Yesterday’s six had been led by a flight lieutenant, the deputy commander of A Flight. His aircraft was the first to be shot down. The wing commander was proud of the way in which the flight lieutenant had died. It had not been a waste of his life and his crew’s, as others saw it. He had left a fine example to the squadron.
Norton had a copy of the day’s Battle Order on his desk and he picked it up. Flight Sergeant Wheldon’s was the fourth name down. Wheldon was sound, no one flew better; except himself. Wheldon’s discipline was admirable and his influence over his crew, whomever it comprised, was firm. But he had never put a foot wrong, was too assiduously concerned about his career to risk a bollocking. The wing commander’s thoughts were still couched in the jovially thuggish phraseology of a pilots’ room at the Western Front. What Wheldon needed was a spot of ginger… a squib up his arse.
Norton was, as he would have said, ‘rather keen on the war.’ He was, in fact, very keen on any war. Greatly frightened though he had been at times when flying Sopwith Pups, Bristol Fighters and Camels, twenty-odd years ago, he had enjoyed it. Danger was almost as much an attraction as the delight of flying. He had won a Military Cross and bar. Between the wars he had flown Wapitis and Gordons on operations against rebellious tribesmen on the North-West Frontier and over the deserts of the Middle East. For these he had won a Distinguished Flying Cross. He had revelled in the fun of scattering angry Pathans and Arabs, knowing that his bombs and bullets left them mostly unscathed while they hid among the rocks or dispersed across the sands.
It was a constant goad to him that, at 42, he was older than the majority of squadron commanders and, now that the war would mean swift expansion and consequent promotion, he probably had a very few months in which to ensure that his squadron distinguished itself and that he had led them into action as often as possible.
The clock on his office wall, the calendar on his desk, exercised a despotism that made him restless.
He was glad when his telephone rang and he heard the station commander say ‘Ops Order just arrived, Nortie. Come along, would you?’
Group Captain Kirkpatrick knew very well that when Nortie Norton admitted to being rather keen on the war because Germany had ‘bloody well asked for trouble and it would be a pleasure to let Hitler have it’, he was being disingenuous. He himself loathed Germans for their innate aggression, their arrogant assumption of military superiority over the rest of mankind, and their ready submission to Hitler’s manic exhortations. In the last war, flying reconnaissance machines, then scouts and eventually bombers, he had hated the ugly form of the Huns’ damnable black Maltese cross on their aeroplanes. He had detested the pilots and observers for what they did to his comrades, and his animosity increased in the last year of the war when they were given parachutes while Allied airmen were still forbidden them. It seemed to him a mean advantage.
He was 45 now, and it was seven years since he had last commanded a squadron. When the Great War broke out he had completed his first year at the Royal Military College, Sandhurst. The course was shortened and he soon found himself in France as an infantry subaltern. Seeing aircraft frequently overhead and meeting the men who flew them, then being taken up for a joyride over the trenches, gave him a glimpse of a way of life that he found irresistible. Within six months he had transferred to the Royal Flying Corps. Three years later he was a very young major in command of a squadron of DH4s, delighting in bombing Germany from French bases. On 1st April 1918 the Royal Air Force came into being and his rank changed to squadron leader. Presently his squadron re-equipped with HP1/100s, which had a 100 ft wingspan and carried sixteen 112 lb bombs: an even more satisfying machine with which to batter the Boche. After the war, despite his Distinguished Service Order, Military Cross and Distinguished Flying Cross, he reverted to flight lieutenant; but promotion came quickly. He qualified as a test pilot and was decorated with the Air Force Cross for his work at Farnborough.
Although he admired and liked Norton, and looked with affection on the type of Service pilot that he represented, with its high spirits, horseplay, bravura and sense of humour, he did not try to emulate it. Accurate flying, caution and the elimination of all possible risk were his criteria of excellence in a bomber captain.
He was looking grim when Norton came in, saluted and said ‘Good morning, sir.’
He gestured to a chair and pushed the Operational Order signal across his desk. ‘Another daylight on Hun shipping. They want nine from us this time and we’re leading.’
Reading the orders, Norton saw that two other squadrons were to take part, each sending nine aircraft. ‘I’m putting myself on this one.’
‘Yes, I rather thought you would, Nortie.’
‘A bit hard on A Flight having to put up three again.’
‘Quite complimentary, though.’
‘I hope they’re right about the weather on the German coast.’
‘They sent a Whitley on recce, to be there at first light. The met forecast is based on the captain’s report.’
‘Sounds all right, sir. Let’s hope the ships haven’t all left before we get there.’ Norton felt a gush of avid excitement.
Group Captain Kirkpatrick experienced a moment of mental ferment and a double emotion: satisfaction that this comparatively large force, under so blithely aggressive a leader, would hit the enemy hard; and a conviction that his own more prudent leadership would have been better suited to this particular operation.
Everyone mentally spelt Norton’s nickname ‘Naughty’. His reputation deserved it. Not only was he brave to the point of rashness and total disregard for danger, but he had also been court martialled in 1927, as a squadron leader, for persistent low flying; dangerous low flying that annoyed and terrified the public. That was the real reason, after a series of rebukes from his squadron commanders, station commanders and an Air Officer Commanding. It was an accumulation of offences. The ostensible reason was what Norton insisted had been merely a gesture of courtesy to visiting royalty. A royal duke, accompanied by the King and Queen of a small European country, had—unwisely—reviewed the two squadrons on a certain R.A.F. station. After the customary sedate flypast, the regal party had departed by car. It was then that Squadron Leader Norton had beaten them up as they drove along the road. He had hurtled at the car head-on, with his wheels inches above the road, and pulled up at the last split second, to conclude his salutations. Its chauffeur swerved into a ditch. As Norton was flying the standard day-bomber of the time, a two-seater Hawker Horsely, which was hardly ideal for aerobatics, his performance had been all the more brilliant; and all the more unnerving. The visiting Queen had fainted. He had been reprimanded and lost twelve months seniority; hence his retarded future promotion.
Kirkpatrick had been in command of the sister squadron on the station then and he suffered a mild spasm, somewhat akin to an incipient coronary thrombosis, now, twelve years later, when he contemplated what Naughty Norton was about to perpetrate out there off the enemy coast this afternoon.
Two
The Tannoy loudspeakers that had been set up around the camp in the first week of war brayed their metallic dehumanised summons to captains, second pilots and observers of various crews, identified by their aircraft letters, to report immediately to the conference room in Station Headquarters.
Wheldon put down the Daily Mail and said. ‘Kick-off.’
Vachell had been making a pretence of reading a P.G. Wodehouse novel, but nobody had seen him smile or turn the pages. He rose galvanically from his chair and stood looking hesitant.
Ufland, studying the silhouettes of enemy warships, put them aside and yawned before slowly getting to his feet. ‘Hope there’s time for dinner before we go.’
‘You need a worm powder,’ Wheldon told him. Ufland, despite his gaunt look, had a notorious appetite. ‘Come on, bring your tapeworm to briefing.’
Twenty-seven officers and senior N.C.Os made their way to S.H.Q. while the Tannoy summoned their air gunners to report to the han
gar. Air gunners, even the wireless operators, were treated as if all they needed to know was that they were under orders for an operation. The impression was that there was no need for them to know where they were going or why, or what their task was when they arrived there. Their captains would give them the necessary information in due course. There was no special procedure in those early days of the war about which wireless operators needed to be briefed. If they did have any queries, they could ask the Signals officer; but they shouldn’t need to.
The squadron Intelligence officer was already on the dais. The station and squadron commanders entered and everyone stood.
The group captain told them to sit down. It was a granting of permission given as an order. He did not say ‘please’: or address them as ‘gentlemen’, as he would have if his audience had all been officers: other ranks were not officially gentlemen.
He walked to the end of the room and turned to face them. He wore the stern look that had made male-factors tremble from Invergordon to Singapore and he stood for a moment until total silence had fallen. Not a foot shuffled, not a chair creaked. It seemed as if every man watching him was holding his breath.
‘Your target today is enemy shipping off the coast between Wilhelmshaven and Bremerhaven. Your squadron commander will brief you fully. What I have to say to you is of equal importance but is concerned with only one aspect of the operation.’ He paused and scanned the rows of faces. ‘It is strict Government policy not to attack any targets on land. No civilian lives are to be endangered. No property is to be put in danger of damage.’ He paused again. ‘Is that perfectly clear to everyone?’ There was a murmur. ‘Any infringement of these orders will be very severely dealt with. You will think that a policy that avoids allowing bombs to fall on enemy territory is a strange one. The reason is that our Government does not wish to provoke retaliation. We shall bomb Germany when the time comes. For the present, we are to avoid it and we don’t want any German bombs falling here.’ Another pause and some uneasy movement among the listeners.
‘I repeat: you are to attack only enemy naval shipping. If a vessel is so close inshore that there is any risk at all of even one bomb drifting ashore, you are not to bomb it. I also repeat that it is a court martial offence to contravene this order.’ He paused and surveyed the expressionless faces of the crews. ‘Does everyone understand clearly?’
There was a mutter. The group captain turned to Wing Commander Norton, nodded to him and sat down.
Norton rose and faced his crews. The squadron Adjutant pinned a map to a blackboard. Norton picked up a pointer and jabbed it at the map.
‘We’re putting up nine aircraft. Ten and Thirty-Seven Squadrons are also each putting up nine Wellingtons. We shall rendez-vous over Flamborough Head at twelve-thirty. First take-off from here, at twelve. The remainder at one-minute intervals. Form up over the airfield at two thousand feet. R.V. Flamborough at five thousand.
‘This is our course.’ The tip of the pointer traced it. ‘Direct to the north of the East Friesian Islands, then down along the channel between them and the mainland, taking a look at the roads off Wilhelmshaven and Bremerhaven, attacking any naval vessels we see, and out to sea past the north end of the Friesians again and home direct.
‘Any type of naval vessel is a legitimate target. That includes tankers and auxiliaries. However, what we really want to hit are cruisers and destroyers. We’ll each carry six five-hundred-pound armour-piercing bombs. Bombing height, five thousand. Remember to keep formation as far as possible, for mutual covering fire if we run into fighters. But don’t let that consideration hinder you in choosing a target.’ He waited for a low ripple of amusement to die down. ‘Instantaneous fuse-setting. Radio silence from take-off. Signals by Aldis lamp. I’m leading and we’ll fly in the usual three vics, sections astern.
‘According to the Met boffins at Group, there’ll be some scattered cumulus from three to seven thousand, which will give us cover if Jerry does send fighters up, but won’t interfere with our bombing. Forecast wind is two-seven-zero, fifteen knots. Any questions?’
The Intelligence officer took over to give the disposition of Flak sites and fighter airfields in the operational area, and a summary of enemy naval ships there, seen on the most recent reconnaissance flights.
The station commander wished them good luck.
The squadron commander told them he would have a final word with them in the crew room before take-off.
Briefing, such as it was in those days, was over; and the air gunners still knew no more than that they were to draw parachutes and flying rations and await their betters in the crew room.
Wheldon, Vachell and Ufland went with some of the rest to the map store adjacent to the Operations Room under the S.H.Q. building, to draw a new chart. The Service policeman on guard at the steel door, wearing a revolver on his beautifully blancoed webbing belt, looked carefully at each man’s pass and caused a traffic jam that at once aroused irritation. Wheldon knew that this sudden departure from normal good humour was the product of extreme tension. Whatever they had been told about clouds in which they could hide if attacked, the major items of information were that they would be within fighter range for a long time, that they would be exposed to Flak from ships and shore batteries for almost as long, and there was no certainty that the weather forecast was accurate.
There was not even any guarantee that they would see a target they were permitted to bomb.
Voices were low. Nobody talked much. There was no ragging as they waited for the sentry to let them enter. The general nonchalance was not convincing but it was a sign of high morale for all that.
Wheldon knew that his crew expected some comment from him, but he did not feel conversational.
Vachell, presently, said ‘Group haven’t much imagination, have they: just a repeat performance.’
‘Bloody silly restrictions,’ Ufland said.
Wheldon had been thinking that it was a waste of their time, of fuel and engine hours to cross the North Sea and meet frustration. He made a joke of it. ‘Fighter Command will be out of a job if Jerry stays away. Anyway, do the politicians think that he’ll stay at home as long as we don’t drop the first bomb? Damn stupid.’
They walked back to the crew room, Ufland carrying the rolled chart. Their two leading aircraftmen air gunners were standing outside the door. Both had flown with them before. The wireless operator was a perky Birmingham 20-year-old, known to everyone as ‘Brum’. The rear gunner came from Dundee and many of the pilots and observers knew him only as ‘Jock’: a nickname he shared with two or three others.
Brum asked ‘What’s the gen, Chiefie?’
‘First take-off at twelve. One-minute intervals. We’re Number Seven.’
‘Where are we going, Flight?’
‘You’re going to see Germany, Jock: the coast between Wilhelmshaven and Bremerhaven, anyway.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Ask Sergeant Ufland.’
‘What’s the target, Chiefie?’
‘Shipping, Brum. Piece of cake for you: radio silence from take-off.’
‘Yeah? I don’t like that: no bearings, we’ll lose our way.’
Ufland grinned. ‘Don’t you trust me, Brum?’
‘Sure, Sarge; but I don’t trust the Met: bet they gave you a duff wind.’
‘The Wingco’s leading,’ Wheldon said. ‘His observer’ll do the navigating: the rest of us will only have to follow.’
Jock was heard to mutter something about ‘blind man’s buff’, but nobody paid any attention. He was a notorious pessimist, embittered beyond his years by the inconstancy of a red-haired N.A.A.F.I. girl who had abandoned his stolid affection in favour of a lively corporal instrument repairer.
Ufland spread his chart on a table and began to lay off the track from base to Flamborough Head and on to the Friesians. The rest of the crew looked over his shoulder.
Other observers were similarly occupied. Various people were studying silhouettes of e
nemy naval vessels in a last-minute attempt to perfect their recognition.
Vachell wondered whether he ought to write a note to his parents and leave it in his locker: but it seemed excessively dramatic, seeing that they were not going to penetrate deeply over Germany.
The Intelligence officer came in and reminded them to empty their pockets of any diaries, notebooks or letters that could be of use to the enemy.
One of the captains reminded him that they were forbidden to cross the enemy coast.
‘Yes, but you might have some technical trouble that means a forced landing.’
‘The only technical trouble that’ll make me forced-land will be a lump of Flak in both engines, Spy.’ This was said with a laugh, but the laughter that followed it was derisive rather than amused.
The crews drew their parachutes from the high-ceilinged store; and unappetising packets of sandwiches, plain chocolate bars and flasks of coffee from the cookhouse: these being sent in a 15 cwt truck.
The trains of bomb trolleys drove away from the aircraft and eyes kept turning to the clock on the crew room wall. It was time to put on flying kit: Irvine jackets or Sidcot suits with sheepskin-lined boots.
Wing Commander Norton drove up, already dressed. He stood with the door open behind him, allowing cigarette and pipe tobacco smoke to drift out. Talk died away.
‘Remember what the station commander told us: on no account risk bombing if there is the slightest chance of hitting the shore. If we have to go below five thousand to bomb accurately, for any reason, we’ll do so: if cloud base is down at three thousand, for instance, or a ship is moving. But there should be plenty of shipping at anchor for us to prang.’
The second pilots had taxied the aircraft to the apron after they had been bombed up. The crews strolled across the tarmac. The ground crews were grouped by the port wing of each Wimpey to see them up the ladder and through the belly hatch, to give a hand with the various items they carried, to wish them a good trip.
Fighters Up Page 17
