Bombing Run

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  ‘It’s all he needed to give him confidence in himself.’

  ‘To make a man of him,’ she said bluntly.

  Later, in his car, indulging in what had become known, thanks to American talkies, as necking, and was soon to be referred to in the R.A.F. as snogging, Wheldon said ‘I’ve put in for a commission.’

  ‘I’m glad…’ Then she pulled away from him. ‘Does that mean you’ll be posted?’

  He hugged her back against him. ‘Not these days. Two weeks’ leave, to have uniforms made, and then back to the squadron. The old idea that if you’re commissioned from the ranks you can’t be an effective disciplinarian over your old mates doesn’t hold water now. It’s much more important not to break up a crew.’

  She snuggled into him. ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘I won’t need to spend the whole of my leave at home.’

  ‘Is that an indecent proposition?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  *

  ‘Our target for tonight is a piece of cake. Iced cake.’ Wing Commander Norton, wearing the ribbon of the D.S.O. which he had just been awarded, pointed to the sea area off Cuxhaven, north of the last island in the Frisian chain. ‘Enemy naval vessels are icebound here, in the lee of this small island, Neuwerk. They’re far enough offshore and far enough from the mainland for us not to need to worry about accidentally hitting anything we shouldn’t.’

  Everyone’s attention quickened. The atmosphere became charged with excitement. This looked as though it was the chance for which they had all been waiting: Jerry warships stuck fast in the ice and no limitations on attacking them.

  ‘Two other squadrons are each putting up twelve aircraft, as well. With thirty-six Wimpeys milling around in the dark, our biggest danger is going to be collision. Bombing height eight thousand, which gives us a fair chance of hitting the brutes at the same time as keeping pretty clear of Flak. There’ll be no land batteries to bother us and the ships don’t muster many searchlights between the lot of them; and none as powerful as the land-based ones. Unless they keep standing patrols in the area, we won’t see any fighters.’

  It was the most encouraging briefing that any of them had ever attended. The Wing Commander’s optimism was credible. What he had told them suggested a kind of Utopia.

  Wheldon did not accept anyone else’s evaluation of a state of affairs in which his life was at risk. He saw the eager, credulous way in which Vachell’s second pilot and observer were absorbing the Wing Commander’s placebos and was glad to see the calculating look on Vachell’s face. He felt a twinge of pity for others who, with no operations behind them or only a Nickel or two, were taking in every assertion and assurance as readily as though Norton were an oracle.

  He glanced at Macleod, who turned down the corners of his mouth in a way that might have signified a wistful hope that this time there was more than half-truth in what they were being told, or might equally have indicated a resigned submission to the eternal deceptions of higher authority. When he looked at Rhys, he saw that Rhys had his eyes on him with a steely fixedness which held a brand of melancholy jocularity that was bred only by the same dubiety, forged in the same annealing heat of gunfire.

  The mixed mood of good cheer at ships caught fast by a frozen sea and in numbers enough to make them sanguine of hitting one, and dejection at the height from which, in the dark, they must bomb, persisted. Wheldon took off with resignation rather than keen anticipation. Bomb sights were little better than they had been at the end of the Great War. Navigation equipment relied entirely on the skill of its user and the accuracy of wind forecasts; which, in turn, had to be based on insufficient information. The human factor governed the odds on anyone actually finding his target at all and about hitting it if he did.

  On a February night it made little difference whether one flew at 10,000 ft or at 8,000. The cold was numbing in the draughts that tore through the dozens of gaps in the Wellington’s structure. They entered through the turrets and the waist gun ports, around the cockpit windows and through minute holes in the fabric. Hot coffee brought some comfort, but it irritated the bladder and sent men to the Elsan, which meant minutes of fumbling with stiff fingers through layers of thick clothing.

  They had taken off at two-minute intervals and were timed to reach the target before the other two squadrons. Several miles ahead of Wheldon, Wing Commander Norton should be the first to attack. Wheldon did not take it for granted. It depended on the excellence of the Wing Commander’s observer’s navigation. A navigator could be spot on five times in a row, and then some vagary of weather or compass, or the difficulty of taking a good star shot from an aircraft tossed in turbulent air, or his own feeling of malaise, could result in his losing the way by fifty miles, the sixth time.

  People tended to forget, but Wheldon never did, that nobody performed consistently to exactly the same standard every day. The natural rhythm of the chemical constituents of mind and body varied. There were times when he sweated over a simple landing in perfect conditions, instead of almost doing it with his eyes shut. There were times when Rhys miscalculated some simple sum and took them miles off course, and when his gunners could scarcely hit a drogue because they were inexplicably off form. No one expected an athlete to give his best performance every time he competed in a race or played a match. It was illogical to expect airmen to be always at their peak.

  Wheldon was feeling on top of his form tonight and he hoped that everyone else was, because they had better get good results after so many disappointments. The Wing Commander would not treat another failure to achieve expected success lightly. He began to think that his own future was significantly involved with this operation. The sergeant in charge of the squadron Orderly Room had taken him aside in the mess that afternoon and told him that the Wingco was still sitting on his commission application, but had dealt with Vachell’s. It was making him uneasy. The Wingco’s tardiness might have no significance; but Wheldon doubted whether any of the Wingco’s actions or omissions was uncalculated.

  He began to fidget and it was not only the cold and the hardness of his seat that caused it.

  The usual distractions did not ease his mental discomfort. He made his usual visits around the aircraft and took some star shots. He was generous in allowing Macleod to take control and found that there was nothing to worry about there: Macleod, with hundreds of hours in his logbook, was as sound as a bell and should soon have his own crew. He was streets ahead of Vachell at the same stage of his operational experience.

  Uneasiness predominated when Wheldon was certain that the target area should be in sight. By now they should be seeing bomb bursts, searchlights and Flak.

  Instead, they were being treated to a spell of turbulence during which bright blue electrical discharges flashed and scintillated unnervingly from the propeller tips and along the leading edges of the wings. Lightning slashed the sky and thunder rumbled. Rain battered the windows and the misery of wetness was added to the cold. The rain turned to hail.

  They emerged from the unexpected belt of stormy weather to see the signs of battle surprisingly close at hand. Flak was bursting thickly in a great patch of the sky. Searchlights fanned from side to side. Flames leaped from bursting bombs; which might be exploding on the water, not on ships. The 20 mm and 37 mm guns were silent. No tracer ripped across the darkness. The enemy’s predictors showed that the attackers were beyond the light guns’ range.

  As Wheldon flew into the battle zone, he saw a Wellington orbiting overhead, caught in the beams of two searchlights. It was close enough for him to identify it as the Wing Commander’s. Obviously he had dropped his bombs and was staying to see how well the others did. Flak was bursting around him, and he kept interrupting his orbit to make a violent manoeuvre that temporarily baffled the searchlights and the gunners.

  Wheldon could see the enemy fleet: dark shapes on a shining white background. There were three cruisers and a pocket battleship, six destroyers and some minesweeper
s.

  Who had said that the anti-aircraft fire of the naval ships would be less than that of the shore batteries? No prizes for answering that question. Wing Commander Norton’s usual dismissive optimism seemed to have lured two of his crews to disaster already. Wheldon watched a Wellington fall towards the frozen sea, burning furiously. He saw another explode, obviously with its bombs still aboard. There was a cataclysmic volume of noise as they detonated. The airspace which the Wellington had filled suddenly became a place of very small fragments, shooting off small flames or glowing bright red. Somewhere among that pulverised mass were the flesh and bones of six men, reduced to dust.

  ‘We’ll go round,’ Wheldon said. ‘Take our time… make sure of a good bombing run.’ He waited a moment, scanning the scene below. ‘We’ll try for the pocket battleship.’

  One cruiser was afire and so was a destroyer, judging by their sizes. The pocket battleship was in the middle of the fleet, looking invitingly big.

  Bombs were blasting vast holes in the ice. The sea looked black and from its surface leaped white water-spouts that seemed to stand motionless for a few seconds, solid foaming pillars, before they subsided.

  There were grotesque shadows down there. The fire on the cruiser was already dying down, but its glare cast the shadows of the two nearest ships onto the ice to mingle with the black patches of exposed water. Each time a bomb burst its flames threw more shadows from other units of the fleet and added to the breaks in the ice which were confusing the scene.

  Presently Wheldon’s eyes began to play tricks on him and he thought he saw the battleship moving, then he found one of the cruisers too blurred to discern from the shadows and iceless leads. He had orbited the whole area twice and his aircraft had been severely rocked a score of times by near misses from the heavy Flak.

  He began to lose height, seeking to see more clearly. Drifting smoke from bomb bursts and the ship’s guns further obscured the view. It hung in thick dark clots all over the dispersed ships.

  A screaming sound and a rush of air brought Wheldon’s head round sharply. There was nothing to see, no bursting shells. Bombs! A Wimpey somewhere overhead had nearly hit F for Freddie. A shock wave of anger swept through him.

  Fuller said, calmly, ‘I think one of the other squadrons has arrived early, Skipper. I can see four kites against the glare that have only just appeared from the west.’

  ‘Thanks, Earthy. Eddie, take a look through the astro dome… see if you can spot any.’

  Presently: ‘Five or six of ‘em milling about overhead, Skip… I reckon Earthy’s right.’

  ‘I can’t see well enough.’ The other squadron was bombing furiously and fountains of water, more smoke and dazzling flames were baffling Wheldon’s vision. ‘Going down, no use trying to hit from here.’

  Another apocalyptic bellow of sound flooded through the aircraft, accompanied by a hurricane of hot wind that slammed down on it and tipped it so steeply to starboard that Wheldon fell half-out of his seat. A searing light threatened to melt his eyeballs.

  Rhys said ‘My God! Two of them collided… Jee-sus!’

  ‘Going down.’ Wheldon dragged Freddie back onto an even keel and began a steep, turning dive.

  Thirty-seven millimetre tracer zigzagged and crisscrossed on every side. A fresh torrent of screaming wind tore across the cockpit through holes on both beams.

  I’ll show that bugger Nortie Norton, thought Wheldon. I’ll get my application shifted out of his in-tray. I’ll show him how to bomb from low level.

  Frost began to form on his windscreen. He told Macleod to keep scraping it off. Peering through the hazy perspex, he made for the battleship.

  Rhys began to guide him. ‘Left-left… right…’

  A bursting large calibre shell heaved them vertically up as though the Wimpey were a lift. Wheldon grimly flew round again until the target was once more ahead.

  More lights shells lanced through the fuselage, but so many Wellingtons were bombing now that the defending gunners’ attention was widely spread.

  A thousand feet beneath him, the battleship looked huge to Wheldon. He followed Rhys’s patter, making gentle corrections.

  Rhys released the bombs and Wheldon banked steeply away in a climb. For a moment the battleship’s guns ceased fire. The Wellington was at 1,500 ft by the time the bombs exploded. They heard the roar and felt some of the gush of the shock waves. They saw the withering flashes of light.

  Smoke and flames masked the ship. Wheldon continued to climb and turn.

  The smoke drifted away but flames continued to flicker and leap about the pocket battleship’s midsection.

  Intercom discipline cast aside, the whole crew cheered and made excited comments.

  The ship was listing in a patch of water of several hundred square yards, the ice blasted by the bombs that had missed and melted by the heat of the fire aboard.

  ‘I reckon we hit her with two, Skip,’ Rhys said loudly above the clamour.

  ‘Quiet everyone… quiet.’ The chatter subsided. ‘Well done, Taffy. Home, now, chaps. Turning onto two-three-zero, Taffy. Give me a course when you can.’

  Rhys began to hurry back to his navigation desk.

  The altimeter climbed to indicate 5,000 ft.

  Tracer appeared from nowhere and bullets and 20 mm cannon shells slammed into the Wellington.

  A Me 110 skimmed past close overhead.

  Edkins pushed through the cockpit and threw himself into the front turret.

  Wheldon could see the 110’s exhaust flames and it was turning. He turned also, to give Donovan a shot with the port beam gun. Its tracer licked out. There was an answering burst from the fighter. Wheldon turned tightly in the opposite direction. The fighter darted past astern. He heard Fuller’s guns open fire.

  The fighter came in again and Wheldon made a corkscrew turn: a tight climb to starboard followed by a tight dive to port.

  They could see the fighter turning above them. It came in once again, diving steeply from abeam.

  Wheldon climbed straight and steeply. As the fighter’s cannons belched flames on his port side, he pulled the throttles back and the Wellington slumped into a stall. He put stick and throttles forward and it raced down, under control, again, to within 2,000 ft of the sea.

  Half a minute after Wheldon had levelled off, tracer again tore at them.

  ‘It’s another bastard,’ Fuller yelled, as he fired.

  Wheldon swung the Wimpey hard round to port and the starboard beam gun began to shoot. He swung it the other way and both rear turret and port gun opened up.

  With a breathtaking flare of flames only 50 yards away from the Wellington, the fighter rolled onto its back and plunged to the sea. Wheldon circled it for a moment, watching it burn.

  He was in a port bank when his port engine cut and its dead weight almost caused the Wellington to half-roll onto its back.

  When they were straight and level and only 1,000 ft above the sea, he found time to say ‘That last burst must have hit us. Everyone all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Macleod.

  ‘Observer O.K.’

  ‘Rear gunner, Skip… hit in both hands… can someone get me out?’

  ‘Quick, Jock… how bad is it, Earthy?’

  ‘Think I’ve lost a couple of fingers…’

  ‘Jock’ll have you out in a mo.’

  ‘Waist gunner… O.K.’

  ‘Wop, Skip… can I go back to my set?’

  ‘Yes, Eddie, and send a signal we’re on one engine.’

  ‘I don’t feel like another yachting cruise tonight!’

  ‘Not to worry… no ditching… we’re doing fine… old Freddie will even climb nicely on one, without overheating. I’m going up to two thousand feet. How’s Earthy, Jock?’

  ‘Och, he’ll be fine.’

  Fine, but light a few fingers. A great anger filled Wheldon. After that holocaust in the target area and their success, to be hit in the last seconds of a fight, after already having fought off
one attacker, was vile luck. But at least poor old Earthy Fuller would have the satisfaction of knowing that his bullets had brought the enemy aircraft down.

  *

  In the Ops Room, where urns of tea and coffee and wooden trays of bully beef sandwiches awaited, Vachell gave Wheldon an accusing look. As soon as he could, Vachell eased him away from his crew and said very quietly ‘What the hell did you do that for, Pete? Of all people, I never thought you would go crazy. You’ve let me down, d’you know that? I’ve always said what a safe type you are to fly with… not windy, dammit, but… sane… and the best Wimpey pilot in…’

  ‘Pack it in, Tony, I’m so tired I’m almost out on my feet.’

  ‘I don’t care how tired you are: what got into you?’

  Wheldon grinned wearily. ‘Perhaps I thought I’d try for a D.C.M. too.’

  For a moment Vachell looked taken aback. Then he shook his head. ‘It was your way of sticking two fingers up at the Wingco. I know you too well to believe you’d ever go gong-happy.’

  ‘The Wingco’s not back yet. Perhaps he isn’t coming back.’

  Vachell said ‘Look behind you. He’s just come in… and he’s coming straight for you, Pete. He looks as though he’s seen a ghost. Y’know, I think he’s coming to congratulate you on out-dicing even him.’

  Wheldon looked over his shoulder. He saw Wing Commander Norton moving purposefully in his direction. He’d better be quick about it, he thought, I’m off to my bunk as soon as I’ve swallowed this coffee.

  Being a bomber pilot was not a dignified or fashionable calling, like diplomacy or merchant banking, and now that he had done his job for that day he didn’t want to hang around making polite noises to his superior officer… officers, for Groupie had just come through the door, too. He told himself that however well you had done, it was important to remember that you were expendable. All his energy and resilience was at the disposal of the King… Air Ministry… the squadron, and it was all dedicated to winning the war. The op had gone well tonight, but it was just a small episode in the timescale and the magnitude of the war.

  ‘Flight Sergeant Wheldon…’