, this exercise will be bigger and better than anything you have ever flown before.’
‘Chaps.’ He looked slowly around the room as he positioned himself on the desk. ‘The Red Army is closing in on Berlin from the east and there’s hardly a single plane of the Luftwaffe left in the sky. We’ve bombed the hell out of Wessel for the last two nights and we are ready to crush them. If we take Wessel, Dortmund and Dusseldorf will be next.’
Wing Commander Turner paused and spoke to his captive audience.
‘Gentlemen… your work is nearly done. Before you know it you will be back home with your families.’
John spoke to Vanrenen as they strolled across the grass towards LJ 979.
‘Do you think he’s right, Skipper, do you think we’re nearing the end?’
‘Best not think too much about that, Flight Engineer. Just get on with the job in hand and keep your concentration. Remember, an animal is at its most dangerous when he’s wounded and cornered. That’s where the Bosch are at the moment… in a corner. I suspect they still have a bite or two left in them.’
They flew at first light on 24th March. As the planes flew towards the English Channel John looked out of the window. It was an incredible sight watching the hundreds of Stirlings towing fully laden Horsa Gliders. Reg stood alongside him.
‘Haven’t flown in daylight for a long time Sherlock, have we? You forget how gorgeous this bird looks in the sky.’
It was true. John H
olmes felt the same way. There was something elegant about the Stirling aircraft especially today on such a beautiful morning against the backdrop of a glistening North Sea. On the shore he could just about make out the white waves breaking as they caressed the sand below.
In less than an hour they’d reached the Dutch coast just south of Rotterdam. It all looked calm and quiet and perhaps the Wing Commander had been right because not one Luftwaffe aircraft had been seen during the entire flight.
Tammas was studying the map and kept standing up taking a look at the terrain below.
John spoke.
‘Must be an easy one today Tam, flying in broad daylight?’
The navigator nodded. ‘Piece of cake today mate, I’m enjoying myself to be honest, I’ve never been so relaxed in my life.’ He stood and pointed out of the front window. ‘That’s Wessel over there in the distance, we’re about fifteen minutes away I think.’
The area was surrounded in what looked like a thick fog. As they got nearer John realised what it was. A shiver ran the length of his spine. It wasn’t fog, it was smoke, and he could just about make out the flames from the dozens of buildings that were on fire.
Reg was clarifying the drop instructions with the commander of the paratroopers. They’d get them as near to Wessel as possible, about five miles over the Rhine. The Allied troops would amass during the day and attack the city at night fall. The flames were clearly visible now as Vanrenen brought the aircraft down to less than 2,000 feet.
‘Less than a minute, chaps,’ he said, ‘best of luck.’
The Stirling surged forward as the tow ropes released and Vanrenen immediately increased the height of the aircraft on full throttle. The Stirling climbed slowly towards cloud level and then the anti-aircraft fire started. Small fluffy white clouds burst all around them and after each little puff of smoke a deafening explosion. The aircraft shuddered and shook; the Germans had found their range almost instantly.
‘Holy shit,’ said Tammas, ‘I thought the city was quiet, where did these bastards come from?’
A shell exploded no more than twenty feet from the starboard wing and a horrible grinding and clunking noise reverberated through the plane as a huge piece of shrapnel flew into the outer engine.
The Germans had locked on to Stirling LJ 979, largely ignoring the others who by now were above the clouds and out of sight. The Stirling almost groaned as Vanrenen asked for more power. John watched the needle on the altimeter as it slowly dropped and still the shells exploded ever louder. John Chalk stood up and walked over to stand just behind the two pilots seats where he had a bird’s eye view of everything happening down below.
John Holmes feathered the engine on the starboard side just as the flames started behind the engine housing. The plane shook again. A squeal rang through the aircraft. They’d taken a direct hit.
‘Who is it? ‘screamed Vanrenen. ‘Who’s hit?’
John looked around in horror as John Chalk lay on the floor of the aircraft in a pool of blood. He leapt through to the front of the plane.
‘Chalky, Chalky speak to me!’
Chalky was conscious, cursing the Nazi bastards. It was a good sign, thought John.
‘It’s Chalky, Sir,’ he called out to Vanrenen, ‘there’s a hole in the bottom of the fuselage a yard wide.’
John Chalk grimaced.
‘Aye Sherlock, and a right bloody hole in my arse as well. Get something to pack it will you?’
John turned the wireless operator over and reached for the first aid box. John Chalk did indeed have a hole in his backside the size of a tennis ball. A piece of shell had ripped through the bottom of the aircraft directly behind the pilot’s seat and embedded itself in his flesh. He’d picked the worst spot in the plane. The metal casing was still in there smouldering red hot, and the stinking smell of burning flesh and blood filled John’s nostrils.
‘You’ve a hole in your arse alright Chalky, two if memory serves me right, but there’s a bit of a German shell in there too and I’ll need to get it out.’
John Chalk nodded.
‘I thought I felt something Sherlock, get it out, there’s a good fella, but be gentle will you.’
Another explosion rocked the plane.
John Holmes had already taken a hold of the jagged piece of metal as he felt it beginning to burn into his hand. He gripped it harder than he would have wanted and pulled.
John Chalk screamed as the pain registered.
‘You fucking Northern bastard…’ He breathed hard and broke out into a sweat. ‘That wasn’t very gentle.’
‘Better out than in you big, soft southerner, now lie back and think of England while I patch you up.’
Reg crawled over and knelt down beside them.
‘You’d better get back to your seat mate, I don’t know what’s going on with the needles on your control panel but they don’t look very clever to me. They’re spinning around like buggery.’
John didn’t need to check the needles on the instrument panel. The sound of the Stirling was enough. The Queen of the Skies was in distress and crying out for mercy.
Vanrenen shouted from the front of the plane.
‘Diagnosis, Flight Engineer, can I keep her in the air or not?’
John took a few seconds to assess the damage.
‘In one word Skipper, I’m pretty sure that our beloved lady is fucked.’
Vanrenen made the decision in less than a second. Not that he would ever tell him but his flight engineer’s judgement was flawless… gospel.
‘Bail out then, bail out men, I can’t keep her up much longer.’
Smoke now poured through the fuselage as the plane lost even more height.
‘Come on men, bail out, didn’t you hear me?’
The Stirling was almost gliding, the power from three engines snuffed out and the fourth engine spluttering, a clear indication that the fuel pipe was damaged in some way. Len Jones had made his way from the rear gun and held John Chalk’s head.
‘We can’t bail out, Sherlock. We can’t leave Chalky.’
John grinned. ‘My sentiments exactly, mate. I’m going to see Vanrenen.’
John jumped into the seat next to Vanrenen.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Flight Engineer? I told you to bail out.’
John shook his head.
‘We’re going nowhere Skipper, we have two injured crewmen that won’t make it and we’re going nowhere without them. You’d better get this little lady on the ground and hope it’s the Dutch side of the border we land on.
‘Two injured, Flight Engineer, who else is hurt?
John looked at the pool of blood on Vanrenen’s seat.
‘You are, sir.’
Vanrenen nodded slowly. ‘You noticed.’
‘I couldn’t miss it Skip, it looks like you’re sitting in a bowl of tomato soup.’
Vanrenen pointed to a gaping hole in the floor just below him.
‘They’re getting quite accurate, the bloody Huns. A bit of shrapnel I suspect.’
‘Skipper, can you get her down in one piece?’
Vanrenen was already scouring the terrain as he battled with the controls.
‘I don’t know Sherlock, I don’t know. Two pieces perhaps, maybe three.’
He looked at John Holmes and grinned.
‘One piece? Highly unlikely, Sherlock, highly unlikely.’
Vanrenen had taken John by surprise. He’d never used that name before. It was always Flight Engineer or Sergeant, never John and certainly never ever the nickname that his crew used on a regular basis.
The Stirling was vibrating now and Vanrenen’s white-knuckled hands were a blur on the wheel. The whole aircraft shook and John expected it to break apart at any minute. The ground was getting closer but miraculously Vanrenen was managing to keep the aircraft level.
‘Fucking hell,’ Vanrenen cried out, ‘stay with me darling, stay with me, don’t give up now.’
The nose of the aircraft dipped slight
ly, Vanrenen cursed and swore.
‘We’re not going to make it Sherlock; the bitch is fighting me every inch of the way.’
John couldn’t quite describe the feeling that washed over him. They were no more than 250 feet from the ground but suddenly John knew they were going to make it. From a mild panic and a feeling of impending doom it was as if someone had flicked a switch. The ground was close now, he could see the branches of the trees, even the pine cones, the freshly ploughed fields and it was approaching a lot quicker than he wanted it to…but he knew.
‘We’re not going to make it, Sherlock, we’re buggered.’
‘Skipper.’
‘Flight Engineer.’
‘We are going to make it.’
Vanrenen’s veins were standing out on his neck, the Stirling was almost screaming, crying out ‘no more, no more’.
‘What makes you so certain, Flight Engineer?’
John Holmes strapped himself into the seat and prepared for the impact.
‘Because we’ve got the best bloody pilot on the planet flying our plane. That’s why.’
Vanrenen glanced across to his right for a split second. John was calm, almost laid back. He flicked a smile.
‘I certainly hope so, Sherlock… I bloody well hope so.’
They hit the ground a lot harder than John would have liked. The glass in the cockpit shattered on impact and bits of debris and soil flew into the plane, stinging and cutting into his flesh.
Vanrenen had put her down in a field of turnips and they ploughed a 200-yard road into the farmer’s field before coming to a stop. The aircraft was full of smoke and it was difficult to see.
‘Out, out, out. She’s going to blow.’
The smell of aircraft fuel was almost overpowering as John helped Vanrenen from his seat. There was no need to locate an escape hatch. There were at least a dozen holes in the plane big enough for a man to crawl through.
‘Over there Skip, get behind that wall.’ John pointed across the field through a gap in the plane. ‘I’ll get Chalky and check on the others.’
Reg and Len had John Chalk draped across their shoulders and Doug followed behind.
