Bombs Gone

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Silence.

  Ridley stared at the fuel gauges. His throat was dry and constricted, his hands, which had been so cold, were now hot and sweaty.

  He could not bale out as long as there was any suspicion in his mind that Noakes was still aboard. He tried one last time to lower the undercarriage. The starboard wing was dragging against him, making his arm ache. One thing to be thankful for ... there would be little or no fuel ... no danger of fire.

  Down ... watching altimeter and air speed indicator ... down ... they must be going frantic down there, wondering what he was doing ... the runway was only a hundred feet below, now, and to his port. The threshold lights were a hundred yards ahead. Light washed over the edge of the runway and onto the grass.

  He let the Wellington sink the last few feet. It scraped the grass with a grating and squealing of metal and rending of canvas, a stink of petrol fumes. Hot oil sprayed over the windscreen and windows. The Wellington gyrated violently to starboard. Ridley was flung against his straps. With outstretched arms he fended off the instrument panel. The impact jarred his bones.

  The aircraft jerked to a halt with dust and smoke filling the air.

  Ridley struggled out of his straps and as he lurched out of the cockpit he barged headlong into Noakes.

  Noakes reeled back under Ridley’s weight and fell. Ridley helped him to his feet and shouted, “Come on ... before she goes up in flames.”

  Together they wrenched at the emergency hatch, Noakes gasping: “I saw there was no one left aboard ... when I came out of my turret, sir ... I came to see if you were all right ...”

  They were outside the aircraft by now. Noakes was amazed to see his pilot, face streaked with grime, burst out laughing.

  Must have had a bump on the ’ead, thought Noakes.

  Ridley, through his laughter, was saying, “Didn’t ... know if ... you were still aboard ... Noakes ... glad you were ... would have looked a fool, otherwise ... disobeying orders to bale out.”

  Seven

  Oberleutnant Falch said, “We made our point, but not strongly enough. A week of night patrols and we have nothing to show for it. Jafü is putting us back on day operations. It’s a compliment to us, I suppose, that we’re considered essential to the daytime defence of the Reich. Obviously Jafü doesn’t think anyone has a real chance at night.”

  Reinert was indignant. “We had several near misses. With one more week to improve our performance, we’d show them what we can do.”

  “When you’re a bit older,” Falch told him from the pinnacle of his 25 years, “you’ll understand that life is a paradox. The very fact of near misses is what decided Jafü to put us back on days. The reasoning is that if even we, with our fire-power and a crew of two, can’t shoot down the enemy at night, he might as well let the chaps who fly clapped-out Püppchen waste their time. Because that is all it is: a sheer waste of time. Far better to leave it to searchlights and flak.”

  “That is heresy.” Reinert was red in the face with indignation. He looked like an outraged schoolboy who has just been told he can’t have the new bicycle he was promised until he behaves better.

  His friends laughed at him. “It makes no difference, Kanone ... Ace ... the weather is becoming so bad that the Tommies will have to come over by day if they want to do anything useful.”

  Being called Ace did not mollify him. It annoyed him, because it reminded him that he was not yet an officially acknowledged ace pilot. Reichmarschall Göring had not yet seen fit to decorate him. Morning, noon and night, Reinert dreamed of an Iron Cross. Falch had been awarded one for shooting down Communist aeroplanes in the Spanish Civil War. What he himself had done in the past three months was surely worth more than that. Not only was this a far bigger war and one in which the Fatherland was a principal, but also the British aircraft were far more difficult to destroy than any the Luftwaffe had encountered over Spain.

  What Falch said was true enough: the enemy would be forced to come over by day if they persisted in attacking only shipping and if they did not want to run the risk of darkness added to bad weather. But how long would they go on refraining from bombing the Fatherland? Once they decided that ships were too difficult to hit and the losses involved were absurdly high, they would switch to night bombing. And that meant land targets. And instead of the paltry few bombers they used for leaflet raids, they would send the larger numbers they used on bombing raids. When that happened, the night fighters would get all the best chances.

  Lotte’s father came home for two days’ leave and Reinert tried to put this point to him. The Oberst sat listening impassively with a stony glint in his eyes, the scars on his cheeks showing white as he kept grinding his teeth.

  At length Oberst Wiggers rasped, “So, we are about to acquire a master of high strategy in the family? A juvenile Clausewitz! Don’t be impatient, my boy.” His harsh face cracked in some semblance of a smile. “You’ll get your chance in the spring, I assure you. Just ride out the winter in patience. Once the fine weather comes, the traditional campaign season in Europe, you’ll see how we shall trample over the Maginot Line and be across the Channel in a flash. You’ll find yourself taking the war to the enemy soon enough, not waiting for them to come to you.”

  Reinert exulted at the thought. Lotte, however, became sulky and said there was no point in planning a May wedding if he was going off campaigning in the spring.

  Reinert now had a conflict going on in his emotions. He craved for adventure and yearned for glory, yet ached to be able to parade Lotte as his wife. Given the choice of a wedding or great victories in battle next May, he could not decide which he would choose.

  Proud though he was of being a fighter pilot, like his father before him, he envied the bomber pilots just now. One of the Heinkel III squadrons had already won fame for its attacks on British convoys around the coasts of England and Scotland. It was acclaimed as “The Lion Squadron” on account of its lion crest and its motto, “Vestigium Leonis”, “The Lion’s Track”.

  That squadron had a song which Reinert admired. One of its vainglorious verses went:—

  Aircraft out, chocks away,

  Let the engines thunder:

  We fly north-west for England’s coasts

  To rend its guard asunder.

  And another carried on with the same swagger:—

  Blood-red bombers of the Lion,

  Roaring up the skies of morning,

  With holy wrath we fly inspired.

  England, you have had your warning!

  *

  This bombastic doggerel had found its way to England, among the German magazines and newspapers studied, and often ridiculed, by the British Intelligence Services.

  R.A.F. Intelligence had gleefully circulated it among all Commands, as a prime example of Hun hyperbole.

  Ridley’s pronouncement about it had been typical. “Red Lions? Sounds like a particularly belligerent pub darts team on an away match!”

  They had another away match of their own as soon as the weather cleared enough to let them venture out again by day.

  In the meanwhile Ridley was piling up a good score of points in the good books of both Shirley and her father. With the sweet-natured Mrs Ward there was no need to improve his standing. She had taken an instant liking to him for his wholesome appearance and pleasant manners. And because an imp of mischief sat on her shoulder. It amused her to introduce a bomber pilot to the bosom of this stronghold of fighter tradition and pride. As far as she was concerned, there could be no more welcome guest in her home than Derek Ridley.

  News of his brave wheels-up landing which saved the life of one of his crew circulated quickly. The press and B.B.C. were allowed to have an innocuous version of it, which emphasised the courage and comradeship of the R.A.F. without implying any blame to anyone but the enemy for the necessity to crash-land or bale out.

  When he next went to Overstrand to take Shirley out, Mrs Ward told him: “My husband wants you to telephone him, Derek.”

 
; Ridley’s heart gave a leap. Was the old boy going to crack down on his seeing Shirley so often?

  “Don’t look so worried,” Mrs Ward smiled. “He only wants to take you to the mess for a drink.”

  He tried to make a joke of it. “What? They’ll tear me limb from limb! I once had to make a forced landing on a fighter airfield, and when my observer and I walked into the mess an enormous great flight-lieutenant type yelled out, as soon as he saw us, “Come on chaps, we’ve got two of ’em,” and I was never more scared in my life.”

  “What happened?” asked Shirley, wide-eyed.

  He laughed. “As a matter of fact, they insisted on pouring so much beer into us that we couldn’t take off for base until several hours later ... when we were more or less sober.”

  “You’d better not let them do that to you this time. I want to see that Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film.”

  When Ridley spoke to the group-captain on the telephone he was told to report to Station Headquarters without delay.

  “Good show, Ridley,” said Gp-Cpt Ward. “Do you mind coming over to the mess and having a chat with some of my chaps? We’re all very interested in enemy night fighter tactics.”

  “I’m afraid I’m the wrong chap to tell you that, sir. My air-gunners saw much more than I did. So did my observer.”

  The group-captain gave him a doubting look. “Well, come and have a drink, anyway.”

  In the mess, he maintained a guarded discretion about saying anything that could be misconstrued as a line-shoot. But the fighter pilots and squadron Intelligence officers seemed satisfied with what he said about altitudes and types of attack. He felt he had got off lightly, but when he was allowed to escape his hands felt as hot as when he was doing the belly-landing.

  He went back to the Wards’ house to fetch Shirley, and her mother said, “I don’t want to embarrass you, Derek, but we were very proud when we heard what you had done.”

  He evaded the implication of heroism in saving his gunner’s life. “Anyone should be able to land a Wimpey wheels-up: they’re terribly strong.”

  Before he drove off with Shirley, she put her hand on his cheek, turned his head towards her and kissed him. “That’s my way of saying I think you’re super.”

  He kissed her again. “I’d rather have that than anything.”

  *

  A briefing-room had been under construction next to the Operations Room, and this was the first gathering there. The briefing was no more grandiose or portentous an affair for all that. This morning, three squadrons were each contributing six aircraft. Only one of the Saunderton squadrons was detailed. There were thus only 30 men to attend the briefing. With so much more space, there was no reason to exclude gunners or wireless-operators.

  The group-captain stood at the end of the room. Nobody had yet thought of providing a dais and, as he was not very tall and some of the aircrews were, those at the back could not see him. But they could hear him and they were impressed by the fine map on the wall behind him.

  “While we’ve been hampered by bad weather,” the station-commander said, “enemy naval units have been free to harass our North Sea convoys. Today, we are going to do something about it. It’s our old friend the Heligoland Bight again.”

  The station-commander sat down and the crews momentarily fell to wondering how he could have become so familiar with the Heligoland Bight without ever going there.

  The squadron-commander stood up.

  “We’re the only Wellingtons on this one. The other twelve are Hampdens. We rendezvous with them over the Wash at five thousand feet. The whole formation will fly in mutually supporting vics of three. The Hampdens are leading, but don’t go to sleep over your navigation. You all know what can happen.” There was restless movement and some subdued sniggering. “The leader’s instruments may be a bit off, or his observer might have his finger in. So plot what you reckon ought to be your track as well as the track you actually appear to be flying. Of course, we hope they’ll coincide!” This time the laughter was more appreciative.

  “If the weather clamps or fighters drive us into cloud, we’ll probably have to come home alone, so be ready for it by knowing exactly where you are at all times.”

  He nodded to the Intelligence officer, who told them that several destroyers, minesweepers and E-boats were known to be in the area where they were going, but numbers were not precise. Some of these would probably be at sea and some in harbour. All were targets they were at liberty to attack.

  The weather man told them to expect cloud down to 2,000ft but good visibility, no threat of rain or storm, and moderate winds. No one believed a word of it.

  Ridley was given brand-new aircraft for the sortie. It had been delivered two days previously. He had air-tested it that morning. It had a pleasant factory-fresh smell about it, with no lingering traces of cordite, Elsan latrine chemical or stale rations. He appreciated that, but had a new suspicion about unproven aeroplanes. This one, O for orange, seemed a bit too good to be true.

  As he ran through his cockpit checks he began to feel an extraordinary lassitude. His limbs seemed heavy, his head ached a bit, his mouth was dry. He wasn’t afraid of what lay ahead. He knew he wasn’t afraid. But he remembered the last time, when the defect in the intercom had upset him and he had been taut all the way; and, by suppressing any sign of tension, he had felt the strain of the whole episode more burdensome than any daylight attack: which was illogical, despite the trouble they had run into. The daylight when they had come back with the Wimpey ripped to shreds had been far more dicey, yet he had walked away from the landing as though he had been on a training exercise. He supposed that it was the accumulation of unknown quantities that caused it. Responsibility had something to do with it, too. He was always conscious of the other lives in his care. And he was always thinking about Shirley and how much he was going to miss if his life were cut short: that added its quota of stress, which in turn must have had physiological effects. All he knew was that he was not feeling too bright this morning, despite having passed an evening of unalloyed contentment in Shirley’s company.

  He drove the Wimpey along the taxi track, noticing how pristine it looked in comparison with the oil- and smoke-stained one ahead.

  He recalled the new-car smell of polish and leather when his father, every three years, replaced the family car. It was the odour of leather from his own present seat that had brought it to mind. And that reminded him ... now that he was using Göring so much, and Ronnie Clive had taken up with a W.A.A.F. and wanted equal use of the car, they had decided that he could buy Ronnie out. He must give him a cheque when they got back. And he’d have to add on the appropriate share of tax and insurance. Courting seriously was an expensive business.

  There was the green Verey light from the control tower, for him. He released the brakes, thrust the throttles wide and glided down the runway. O for orange soared into its proper element and Ridley, in his also, felt his tiredness melt away. Operating with other squadrons was always of special interest, particularly when they flew different types of aircraft. It stirred up a piquant rivalry that he enjoyed.

  They were flying a more northerly course than usual and when they reached the Wash the Hampdens were approaching from due west. The twelve narrow-fuselaged “flying suitcases” wheeled and took up station ahead of the Wellingtons. Ridley, in the centre of the second V of three, with a sergeant pilot on either hand, checked the time. They had made the rendezvous almost to the second. That was a good augury. Damn it, he mustn’t start to become superstitious. He didn’t believe in auguries, mascots and lucky charms. He didn’t believe in Fate, either.

  The I.O. had warned them about coastal convoys en route. The very ships whose safety they were protecting by this operation, they had to keep well away from them. The naval escorts and the gunners on the merchant ships were equally sensitive to aircraft and fired on sight. The patrolling Hurricanes and Spitfires were quick to shoot, also. Laying down recognition procedures was all very w
ell, but people had been known to get shot down while identifying themselves. And the war only three months old yet! Perhaps everyone would learn to be less hasty as time went on and perhaps they would all improve their aircraft recognition. There was no point in firing Verey lights or flashing a signalling-lamp at a pilot or gunner who had mistaken you for an enemy. He wondered if Jerry had the same problems.

  They were several miles off the coast now, and he could see a bunch of ships away on his port hand, coming south. They should be safely in the Thames estuary tonight. Unless E-boats darted across after dusk and clobbered them. Or a U-boat got close enough to fire torpedoes. He made out a destroyer, a corvette and a score of cargo ships. He could just see a section of three fighters circling above them.

  One of the Hampdens peeled off and turned about. He could see that it had one engine feathered. Bad luck. Heligoland should be in sight. Clive had just said so.

  “Captain to front gunner ... see anything yet?”

  “No, Skipper.”

  “See anything, Ronnie?” He knew Clive had moved to the astrodome.

  “Not a sausage, Derek.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “We’re on course, all right.”

  “Visibility may be bad there.”

  “Local mist, perhaps.”

  The island emerged from the grayness of sea and mist and a splutter of fire from its flak batteries.

  One of the Hampdens dropped out of the formation with smoke coming from one engine. It swooped down to about 200ft, the damaged engine feathered. Ridley saw the pilot jettison the bombs to lighten the load. He just had time to catch a glimpse of the black eggs dropping before they hit the sea, their instantaneous fuses detonated them and the Hampden disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaping flames and cascading water, caught in its own bomb blast.

  “Nasty hard stuff, water,” Ridley commented on the intercom.

  Nobody felt like replying.

  Another Hampden made a brave bombing run over one of the destroyers, holding steady in the face of heavy flak; but it flew straight over the target and no bombs dropped from its open bays. Evidently the release mechanism had failed and it would now have to land with a full load of fused bombs aboard.