Bombing Run

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  ‘Thanks, Skipper. Course two-five-zero.’

  ‘Two-five-zero. Everybody O.K.?’

  Everybody was very much all correct and so was their aircraft. Wheldon settled down to fly home with no problems; except the nagging anxiety about Vachell.

  It was not eased when, on landing, he learned that no message had been received from Vachell’s aircraft. It became even more acute when, an hour after the last of the seven Wellingtons known not to have been shot down had landed, Vachell had still not returned. Wheldon had seen one aeroplane go down and a second had sent an S.O.S. before being forced to ditch with an engine knocked out by Flak and the ailerons and an elevator shot away. There was not much hope for its crew. But what had happened to Vachell?

  Wheldon’s deep sleep was troubled by a nightmare in which he relived their 75 miserable and terrifying hours in a dinghy.

  *

  When he woke, his mind was immediately flooded with the recollections and emotions with which he had gone to bed. He hurried to the bathroom and over his dressing, to find out if there was any news.

  Vachell looked up from his breakfast and grinned. ‘Where the hell have you been Tony?’ Wheldon took the chair next to him.

  ‘It’s a long story…’

  ‘Where did you get to last night? Where’s your crew?’ Wheldon looked around the dining-room, although there were few people in it and he already knew that none of Vachell’s crew was among them.

  ‘We were late on target…’

  ‘I’ll say you were! I hung around for ten minutes, waiting for you.’

  ‘That oaf Potts lost us. You’d think, with all those fires burning on Sylt, he could at least have steered me near enough for us to get a visual fix on it: but, no; not Potts. He was so far off course that the first thing we knew was that we were off the Danish coast, miles too far north…’

  ‘Hell!’

  ‘By the time we reached the target, everything was quiet. We bombed and even Potts couldn’t miss. Then a spot of Flak came up and we caught a mild packet.’

  Vachell paused and gave Wheldon a strange, uncertain—it seemed to Wheldon a hunted, guilty—look.

  ‘Where were you hit?’

  ‘Oh… here and there… y’know…’

  ‘No, I don’t know. Where, exactly?’

  ‘In the port wing and just aft of the beam guns.’ Vachell hesitated and licked his lips nervously. ‘When we were hit in the wing, it was near the engine…’ He tailed off again.

  ‘Did you have to feather?’

  Vachell nodded, his mouth full of toast and marmalade. He swallowed, then said, in a rush, ‘The others had to bale out.’

  Wheldon almost spilled his tea. ‘Bale out? Where?’

  ‘Over Germany. All except the wop.’ There seemed to be a touch of malice in Vachell’s manner.

  ‘I see.’ Wheldon considered all this for a moment. ‘You’re sure it was over Germany, not in the drink or into Denmark?’

  ‘I made sure of that.’

  ‘What? They’ll be in the bag by now, then. Why didn’t you dump them over Denmark?’

  Vachell smirked. ‘What? And infringe Denmark’s neutrality? Get myself court martialled? Besides, they’d have fired at me. You know all neutrals fire at us or Jerry.’

  ‘Yes, as a warning, not to hit.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And who’s to know they mightn’t make a mistake and shoot one down?’

  ‘Go on, Tony, what happened then?’

  ‘I knew the rough course for base and my wop got me some fixes when we were close enough. But I actually found myself up in Yorkshire, so I lobbed in at Finningley and slept in the rest bunk until first light. Then I took off and came home.’ He added, as though it were important, ‘I tossed my wop for the bunk and he lost. He slept on the deck.’

  Wheldon began to laugh. ‘Does the Wingco know any of this?’

  ‘Finningley telephoned him and he was at dispersals, with Groupie, when I landed.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  Vachell’s pallor turned beetroot. ‘They… they’re putting me up for a gong.’

  ‘Bloody good show, Tony. Congratulations. A bar to your D.F.M., eh?’

  Vachell’s blush had receded but it returned now. ‘N-no… they said… a… D.C.M., actually.’

  Again Wheldon almost had an accident. He was drinking tea and nearly did the nose trick. The Distinguished Conduct Medal, the other ranks’ equivalent of the Distinguished Service Order, was perhaps the rarest of all decorations below the V.C.

  ‘That is a good show. I’m delighted.’ He studied Vachell. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Vachell was looking tormented. He said, in a scarcely audible voice, ‘Look, Pete, will you come up to my bunk? There’s something I’ve got to tell you. I’ll never tell it to anyone else.’

  They went up to his room and he flopped onto the bed while Wheldon sat on the only chair. ‘Well?’

  ‘I feel rotten, Pete. Not about what I did, but because they’re giving me a gong because they think I found the target after my observer had taken me about thirty miles off course… and because I saw them safely out of the kite… and then brought it home…’ Vachell looked miserable.

  ‘You deserve it.’

  ‘I’d made up my mind to do it even before we took off, Pete.’

  ‘What? That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘I had made up my mind to dump those bastards over Germany, so that they’d spend the rest of the war in a prison camp, as far away from me as possible.’

  ‘Tony! You can’t have…’

  ‘But I did. I’d had more than enough of the lot of them. All except the wop, who’s a good type.’ Vachell’s wireless operator was still a leading aircraftman, awaiting the slow-moving promotion that Air Ministry had ordained. ‘I made up my mind to tip them out of the kite…’

  ‘Tip them out?’

  ‘I was going to send Moakes back to take a star shot, and then pretend one engine was over-heating and the other one was losing power. Then I intended to turn inland and get rid of them.’

  ‘How could you force them to jump?’

  Vachell began to laugh. ‘Easy. When we were hit it gave me the perfect excuse. I sent Moakes back to give Potts a hand, where he couldn’t read the engine instruments, then I switched off the port engine… said it must have been hit. Talk about me being windy! You should have heard the squawks from Moakes and Potts! I ordered all hatches opened and told them to take up baling out positions: Potts up in the nose, in the bomb-aimer’s place. I told the wop to stay till last, sending S.O.S. Nobody picked it up, of course: we were too far away and too low.

  ‘When I ordered the others to jump, they refused.’ Vachell burst out laughing once more. ‘So I chucked the kite about and Potts and Moakes both fell out. The other two jumped. Then I told the wop I’d got the aircraft under control again, started the port engine, and turned for home.’

  ‘Good God!’ Wheldon rocked with laughter.

  ‘So, you see, I feel a bit of a fraud about the gong. My wop’s getting a D.F.M. for staying with me… I’m glad to say.’ Vachell gave Wheldon a worried look, far from laughter now ‘I thought this was a good time to apply for a commission, too, so I spoke to the Wingco about that… and he agreed. He and Groupie will recommend my application. Pete… why don’t you put in for one?’

  Wheldon, drying tears of laughter, said, with difficulty, ‘I think I will. The twenty quid will be useful, too.’

  ‘What twenty quid?’

  ‘Didn’t you know? When you take a commission, you’re officially discharged from the R.A.F. and reappointed. Holders of the D.F.M. get a twenty-pound bonus when they leave the Service. So if you’re discharged and rejoin, you pick up your twenty pounds at once.’

  ‘Really? Wizard. We’ll have a party. I never knew that.’

  ‘You’re still a sprog. You need to get some in. I know my K.Rs and A.C.Is, chum.’

  ‘King’s Regulations and Air Council Instructions… I suppose I
’ll have to learn them up when I get my commission?’

  ‘From what you’ve just told me, I think you’ll get by adequately with what you know already… and your natural low cunning.’ Wheldon began to laugh afresh. ‘I wish I could have seen the expressions on their faces when you spilled those two bad types out of the open hatches…’

  Vachell began to sob with mirth. ‘The… the w-wind… it just sucked ‘em clean out when I… when I let one wing drop…’

  Their laughter filled the small room.

  Some long while later, Wheldon forced himself to stop. Their mirth might bring a curious friend seeking to join in. It would hardly be decent for Vachell to be apprehended in near-hysterics of merriment when he had been bereft of four-fifths of his crew.

  Vachell wiped away his tears of laughter and suddenly looked wary. ‘You’re not shocked, Pete?’

  ‘I’m impressed, Tony. I couldn’t have done it. Never suspected you of being ruthless. You public school types!’

  His doubts about Vachell’s officer qualities had been misplaced, he reflected. Tony would be able to hold his own, all right.

  ‘It’s all that discipline and corporal punishment—both received and dealt out—I suppose. Toughens one.’

  There was more to it than that, Wheldon thought. Tony Vachell didn’t like awkward issues. Rather than confront one, he found his own way of avoiding it. He could go far in the Service; a view which he would never have held about him before this moment.

  Ten

  ‘Sit down, Flight Sergeant.’ Wing Commander Norton’s expression as he looked across his desk gave nothing away. He was thinking of the contrast between the two senior N.C.Os whose commission applications lay in his in-tray. Vachell, now: there was a surprising young fella. Damn good show, he’d put up. So reluctant to lose his aircraft that he’d hung on after his crew had safely baled out, and managed to restart the duff engine. Just as well the boy hadn’t ordered his wop to leave with the others, or he’d have had even greater difficulty in finding his way back without flying into the cliffs or a hill.

  Wheldon, on the other hand, one would take for granted would show grit and determination. Yet, there was always that lurking suspicion of over-caution. The chap was a perfectionist, of course, which was admirable, but there were times, in war, when one had to sacrifice perfection in order to gain the best possible results.

  ‘Are you sure you really want to be an officer, Flight?’

  This was not a question that Wheldon had expected. Why the hell, did the Wingco think, he’d bothered to apply? ‘Really’ was the operative word, no doubt.

  ‘Quite sure, sir.’

  ‘I take it you’ve given it careful thought?’

  ‘For nearly nine years, sir.’

  Norton looked slightly jolted. ‘Oh?’

  ‘When I joined, sir, it wasn’t my intention to spend my whole service in the ranks.’

  ‘You’re ambitious.’

  ‘I’m not ashamed of it, sir.’

  ‘And what do you see as your next step?’

  ‘A permanent commission, sir.’

  ‘No reason why you shouldn’t get one, after the war. Except, of course, that you are unlikely to live to see that. Nor am I, unless they kick me upstairs with a fourth ring on my cuffs and damn all chance of flying on ops.’

  ‘I hope so, sir. I never want to leave the Service; until I reach retiring age.’ Wheldon smiled faintly at so distant a prospect.

  ‘You should get your promotion to warrant officer before long. That’s probably the best rank in the Service; especially for a pilot. Tremendous seniority, great respect and authority, decent pay, but fewer responsibilities than even a very junior officer.’

  Wheldon felt his antagonism rising. ‘Are you discouraging me, sir?’

  ‘No, not at all. I’m just being fair: reminding you of what you’ll be giving up. An officer’s responsibilities and his whole way of life are very different from even a very senior N.C.O’s, you know.’

  ‘That’s the attraction, sir. I enjoy responsibility.’ Or is he trying to tell me that I might not find it easy to fit in socially? Surely not! There are half a dozen ex-O.Rs in the officers’ mess as it is, and the R.A.F. isn’t a snobs’ preserve, anyway. Does he think he’s vetting me for the Guards?

  ‘The leadership a good officer must display is different in many ways from an N.C.O’s.’

  They held each other’s gaze for a moment.

  ‘Is it, sir?’

  ‘Yes. There is an essential element called dash. It means setting an example in action by action.’

  Wheldon’s anger was smouldering and close to conflagration. He held on tightly. ‘I appreciate that, sir. I think I’ve flown with you often enough on ops to understand what you mean.’

  Norton looked amused. ‘Tactful as well as ambitious, Flight.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of myself as tactful, sir. I say what I think. And I think you go mad when you get into a fight.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll recommend you and pass your application on to the station commander.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  ‘I hope you will use your influence as effectively, as an officer, as you do now. You fly very well, but probably the most useful thing you’ve done in the past eleven months is the influence you’ve had on Sergeant Vachell’s character. Do you realise that?’

  Wheldon knew when to remain silent and this was such an occasion.

  *

  Vachell, in the saloon bar of the Fox And Hounds, was more than mellow when Wheldon and Audrey entered. He looked tousle-haired and flushed, and he waved. ‘Come and meet my new crew.’

  It was unusual, these days, to see him unaccompanied by a girl. It was his incompatible erstwhile crew as much as his innate enjoyment of female company which had prompted his frequent changes of girl. Wheldon was relieved to see that he was enjoying himself without one.

  A tall pilot officer, flaxen haired and pink-cheeked, of about Vachell’s age, gave Wheldon a friendly look. ‘This is Tiny, my second Dicky.’

  ‘Hello Audrey, Hello Pete,’ said Tiny.

  ‘And this is my observer, known as Hippo.’

  Hippo was an almost wraith-like sergeant, no more than five feet four inches tall and as thin as a jockey at the height of the flat racing season. He seemed to wear a perpetual broad grin and spoke with a droll Lancashire accent.

  The wireless operator was there, now sporting his three tapes: accelerated by the station commander in recognition of his fidelity to his captain. The rumour was rife that he had been put up for a D.F.M. The other two air gunners looked even younger than their captain and second pilot. Altogether, Wheldon felt that the flight commander and squadron commander had done well by Vachell. He was aware that he was grinning excessively as he was introduced, but he could not stifle the thought that this lot had better behave themselves if they didn’t want to find themselves dangling involuntarily over Germany under a parachute.

  It was entertaining to see the deference, the positive awe, with which Vachell’s crew were regarding him. The cliché ‘Hanging on his words’ occurred to Wheldon. The only worthwhile words he had ever heard from Vachell had been when they were struggling out of the ditched Wimpey and during their sufferings in the dinghy. The four new boys were also treating the wireless operator with a mixture of admiration and wonder, as though in the presence of a prodigy.

  ‘This,’ Vachell declared, with an expansive gesture, ‘is my old skipper. The best bloody—sorry, Audrey—the best pilot on the squadron.’ Unfortunately he accompanied the encomium with a gesture and as he had a full pint tankard in his hand, he slopped beer over the-best-bloody-pilot-in-the-squadron’s best blue.

  It was now Wheldon’s turn to be regarded with open, and, in some instances, open-mouthed, idolatry. He did not in the least care for it.

  ‘Any pilot looks good in comparison with this ham-fisted clot,’ Wheldon said. ‘Having him in the right hand seat is the best ego-booster any driver
, airframe, could have.’

  ‘Steady on, Pete.’

  The other five laughed and grinned appreciatively; not believing a word of the flight sergeant, D.F.M’s denigration. They had flown only once with Vachell; that afternoon, on a familiarisation flight: but they were one and all convinced that they were in the hands of an aeronautical genius. His D.F.M.—at his age!—and the stories with which they had been regaled by their ground crew had painted a lurid and reassuring picture of his capabilities. His recommendation for a D.C.M. was no secret: a clerk in the squadron Orderly Room had soon broadcast it; not directly, but by broad hints.

  Wheldon looked at Pilot Officer Whatever-his-name was. ‘Wait till you do fighter affil with this type, Tiny. You don’t know the meaning of stark terror yet.’

  Fighter affiliation, with a Gladiator, or, if you were lucky, a Hurricane, or, if you were as lucky as a winner of the Irish Sweepstake on the Derby, a Spitfire, entailed thirty minutes of attacks while the pilot hurled the Wimpey about the sky in evasion.

  Tiny looked uncertain, but took the safe refuge of smiling and laughing and saying ‘Oh?’

  ‘Tony can chuck a Wimpey around like anyone else steers a Dodgem car.’

  Vachell blushed. Both he and Wheldon were thinking of those open hatches and Vachell’s detested crew sliding out of them, protesting and no doubt clutching vainly for some handhold that would keep them in the aeroplane.

  Tiny said ‘Are we going to need airsick pills?’

  ‘Something to bind your bowels would be more useful,’ Wheldon said. Audrey made deprecating noises. ‘Sorry, Audrey. Thanks for the drink, Tony. Mind if we shove off now? I don’t want to butt in on your crew, and I do want to shoot a sexy line to this gorgeous Waaf I’ve got here.’

  Audrey laughed. Vachell and his crew made loud sounds of mirth and envy, eyeing Audrey in a way that made her very red and very gratified.

  She and Wheldon carried their drinks to a corner and presently they moved on to another pub.

  ‘I’m glad Tony’s got such a jolly crew,’ she said.