Torpedo Attack

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  As he corkscrewed away from the enemy's fire, he called 'Observer from pilot... all right?'

  There was silence on the intercom.

  He tilted down again and made another change of direction, searching for the enemy as he did so. More tracer carne frighteningly close to the cockpit. And then the cloud gave them shelter.

  He kept his eyes on his instruments and levelled out.

  'Observer, can you hear me?'

  No answer.

  A gale was howling through what were obviously large holes in the observer's compartment. Cold and eerily screaming, it whipped Alden to a sudden fury. He had never felt such hatred in his life as he did at this moment for the German pilot who had, he knew without doubt, killed Lalabalava.

  'Pilot to Wireless Op... go and see the score up front.'

  'Very good, sir.'

  Noyes thrust past and Alden watched him go into the shattered space ahead.

  He eased the aircraft down in a shallow dive until it broke cloud, then levelled it and looked up at Noyes, who was standing beside him, waiting, his Irvine jacket bloodstained.

  'Had it, sir, I'm afraid... gone for a burton... he's almost cut in half.'

  Alden's limbs felt cold and numbed, and the sensation had little to do with the chill of the wind that was roaring through the aeroplane. 'Signal base and report it. Give our E.T.A. base as forty-five minutes from now.'

  This death, already in the few minutes since it had happened, was causing him greater grief than any of his other comrades'. It was not just that the genial, imperturbable, pleasant young man who had come from the other side of the globe to join in the fight against German world domination was the first member of his crew to be killed. The sadness went deeper. An obscure country, thousands of miles distant, had asked Queen Victoria, nearly 70 years ago, to take it under British protection. To Lalabalava's family, his death would bring pride. The manner of his dying would surely be impossible for them to visualise. Family pride would spring from the nation's loyalty and the courage of a son, a brother, a cousin. Surely a land of less than 200,000 people, of whom only half were pure-blooded and indigenous, like Lala, could not afford to lose a fine specimen of his calibre.

  If one of the four of us had to go, thought Alden, why couldn't it have been me? Lala could have flown this kite home as well as I can, and my country can spare me much more easily than his can do without a man like him in its future.

  And now he was the only surviving member of his original crew; unless Fussell and Dymond-Forbes reappeared. He would not count on either. Fussell's wounds had been severe. And as for Dymond-Forbes...?

  Without a navigator and in the dark, over a blacked­out land, he could not be sure of finding his way back to East Crondal.

  'Wireless Operator from pilot… get me a fix, will you, and a homing bearing.'

  'I've just got a fix, sir... I could plot it on the chart for you, only everything's been blown out of the nose, sir.'

  'Good man… I've got a map… always carry a spare in my pocket… come and get it.'

  'Very good, sir.'

  I wouldn't be surprised if he stands to attention and salutes, thought Alden. It was an admiring tribute, not an irritable touch of sarcasm.

  Ten

  The medical orderlies who dragged Lalabalava out of his wrecked compartment in the nose of the Beaufort had to carry two loads to the stretcher. Noyes, when he found the bloody mess on the floor of the navigation cabin, had not dwelt on the scene. His report to Alden that the observer had been almost cut in half was based on a hasty look. Shocked, with bile rising in his throat, he had backed away quickly. The stretcher bearers had first to extricate the dead man's legs and then his trunk, which had been severed at the waist.

  The sight had struck Alden with the same shock and horror as Noyes had felt. It was only when he prepared to leave his seat that he had noticed the runnels of blood that had spread over the floor of the cockpit.

  Dear God, he thought, I never want to set foot in a Beaufort again. Sometimes, after an expected death, people said, metaphorically, that the deceased person had had the smell of death about him. Alden had always disliked the expression, whether written or spoken, and thought it not only an exaggerated use of words but also an absurd one. There had certainly been no smell or aura of death from Lalabalava, who was robust, healthy, clean-living and full of vitality. But, he reflected, there had been a literal stench of death in the front of the aircraft, compounded of freshly spilled blood and steaming lacerated entrails. The very thought of it, for hours afterwards, made his stomach heave.

  Those hours, spent partly in solitary grief in his room and partly in the company of the rest of the squadron, drinking, in concession to the tradition of ignoring bereavement, brought no consolation. It was not the way his friend would have preferred to die. It was the same for himself too, and, he was sure, for everyone else: if one had to be killed, let it be in the heat of battle and in the act of obliterating one's target.

  Not to look depressed or behave as morosely as he felt, was difficult. Practical matters, also, had priority over private emotion. He had to hold his crew together, preserve their morale, prepare for their next operation. It would have been easier with Fussell and Dymond­Forbes. Noyes had not been with him as long as they were and Potter was still a stranger.

  Alden went to see Courtney, the sheer mental agony of his loss still undigested, feeling dehumanised by the behaviour he was bound to adopt. 'Who's the best observer going spare, Bruce?'

  Courtney's eyes betrayed that he was scarcely less a prey to haunting distress, although he spoke casually enough. 'You might try Lovell. He was posted in yesterday: not a pilot, he's a direct-entry observer. Passed top of his course. Grab him quickly if you want him.'

  'Sergeant?'

  'No, P.O.'

  'Bruce, to me it's more important for a chap to fit in than to be the best navigator or bomb-aimer around.'

  'I wouldn't argue with that, Derek. I think you'll find this lad's all right. Shall I send for him?'

  'Thank you.'

  A runner was despatched on one of the squadron cycles to ask Pilot Officer Lovell to report to his flight commander. Alden looked intently at the newcomer when he came through the door. Tallish, fresh-faced, he brought an instant impression of brisk keenness with him. He wore a brass V.R. on each lapel. He could be either a prewar member of the R.A.F. Volunteer Reserve or a wartime-commissioned temporary officer, who all, until 1943, had to sport this badge. His salute was smarter than most wartime aircrew conceded and his 'Sir,' was as keen and brisk as his general manner and appearance.

  Courtney made the introduction and Alden rose to shake hands. The lad had a firm dry grip. His look at Alden, although no doubt he did his best to keep it impersonal, held a reservation: so you're the chap whose observer went for a burton the night before last.

  'Sit down,' said Courtney. 'Flight Lieutenant Alden is looking for an observer. I mentioned you'd done rather well on your course.'

  Lovell looked pleased but said, 'I think they must have got my exam papers confused with someone else's, sir.'

  The other two smiled with approval.

  'Were you in the V.R. before the war, Lovell?' Alden asked.

  'No, I was at school. I was called up for the Militia as soon as I left, so I volunteered for the R.A.F.'

  'Did you choose to be an observer, or are you a disappointed pilot?' Alden put the question without offence.

  'I wanted to be an observer: I'm rather keen on maths and anyway there seemed to be less hanging around waiting than for pilot training.'

  'Good. Come along and meet the rest of the crew, then.' Alden stood up. 'Thanks, Bruce. Can we do a nav ex this afternoon? We'll be on the Battle Order tomorrow, won't we?'

  'You can take N-Nuts and you can have it tomorrow on ops.'

  Outside, Alden said 'N is one of our better aeroplanes. The flight commander has done us proud.' They walked towards the crew room. 'How old are you, by the way?'


  'Nineteen.'

  'What's your Christian name?'

  'Christopher... usually called Chris.'

  'What d'you do in your spare time, Chris? Not that we get much.'

  'I play a bit of squash and tennis, and I'm rather keen on jazz.'

  'Good. One needs some other relaxation than just going to the flicks and pub crawling with the chaps.'

  'Yes,' said Lovell wryly, 'I found that out very early on in my Air Force life.'

  'Are you far from home here?'

  'Harrogate.'

  'Not too far for a forty-eight.'

  'Any train journey seems too far, these days. Anyway,' Lovell's grin flashed on suddenly, blatantly mischievous, 'forty-eights are strictly for the bright lights and all those sex-starved popsies... London.'

  The revelation jolted Alden and put him in mind of a rascally pubescent gleefully rampaging through a baker's shop crammed with cream cakes. He reserved comment.

  It was Cherbourg, this time. Photographic reconnaissance had revealed a great assembly of tugs and barges there. The Bomber and Coastal Command crews who were detailed to attack them were, obviously, not made privy to the rider that was appended to this intelligence: nobody could say for sure whether some, or indeed all, of these were decoys; dummies made of wood and canvas or inflatable rubber. If the invasion came, it was reasonable to deduce that its front would stretch from Kent to Hampshire. Cherbourg would be a logical jumping off point for Portsmouth and Southampton. So, whether they were to sacrifice life and limb in the destruction of mere mock-ups (and mockery), or a genuine threat to Britain's security, for the aircrews who were briefed for the raids the dangers were no illusion. No dummy guns would be pretending to shoot them down, no dummy shells would hurtle from real gun barrels to dissipate in harmless puffs of smoke.

  Alden was thankful that his route this time took him over Bournemouth, not Brighton. He needed no reminder of his last sortie against the enemy. The coast was still twenty miles away when he alerted his air gunner and observer to be ready for hostile night fighters and began his own restless scanning of the surrounding darkness for the first sign of an approaching interceptor.

  He saw the fires started by the first wave of attackers from many miles off the shores of Normandy. It was not long before he saw the searchlight beams also, and then, a short while later, the crimson splodges of bursting 88 mm flak.

  'Pilot to Observer and Gunner... there are bound to be fighter patrols off shore, outside the flak zone.'

  Both acknowledged; the microphones, always unkind, betraying the tautness of their nerves. Hearing it, Alden thought grimly, 'Me too.'

  Soon the smaller calibre flak became visible, a dense mesh of tracer darting, varicoloured, from dozens of scattered sites. And soon after that they were in the maelstrom.

  According to briefing, the Whitleys and Wellingtons that had preceded the Beauforts were all out of the area by now. But there were still enough of the latter, separated by only two minutes between take-offs, to disperse the searchlights and guns. As for the former, Alden doubted that all their navigation from their stations in Yorkshire and Lincolnshire had been accurate enough the wind had been playing tricks for him to feel sure that none lingered.

  Peering ahead, partly dazzled by searchlight beams, which had not found him yet but whose glare was troublesome, he discerned a familiar shape. A Whitley, in its characteristic nose-down attitude, was ambling across his bows half a mile away, at the same height. Another silhouette, even better known to him, was thrown into relief by a beam that shone fully onto it: a Beaufort. He watched in a paralysis of sickening expectation as the blinded pilot threw the Beaufort violently aside and upward; straight into the belly of the Whitley.

  The incandescent brilliance of an explosion blotted everything else from Alden's sight. The shock wave of agitated air struck his aeroplane with the ferocity of a typhoon. The bellow of detonated petrol and high explosive came like a solid heavyweight box on both ears. The aircraft bucked and yawed, instrument needles danced crazily.

  Alden's vision cleared. The target zone lay on the starboard bow. He altered course.

  Lovell's voice said, 'Bombing... bombing... left­left... right... a bit more... too much, left-left... steady... steady... bombs gone.'

  To hell with balloon cables. If I climb, the night fighters and 88s can get us… and the small stuff… if I dive, I might get under the light flak... Alden side slipped steeply to port just as a searchlight fastened on him. The Beaufort fell, slanting, baffling the searchlight crew. The beam flicked about, seeking it. It scraped past. Alden threw the Beaufort into an opposite side slip. The fires raging in the port rushed closer. The warp and woof of tracer seemed inescapably close-woven.

  Alden pirouetted on a wingtip towards the Channel and thrust the aircraft's nose down at a steeper angle. Over the sea, he flattened out at what he judged to be fifty feet, his line of sight relying on the lurid reflections that danced on the surface from the burning tugs and barges; real or bogus.

  'Pilot to crew... check in.'

  'Observer... all O.K.'

  'Wireless op, sir... hunky-dory.'

  'Gunner, sir... they didn't touch us.'

  Perhaps I've got a lucky combination this time, thought Alden.

  Dymond-Forbes came, grinning, into the crew room, his left forearm in plaster and a sling.

  'Well,' said Alden sounding friendly and feeling ashamed of his earlier suspicions, 'you won't be much use for a while. You might as well have stayed on leave.'

  'The M.O. wouldn't wear that, sir, and I was bored, anyway. I'm going to give a hand in Flying Control until I'm fully operational again.'

  Alden intercepted the bleak look that Potter was giving Noyes. Unexpectedly and, he blamed himself, unfairly, he felt resentful of Forbes's reappearance. He had grown used to his newly constituted crew after these few weeks together on a variety of missions. They had sown mines, bombed harbours and vessels by night, made three torpedo attacks on Rover patrols and one against a designated target, by day. Out of all this had come only one sinking, it was true, and later photographic reconnaissance had proved that half their bombing - in concert with everyone else's - had been between one and five miles wide of the objective. But Potter was a cool and skilful occupant of the gun turret; and, Alden admitted, he himself was prejudiced in favour of any Regular.

  He knew what Noyes's view would be. Noyes and Potter, with so much common background, were close cronies, whereas Noyes had merely extended a tepid friendship to Forbes because they flew together. There was more to it, too. He now felt responsible towards Potter and concerned about his future. He felt that he could look after - protect, was what he really meant - his crew, but was dubious about any other pilot's equal ability. Especially now, when most of the Regulars with whom the squadron had begun the war were dead, permanently grounded by wounds, like Fussell, or had been posted to strengthen new squadrons.

  The Battle of Britain had raged through a succession of crises and apparently climactic raids and repulses, each of which had been followed by a resurgence of enemy aggression and an even fiercer and more successful response by Fighter Command. A lull fell on the activities of the two torpedo-bomber squadrons at East Crondal. And before this recess was over, Dymond-Forbes reported fully fit for duty.

  Alden's crew was on the Battle Order and after consultation with Courtney he reinstated Dymond­Forbes. He spoke to Potter privately in a corner of the crew room: apologising, justifying, and secretly regretting. Potter's disappointment was plain. Also, all the crews on that day's Battle Order were complete, so there would be no call on him. Potter looked disconsolate. Nobody was in a hurry to go out and get himself maimed or killed, but nobody wanted to drag out his - still undefined - tour of operations when every instinct screamed to get it over and done with. There was also a certain humiliation in being a spare man, apparently unwanted; particularly for one of Potter's seniority.

  Lovell and Dymond-Forbes were sitting on adjacent chair
s and talking when Alden joined them.

  'Why the sunglasses indoors, Forbes?' Alden asked.

  'I still get bad headaches, sir... migraines. I find it helps to avoid them if I wear these.'

  'When did you last have a bad headache?'

  'Oh, not for ages, sir... two weeks ago... I spent a whole afternoon in the sun, on the balcony of the Control Tower.'

  'You're sure you're all right?'

  'Oh, yes, sir. I think the M.O. is satisfied.'

  'You think? I should hope he's quite sure you're O.K. or he wouldn't have passed you fit.'

  'Yes, sir. Except that when I get a migraine it blocks everything out of my brain and I can't even see properly.'

  Word came that briefing would be at 1600 hours. There were to be no day operations for East Crondal. Only Hanbury's squadron was required. The other squadron would be released at dusk.

  The conviction that there was an alarmingly unusual dimension to that night's operation spread throughout the station. What, Alden wondered, was in the Operation Order that must have been received early this morning, for this portentous emanation of doom to have permeated the whole camp, despite strict secrecy?

  Alden took N for Nuts up on air test with his full crew.

  'It feels good to be back in harness,' Dymond-Forbes said as they boarded the aircraft.

  'You want your head examined, chum.' Noyes gave him an ironical look. 'I'll tell you what feels good: going on seven days' leave.'

  'That sounds more convincing to me,' Lovell agreed.

  There seemed to be no limits to the air gunner's enthusiasm: 'Can we nip over the coast, sir, so I can give the gun a couple of decent bursts?' He alleged some defect when he first tested his K gun and eventually fired a whole drum of ammunition before he was satisfied. After landing he stayed in the turret to strip and clean the gun and polish the perspex, although he had already done both before taking off. In the crew room he was animated and cheerful. His good spirits became almost frenetic as four-o'clock approached. Only three crews were detailed: Hanbury's, Alden's and Jenkins's they were the object of speculative looks from the remainder as they left the crew room to go to the Operations block.