Operation Thunderflash

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  *

  Margaret was worried. How much had her husband’s shrewd eyes and that sharply intuitive mind of his perceived? She had gone beyond caring about herself and her one concern was for Bill. She had been enduringly in love twice before: with her first man, when she was an emotional medical student aged twenty; and with her first husband. And now she recognised that she was really in love, to the same degree, again. She had fallen in love with Tim Leatham or she would never have married him; but there was a difference between loving and being in love, and she was more than in love with Bill, she loved him.

  In the long term it was a hopeless situation, she knew: a gap of 13 years made little difference to a boy who was enraptured by his first mistress; it made less difference when the mistress possessed her beauty and her marvellously youthful body: but however intense and mutually loving the relationship, however much it flourished on their shared emotion and not only on their physical rapture, it could not be permanent.

  No relationship with anybody who flew Lancasters could be reckoned on to endure, but she stubbornly refused to think about that. If Bill were killed she would not be able to hide her grief as she had managed to do well enough when Ian Monroe died. Apart from the betraying outward signs of grief which would bring out the worst in her husband’s vindictive and sadistic nature, she would be rent asunder within herself. She had avoided going to pieces when her first husband had been killed, a year before the war, by going off to a mission in India for six months: immersed in working sixteen hours a day in remoteness and squalor, among horrible diseases and malnutrition, she had shed her grief. She could not do that if she lost Bill.

  She was aware that in everything she did lately she diffused an aura of wellbeing and happiness that others besides her husband must be able to detect. She no longer found her most valetudinarian patients a bore, or snubbed the tedious county ladies who called to embroil her in their various good works, or spent hours in her studio without being able to summon the inspiration she needed before she could put paint to canvas. She had begun to paint again after a lapse of several frustrating weeks, with calm assurance.

  She even treated the husband whom she despised as much as she pitied him with good-humoured tolerance.

  Bill, in the avidity of first love, wanted to spend every free moment with her: if not in the seclusion of the lodge, at least at The Grange where, despite the constant presence of other members of the squadron, he could look at her and talk to her.

  “I want you every minute of the day and night, too, my darling,” she had said to him. “But we must be unremittingly cautious. Stay away as much as you can and try to come here when you know Tim’s going to be here; and bring some, or all, of your crew with you whenever you can.”

  They were managing well, and summer was wearing into autumn, when the shorter days would give them more opportunity to meet unobserved outside The Grange.

  “I hate not being able to take you out anywhere,” Bill grumbled one afternoon while they lay in each other’s arms on the divan in her studio. “I’m so proud of you, I long to show you off.”

  “My darling! I wish we could go out on our own, but you know it’s impossible. Wait until you can take some leave and we can be alone together for a couple of days at least, in London. I have to go and look at the house from time to time. Tim never comes. We’ll manage something.”

  Bill brought her a present and offered it to her with a hesitancy she found heart-breaking. She knew what a pilot officer’s pay was. His gift was a small watercolour he had found after scouring the antique shops of Lincoln.

  “I know you don’t do watercolours, but I thought you’d like this one. I wish I could give you something you could wear all the time, like a brooch or an identity bracelet; but you can keep this in your studio, and no one else will notice it.”

  Her eyes had filled with tears when she thanked him and she had hung the little painting over the divan. It was an exquisite pastoral scene painted not ten miles from Belton and she was proud of his taste and discrimination in choosing it.

  Along with the engagement ring her first husband had given her, and a spray of violets dried and pressed, which had been the first flowers a man had ever given her, her first lover who was already a Harley Street surgeon, the little watercolour was her most precious possession.

  Nothing her husband had ever given her held the slightest sentimental value in her eyes.

  *

  The Air Commodore was impressed. He had never thought much of the Auxiliary Air Force or the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve; least of all of the officers of either. Bunch of damned amateur week-end part-timers. He was not strongly in favour of short service commission officers either, but at least they were regulars. He looked to Cranwell graduates, chaps properly trained at the Royal Air Force College, like his own two sons, for the salvation of the junior Service. The real backbone, of course, in his view, were the pre-1914 regular Army officers like himself: Sandhurst-trained, commissioned into the cavalry, Royal Engineers, artillery or infantry, volunteers in 1915 or thereabouts for duty with the new Royal Flying Corps.

  Everyone knew that one needed good hands, a horseman’s hands, to make a decent pilot. Most of the old RFC pilots had come from the cavalry, like himself, and the Sappers. The observers, of course, came from any old where.

  It was most refreshing to find a type like this fella Leatham, with a mere AAF background, so chock full of brainy ideas, with so many flying hours, a very decent DFC and all the attributes of leadership. Most refreshing and most unusual.

  There was another breed that shared the distinction of forming the backbone of the Royal Air Force: chaps like Moakes, who had given their hearts and souls to it boy and man and were formed by the Service to the very marrow of their bones. Find a good ‘un, and he was equal to the best. And Moakes had both a fine flying record and a name that had resounded throughout the Service in the days when he was supreme in the heavyweight arena; a demolisher of the best the Navy and the Army could put up against him, year after year. It was a pity he had put up a couple of blacks that Leatham had told him about and harmed his career.

  He remembered the fella perfectly well: they’d served together twice; at home and in India.

  Put a couple of types like those two together at the head of a squadron and you had a damned fine combination. Leatham was a gentleman born and bred and had a good brain; Moakes was the epitome of Other Rank excellence and carried his commission with dignity and total loyalty.

  The Air Commodore and Leatham were in secret conclave with Gp. Capt. Jevons.

  It was a monumental concession that they had gone to the wing commander’s office instead of summoning him to the group captain’s; but, as the latter had said, a Squadron Commander’s place was where his aircraft and men were and he must be instantly accessible in the event of an emergency.

  “To sum up, then,” the Air Commodore concluded, “you’ll write a paper on the target area, Leatham: emphasising landmarks, flying hazards, all recognisable features. We’ll have some photographs taken immediately, so that we can see all the snow sheds clearly before the snow falls and obscures everything. The Intelligence chaps will find out if there are any pictures of the area among all the mass of holiday photos the public has sent in of every part of Europe you could think of, since they were first asked to do so at the outbreak. They’ll also see if any of the film or newsreel companies have got a film of the place. And, of course, we’ll make highly discreet enquiries among the Norwegians over here with the Services, in case there are any who know Nesdal intimately.”

  “I’ll get down to my part straight away, sir,” Leatham promised.

  “Take yourself off the ops. roster until you’ve finished it, Tim,” the group captain instructed.

  “I don’t like doing that, sir.”

  “Then you’ll write the paper all the quicker,” smiled Jevons.

  “There’s just one thing, sir,” Leatham said diffidently. “This is going to be
an awful damp squib if we clobber the target when there is no one of any special significance there.”

  The Air Commodore gave him a grim smile. “We’re code-naming this Operation Thunderflash; and that is just what it is going to be: no damp squib but a bloody great Thunderflash. So we’ll make damned sure there are some worthwhile Nazi victims at Nesdal at the right time.”

  Leatham, who knew something about the underground movement and espionage network that covered enemy-occupied Europe, did not doubt him.

  Nine - Bill Bracken

  Getting through a tour of 30 operations was going to take us more than a year.

  In my ignorance, I had anticipated flying an op. at least every week and completing my first tour in some eight months. Ron Emery knew better, from his ground service on bomber squadrons, but didn’t disillusion me. All he ever said, right at the beginning, was, “It doesn’t work like that, Bill,” with a slightly pitying grin.

  I found out what he meant. To start with, we didn’t operate every week: Bomber Command didn’t have to rely exclusively on the two squadrons at Belton! It didn’t even have to call entirely on our Group. Belton’s turn to provide aircraft came round frequently but not regularly; in fact our life was very irregular. We might be called on to operate several nights running and then not at all for a week. Sometimes only one squadron was needed; sometimes only half a squadron’s aircraft were detailed, or even fewer.

  The weather interrupted us, either because it was unsuitable in the target area, or along the route, or at base. There were times when we could have taken off and bombed in good conditions, but the whole of Britain would be suffering bad weather at the time of our return and landing would be impossible or too dangerous.

  We even went on leave now and then, which meant a further delay. And, of course, we had to maintain our training programme with formation practices, bombing, homing practice, blind flying, navigation exercises. We had to attend lectures on new equipment and fresh procedures. The air gunners had to carry out firing practice.

  Since falling in love with Margaret I welcomed every activity that would prolong my tour.

  What puzzled me and made me look askance at myself was that despite what she had confided to me about her husband I could not hate or even dislike him. He was always pleasant to everyone on the squadron, air and ground crews alike. He was never anything but civil to me, and on top of that, I felt despicable because I accepted the hospitality he offered us all while I was making a cuckold of him.

  Once a month there was a special party at The Grange, like the one on our first night with the squadron. Everyone who wasn’t flying attended. I fought hard against the temptation to hover around Margaret, to keep my eyes on her with all the love and admiration and longing that I felt and that I knew would give us both away; but on both these occasions in the months immediately after our first one, I was free and had to be there.

  Leatham was popular throughout the squadron. Once a month he gave a party in a majestic and perfectly preserved Fifteenth Century tithe barn on the home farm, for all the troops; so that they would not resent the facilities he gave the air crews. From time to time he invited various ground officers on the station, in addition to the squadron’s own who were accorded the same privileges as air crew, to one of his parties. Margaret gave entertainments for the wives of those married troops who lived off camp.

  It was difficult for me to find anything overt to dislike about Leatham. If Margaret had not told me what sort of person he really was, I would never have suspected it and would have joined in the general approval and liking.

  I had both an incentive and a disincentive to fly every operation. I wanted to do it, to bring the end of my tour nearer, which was a natural feeling I could not subdue; and because I would have a stand-down which would allow me to make love to Margaret. But I didn’t want to go, because it would bring the end of my tour and separation from Margaret nearer; and because I might be shot down and never see her again.

  The prospect of being shot down had never bothered me while I was training; it was too remote and I had enough on my mind with the hard work of earning my wings. It had not really bothered me on my first three ops. But now it was beginning to obtrude itself on my consciousness and I had to put on a studied indifference for fear of my crew perceiving what they would mistake for cowardice.

  One night in late September, by which time we had flown six operations, we went to briefing and my heart sank into my boots.

  The red ribbon marking our route stretched all the way to Berlin.

  Simultaneously a great exhilaration and satisfaction filled me: it was not a full-scale effort tonight, yet we had been detailed; which meant that we had proved ourselves. There were many targets as heavily defended as Berlin, but getting there meant such a long trip that one was at risk the whole time from fighters and flak zones. The danger began at take-off, from intruders over England and night fighters patrolling the Channel and North Sea and the coastal areas. Novice crews were not sent to Berlin and it was a compliment that we had been picked so soon.

  Gp. Capt. Jevons went straight to a chair in the front row instead of onto the dais, and it was Leatham who first addressed us.

  “As you can see, we’re going to Berlin (but he himself was not) after a long time. The aiming point is here,” he touched a large scale map of Berlin. “It’s the centre of a group of factories making ball bearings and aero-engine castings. The total attacking force is five hundred and fifty four-engined aircraft; so anything you see with twin engines will be a hostile, a Ju 88 or an Me 110. Your bomb load will be one eight thousand-pounder and eight cans of incendiaries. That ought to make the Hun sit up and take notice. Weather, as you’ll hear, seems to be pretty good. The attack is going to be concentrated and quickly carried out. Your bombing height is exactly twenty thousand feet, so don’t stray up or down, or you’ll get tangled with aircraft that have been given height bands immediately above or below you. You can be thankful you aren’t lower down the stack: the chaps down there are going to have bombs whistling past their ears.” He paused and surveyed us all expressionlessly and as I had the feeling that his eyes, from fifty feet away, were resting on me, I had a quick mental picture of the mole just below his wife’s right breast and the dimples in her buttocks, and went hot with guilt or shame or something. But he wasn’t going to bomb Berlin tonight.

  The navigation leader on our squadron took over the briefing for both squadrons.

  “Zero hour is zero-zero-three-zero-hours. The Pathfinders will do their stuff from zero minus one-and-a-half until zero plus thirty. Timing has got to be right, to the second: if any pilot doesn’t fly at exactly the right air speed, he’ll most likely get his aircraft clobbered. At zero minus four minutes PFF will sky-mark the path to the target with red flares that will turn to green in two minutes. Simultaneously they will mark a point on the ground exactly sixteen miles from the aiming point. At a ground speed of two hundred and forty miles an hour, that will mean precisely four minutes to target.

  “The target indicating marker will be dropped at exactly zero minus one-and-a-half, bang on the centre factory roof. We hope! The sky above the aiming point will be marked also by green flares in case smoke or fog hides the TIs.

  “After briefing, squadron nay. leaders will give their navigators their tracks and distances.”

  Leatham stood up and came to the front of the platform again.

  “Remember, as soon as you reach the preliminary target indicator turn onto one-five-zero magnetic and hold it for five minutes. Do not take any evasive action. Keep straight on past the target. After bombing you can dive shallowly to gain speed and you can weave gently: that’s all. PFF will drop a clutch of red and green flares twenty-five miles beyond the target and you are to make for those and then all come home in a bunch. It is important that no one straggles. Safety lies in large numbers.”

  Gp. Capt. Jevons followed the weather and Intelligence briefings. “You’ve got an excellent target and if yo
u stick exactly to orders you will get home on time. But remember: no stragglers. We all know why. Good luck.”

  Yes, we all knew why it was important to keep bunched together. If a large number of aircraft flew over the flak positions together the predictors could not separate them and the guns could not single out targets but had to fire at random. In the same way, both ground radar and the airborne radar carried by the night fighters became confused.

  There was a grave risk of collision, but that was negligible if we all flew accurately. The trouble was that aircraft which were damaged could seldom be flown accurately; and despite our tactics someone was bound to be hit by flak or fighters.

  It seemed indecently soon after that briefing that I was seated in my Lanc.

  When I had completed my first checks I lowered my seat and Ron and I each waved away the chocks on his own side.

  The two airmen responsible for removing the chocks came round where I could see them and gave a thumbs-up. I released the brakes with the familiar hiss of compressed air and Uncle rolled. I stopped at the end of the runway for Ron to run up each engine to full power and test its magnetos, the two-stage blower and the pitch control for the props.

  I now went through a familiar jocular ritual with Nick, about our mascot.

  “Pilot to Wolfie: strapped in?”

  “Wolfie to pilot : all set to go, Captain, sir.”

  Flying Control gave us take-off clearance.

  Berlin awaited us. I recalled that wonderful line of Wilfred Owen’s, learned at school: “...Only the monstrous anger of the guns.” I quaked momentarily.

  “Prepare for take-off...clear behind, rear gunner?”

  The engines up to full power, a smack in the back from my seat as we leaped forward.

  We settled to cruising power when we had left the circuit and the Lanc. purred along at 120 mph., climbing effortlessly, feather-light on the controls, beautifully balanced.

  We crossed out over the English coast nearly fifteen seconds early. Too keen, as Nick admitted.