Operation Thunderflash

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  I had warned the crew before we set out: the best chance of dodging flak and fighters was to hug the ground, I reckoned. To reassure them, I said, “Captain to crew. Well done, everyone. Good show, Bruce. Everything all right here: I’m only diving to the deck.”

  Eddie said, “Rear gunner to captain: we got a hit, Skip.”

  I didn’t question him. If he could see where our bombs had burst, among all those bonfires down there, he must have extrasensory perception. Our camera would produce the evidence.

  We were passing through 15,000 ft. when Eddie said, rapidly, “Rear gunner...fighter diving from five-o’clock,” and I heard the rattle of his guns.

  A few seconds later it was Keith, saying, “Mid-upper...I’ve got him too.” Our dorsal guns added their noise to the others.

  “Corkscrew starboard...Go!” Eddie called and I made my dive into a steeply banked turn.

  I levelled out and waited to hear what the gunners had to say.

  Eddie spoke first. “Rear gunner...he’s coming up from eight-o’clock. Hold it, Skip.”

  Eddie’s guns gave a couple of bursts before Keith said, unhurriedly, “Fighter diving from three-o’clock...diving turn to port.”

  Before I complied I heard the mid-upper turret open fire once more. This time I did two complete spirals before I smoothed out into a straight dive, which I held down to 1,000 ft.

  Putting on a scolding tone, I said, “Captain here: say something, someone.”

  “Navigator to captain: we’re lost in admiration.”

  “And up you, too. Come on, gunners, what happened?”

  “Mid-upper: two of ‘em came in at the same time, sir.”

  “Rear gunner...that’s right, Skip...they bloody near collided when we dived into a turn...”

  “Captain to crew: anyone see anything?”

  “Rear-gunner...we’ve lost them, Captain.”

  “Mid-upper, Captain...yes, we shook ‘em off.”

  “Nice work, gunners.”

  “Navigator to captain: course for Dutch coast two-eight-zero...after all those gyrations.”

  “Thank you, Navigator: two-eight-zero.”

  Presently Nick gave me an estimated time at the coast, then an estimated time for base. Later he gave me a course for England and a time for crossing our own coast. I was feeling light-hearted and light-headed. I told Bruce, who had done a gunnery course, to stay in the nose turret, to which he had moved after we bombed: when I stopped throwing the Lanc. around long enough to give him the chance. There was always the risk of a Ju 88 long-range fighter coming towards us at low level, on the prowl for returning bombers which hugged the deck. Over the sea I lost another 500 ft. for safety: no fighter was likely to come so low.

  We sang quite a lot on the way back.

  I felt in tremendous form and very elated. Instead of feeling tired I was full of energy; really stimulated. So much so, that I was wishing I had a pretty girl friend waiting for me. A pretty, obliging girl friend.

  I had not had time for amorous adventures in my 19 years. I thought of Nick’s glamourous and beautiful sister and wished she were a lot younger. I didn’t fancy a popsie who was older than myself.

  Six

  Wg. Cdr. Latham didn’t believe in paying any special attention to new crews on their first op. It was one of the few matters on which Sqdn. Ldr. Moakes agreed wholeheartedly with him. They both felt that to show any kind of concern for a new crew weakened them by giving them the impression that what lay immediately in prospect was a cause for worry.

  Crews were trained to a high standard before they arrived on a squadron. Once there, they were best assimilated into the whole body and not made to feel they needed nursing. To treat their first op. as a mere matter of routine was the best way of giving them confidence.

  How one treated them on their safe return, however, was a different matter.

  As each crew landed they were driven straight to the Operations building for interrogation, and while this was going on they were provided with piping hot, liberally sugared tea, and the warm concern of all those who had been waiting many hours for their homecoming.

  This was the time to have a kindly and encouraging word with the new boys.

  Moakes had been one of the first over the target, so he was in the Ops. block long before Bracken turned up. He was keeping an eye on the door for him. Leatham had come back much earlier, too, but was in conversation with the CO of the other squadron and Gp. Capt. Jevons.

  Moakes felt relieved when he saw the confident way in which Bracken and his crew entered the big room. So the trip had gone well for them. He was glad and thankful.

  They looked tired, but unshaken. If a crew had a bad first sortie it took a long time to get over it.

  Moakes stood up and crossed over to speak to them, with apparent unconcern.

  “Hello, Bill...chaps...good trip?”

  Bracken, heavy-eyed and slightly dishevelled, replied with a quick smile. “Yes, thanks, sir; quite fun.”

  Dryly, Moakes said, “Fun? Tell me about it. Did you clobber the target?”

  “Yes, sir. And we shot at two night fighters.”

  “Hit them?”

  “No, sir. But they didn’t hit us, either.”

  “Hence ‘fun’?”

  “We did feel rather chuffed at evading them, sir.”

  “Point taken.” He turned to Ron Emery. “Well, Sergeant, what’s it like after being a penguin?” A penguin, the bird that cannot fly, was usually a derogatory term, but no one could suspect Moakes of unkindness. He was using it as one old sweat, one ex-erk, to another.

  “It’s worth the extra pay, sir!”

  Moakes laughed. “You reckon you earned your pay tonight?”

  “And a bit more.” Emery grinned.

  “What about you gunners? No hits on those two night fighters?”

  Eddie Hill looked cheeky: “Hits, sir? We don’t count hits; we only report ‘destroyeds’, sir.”

  Moakes smiled again. “I think I’ll arrange some gunnery practice for you, Sergeant Hill. How about you, Gray?”

  Keith took his pipe from his mouth. “Oh, I’ll claim hits if I think I’ve scored any, sir; but these two Jerries didn’t get close enough. We opened up as soon as we spotted ‘em, and the skipper did a wizard bit of evasion before they could really get in close range.”

  “I see. It sounds as though you’ll have to buy drinks, Bill: not often we hear such praise from the air gunners. Good show, all of you.”

  Leatham had come to join the group, and said, “How did you get on, Bill? Clobber the target?”

  “We bombed the right target, sir, but we didn’t see exactly what we hit: too much going on down there.”

  “The photographs will tell us. Good show. Any problems?”

  “We took a pot shot at a couple of fighters, sir, but we don’t think we hit them.”

  “As long as they didn’t hit you, that doesn’t matter too much.”

  “No, sir, we weren’t hit.” Bracken smiled. “We didn’t exactly see the whites of their eyes: we took pretty rapid evasive action.”

  “Good. Flak get anywhere near you?”

  “Not a scratch, sir.”

  “Good show: only another twenty-nine to go, now.”

  Just like him, Moakes thought, to say something rough after being so smooth with the poor young beggars. If he hadn’t said that, they’d have gone to bed full of beans. Now, they’ll start biting their nails about the next one already. He is a pig.

  Leatham walked away but Moakes lingered. The crew were still waiting their turn to be interrogated, and he warned them soberly: “Don’t ever make any claims of any kind unless you’re cast-iron certain. If you say you hit something, either a Jerry fighter or a target, and photographs — your own or someone else’s — or secret information through Intelligence, show afterwards that you didn’t, you’ll get the reputation of being unreliable. And the next thing is everyone will think you’re a line-shooter. After that, even your most
solid, valid claims will be doubted.”

  “We won’t forget, sir,” Bracken assured him.

  “Did you get a decent photograph over the target?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  Moakes smiled. “Well said. And well done. A lot of crews forget to photograph on their first op., in all the confusion and excitement.”

  Hill piped up, out of turn: “There’s no confusion in our crew, sir.”

  “You may be sorry you said that,” Moakes retorted amiably. He knew what it was like to force yourself to fly straight and level over a target while a magnesium flare went down and the camera clicked; while your whole nervous system was urging you to dive, or corkscrew, or climb steeply, to put the flak gunners off their aim. He thought it was courageous of these tyros to have stuck it out.

  He remembered some indecently hasty photography by Leatham in the days when he had flown with him.

  *

  The next day was one of the best that any of Bracken’s crew could remember in their whole lives. They were an operational air crew, they had won their spurs. They woke to the realisation that they had something of which to be prouder than anything else they had ever done.

  They had planned a sortie into Nottingham that evening. It meant a longer journey than going to Lincoln, but everyone on the squadron declared it was worthwhile. Good pubs, decent food, and, above all, an abundant supply of girls; reputedly complaisant girls. Nottingham had always been notorious for the beauty and cooperativeness of its young women. The lace and hosiery industries centred there attracted female labour, and there seemed to be something in the atmosphere of factory life that liberated their libido. Nottingham mothers were alleged to be highly tolerant of their daughters’ errant habits. So to Nottingham the crew would sally.

  The morning, Bracken wanted to spend on his own. He wanted solitude in which to savour the previous night’s success, and he relished being away from his daily companions too.

  Four miles away, the small market town of Belton, which was really an overgrown village, offered a pleasant contrast with the severity of the camp precincts and the dreary village within a short walk of its gate. Bracken had a bicycle, like scores of other officers and airmen, and decided to ride to Belton after a late breakfast and mooch around. There was a passable tearoom, where he could get a cup of coffee, and a couple of very good pubs where he would sink a leisurely pint or two before biking back to the mess for lunch. There was also a bookshop, surprisingly, and he looked forward to a browse; and to buying himself some book that took his fancy, as a reminder of his first op. As if he needed any reminder...

  He was in the bookshop, glancing through a book on musical appreciation, when a pleasant voice at his elbow said, “Good morning.”

  He had recognised the voice at once and felt himself colouring, unaccountably, as he turned and said, “Oh, hello, Mrs Leatham. How are you?”

  She countered, smilingly, “How are you? We haven’t seen you for a week.”

  “Well...it’s all been rather a rush, you know. There’s so much to do when one’s new on the station.”

  “You shouldn’t work all the time. I told you we keep open house for the whole squadron...the officers and the aircrew NCOs anyway. We’d love to have everybody dropping in,” she added hurriedly, “but there simply wouldn’t be room, so the whole thing would lose its point.”

  “What is the point?” Bracken asked.

  “To provide somewhere quiet for you all to get away to without any fuss or formality.”

  “Squadron Leader Moakes said you and the CO are very generous with your hospitality.”

  “It’s the least we can do: there’s no lack of space at The Grange.” She changed the subject abruptly and put her hand on his, tilting the book so that she could read it. Bracken enjoyed her touch. “Are you frightfully well up on music?”

  “On the contrary, it’s something I haven’t had much opportunity to learn about. There’s so much music I’ve listened to in passing, as it were, that is so restful, I thought I’d try to educate myself a bit; and buy a gramophone and start collecting records.”

  “Oh, there’s no need to do that. I’m glad you’re interested. I’ve got a jolly good radiogram...well, you’ve heard the big one...I’ve got another in my own sitting-room...and quite a decent collection of records. They’re there for anyone who cares to come and listen.” She took the book from him and turned a few pages. “This looks very good: you should take it.”

  He smiled. “I will. Thank you for your advice.” And then, he didn’t know why and he took himself by surprise, he said, “I wonder if you’d care to come and have a cup of coffee?”

  She gave him the full benefit of her serious, violet-eyed, level look in silence, before answering. “Thank you, Bill, I’d like that very much.”

  As they walked towards the cafe, she asked, “Are you a great reader?”

  “Books are almost a vice with me. And you?”

  “I read as much as I can; but I prefer music, really. I used to study to a background of music: so I heard more music than I read books; if you see what I mean.” She turned and laughed up at him.

  A university woman, Bracken thought. A blue stocking. He glanced automatically — and not for the first time since their chance encounter — at her legs. The term conjured a vision of thick blue wool; or lisle. His wing commander’s wife’s delightful legs were fetching in good silk; or maybe nylon: Leatham was bound to have friends on the American bomber and fighter stations hereabouts, through whom he could buy nylons for his pretty wife. He didn’t want to dwell on her husband.

  He asked, “What d’you like to read?”

  “Almost anything. Really, I think I’m guilty of being indiscriminate — P.G. Wodehouse...Naomi Jacobs...A. J. Cronin...Hemingway, of course...Dorothy Sayers...Steinbeck...Kipling...Yeats...and a lot of writers I can’t stand, as well. Whom do you read?”

  “The same, just about...anything and everything...and I have a lot of hates, too.”

  She gave him a mock-serious look. “We’re both guilty of being dilettanti, that’s what.” They laughed together.

  In the tearoom, Bracken said shyly, “May I ask what you used to study to a background of music?”

  She gave him the same direct glance, but this time with a twinkle of amusement. Very casually she said, “Medicine.”

  “Good Lord!”

  Teasingly, she asked, “Don’t you approve of women doctors?”

  Bold all of a sudden, he answered, “I’ve never been attended by one; but I think I’d rather enjoy it.”

  She didn’t reply. Instead she gave him a long, silent look over the rim of her cup, before speaking. “I’m a GP here; a part-time partner in a small practice.”

  He was surprised. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” She smiled again. “And not just so that I can get the extra petrol ration. I love the work, and in any case I detest being idle...”

  “But surely running a big house...?”

  She shook her head. “That runs on well-oiled wheels.” She made a slight grimace. “Tim had it all very well organised long before I married him. No, I feel I must be doing something useful; and now, with so many doctors away in the Services, there’s a crying need for all of us to look after the civilian population.” She became brisk. “Look at the time! I must fly: I’m on my way to the hospital.” There was a cottage hospital on the outskirts of Belton, adjacent to an old people’s home. They began to gather up their things and rise. Then, obviously speaking on impulse, she invited him, “Look, Bill, if you’re free, why not come to lunch? Go along to The Grange and wait for me, and we’ll play some records after lunch.”

  They were parting, and he had just thanked her, when she added: “You’ll find Tim there. But he’s going in this afternoon: he has work to do in his office, he says.”

  “Fine. I mean...I’d like to see him.” Which was true, because Bracken admired his CO.

  *

  Moakes, in his ten-year-old
but scrupulously maintained Austin Twelve-Four, its worn navy blue paintwork gleaming from the cleaning he had just given it, drove along Belton High Street and saw Bracken and Margaret Leatham emerging from the café.

  He was on his way to camp, to see what had accumulated in his “In” tray, so that he could clear it quickly and go home to lunch.

  Moakes and his wife, a dumpy, comfortable body, jolly and comely in a cuddly sort of way, though no raving beauty, had been married for six years: since he had returned from India, a flight sergeant with carefully saved money in the bank. She was eight years his junior, two years younger than Margaret Leatham, but looked Margaret’s senior by twice as much: her plump figure, not enhanced by bearing three children in rapid succession, looked well-worn in comparison with Margaret’s slimness. Nor did she lavish the same expensive cosmetic care on her face; and her coarse complexion was no match for Margaret’s rose-petal skin anyway.

  They had rented a cottage in Belton. Ivy Moakes accompanied her husband on his postings although they owned a trim semi-detached villa in Bath, the city from which they both hailed. Before the war they had occupied married quarters and the little house in Bath was an investment for their retirement. They let it, furnished, to a civil servant working for an Admiralty department that had been evacuated there: and the rent paid the mortgage and left as much over to accumulate in their deposit account at the bank. Her three children, boys of five and four and a two-year old daughter, were destined to acquire such education as the state provided while they travelled from station to station. They hoped the boys would follow their father to the Halton Apprentices’ School: for both of them, it was difficult to envisage any life away from the RAF; in which Ivy’s father was a warrant officer.

  Moakes, observing young Bracken with their CO’s wife, experienced a grim and vulgar satisfaction. About time that nice girl had a bit of fun, he thought: she deserves a medal for putting up with that bastard; I don’t know how she does it. Don’t know how a nice girl like her married him in the first place. Can’t have been his money: she’s got plenty in her own right; and she can earn a good living for herself. Good thing they haven’t any kids: at least she can leave the brute any time she wants, without a lot of ructions. And who needs more Leathams in the world, if they all took after their father?