Operation Thunderflash

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Over the Dutch coast Nick confessed to being twenty seconds ahead of schedule.

  “Better than being late,” I told him. “We can always ease off nearer the target.”

  Lights and flak to discourage us, the beams, thirty or forty of them, sweeping the sky while we plugged on in the thin, cold air, praying they would not find us. Ice was forming on the wings and despite the heating I felt a bit chilly.

  Darkness now and it was quiet; until Keith reported: “Mid-upper, Skip...tracer at four-o’clock.”

  “What is it, Keith?”

  “Can’t make out, Skipper. Long way down...I think it’s light stuff on the deck...No! By heck it isn’t...night fighter, I think...something’s on fire down there...”

  I felt a slight disturbance at the tail when Eddie swung his turret and his guns entered the slipstream, followed by his voice on the intercom: “Rear gunner, Skipper...I can see it now...one of ours going down in flames...”

  “Keep your eyes peeled, gunners,” I said.

  There was a bad patch then, with tracer on all sides and at different altitudes, as night fighters bored in. I felt sweat running down my ribs and gathering under the brow of my helmet. In a concentration of lights I saw the darting black shapes of either Ju 88s or Me 110s, evil, like bats.

  The tracer died out and the flak started again, the first salvoes marking a rippling line across our path.

  The flak disappeared behind us too and Berlin lay close ahead. In the starlight and the light from the young moon we could see the city sprawling black and shapeless, parts of it standing out sharply in the brilliant light of flares. I had never seen so many searchlights. Nor had I seen such intensity of flak. Ground and sky were torn by the searchlight beams and the eruption every second of an anti-aircraft gun or a bursting bomb. The lane to the target was clearly marked, the incendiaries and 8,000-pounders made the scene below as bright as a tropical noon, but there were eerie square miles of dead black surrounding the target area that looked menacing: I waited for more gunflashes and searchlights to leap out from there to light us up and shoot us down.

  Nick had been giving me the time to the target, and when he had said, “Six minutes and dead on time,” I had never heard him sound so pleased.

  Bruce took over, one eye on his stop watch. “Bomb-aimer to captain: four minutes to go...three minutes...”

  The bomb doors were open and I felt the change in the aircraft as it responded to the extra drag. Bombs fused. “One minute to go...”

  A thunderbolt seemed to hit us. There was a violent jolt accompanied by a flash of light that was like a pneumatic drill piercing both eyeballs, followed in a split second by a thunderous explosion. The Lanc. dropped its starboard wing and I shoved the column to port as Keith said, “Starboard outer hit, Skip. “

  I feathered the starboard outer and opened the throttle of the starboard inner wider; reduced power on the port engines.

  “Forty seconds to go,” came Bruce’s steady voice.

  I looked at the altimeter and saw we had dropped 2,000 ft. I remembered the dire warnings about sticking to our height band.

  There was another almighty din on my port side and the nose of the Lanc. dropped. The vivid flash of an anti-aircraft shell exploding close to my left hand side blinded me.

  “Mid-upper, Skip...port inner hit.”

  By the time I had levelled off we had lost another 2,500 ft. and strayed ten degrees off course.

  “Ten seconds...please hold steady,” said Bruce matter-of-factly. “

  I peered through burning eyes and fought to stay straight and level.

  “Bombs gone.” The kick from Uncle as its burden was lightened. I poured on more power and, back on my proper heading, tried to climb back to my designated height.

  For the third time in less than two minutes we were hit. There came a hideous crunching noise, a tearing, rasping, sound, on my port side. The wing swung mightily down under a colossal weight and I thought we were going to roll upside down.

  Looking out of my port window I saw that the outer six feet of the port wing had been sheared off and the outer skin was wrinkled, the damaged edge jagged.

  We were down to 12,000 ft. before I had the Lanc. under control again, but it was pitching and swinging despite all my efforts.

  There was silence in the aircraft. The silence, I thought, of sheer terror.

  “Everyone OK?” I asked.

  They checked in one by one.

  “Anyone see what happened?”

  “We must have been hit by one of our own chaps,” said Bruce. “Just like the CO said.”

  “Sorry about this, chaps,” I said. “I’ll try to climb a bit and get some protection from the main stream. If I can’t, I’m going down to hedge-hop, because we can’t take evasive action on two engines and a damaged wing.”

  It was worrying me that if we had been clouted by an 8,000-pounder, it may have damaged the main spar: our port wing could fold and fall right off.

  The bad side of the situation was obvious to all of us. I reviewed our blessings. First, none of us had been wounded or injured, let alone killed; the greatest good fortune. Second, the bomb had brushed our wing in a safe attitude, without detonating: that would have blown Uncle and all of us to mincemeat. Third, the stream of four-engined heavies high above us would blanket the enemy radar and flak-predictors; so we had an excellent prospect of slipping through unobserved if we either clawed our way up to join them or went down to treetop height.

  If the main spar did crack, it wouldn’t matter at what height we were, for we would not survive a crash at about 200 mph from 200 ft. or from 20,000 ft.

  Uncle was climbing sluggishly with only two engines and a length of wing missing. A low-level run would be easier, if I could be sure of holding altitude; but if we lost another engine we would not be able to maintain whatever height I decided on.

  I spoke to Ron. “Flight Engineer; any signs of any problems: can we be sure we won’t lose another engine?”

  Ron knew my dilemma as well as I did and I was grateful for his instant and reassuringly positive answer: “I’ve checked and double-checked, Skipper. We’ve got plenty of fuel and no sign of any leakage. Oil pressures and engine temperatures fine. The engines sound sweet, too: no nasty noises. We’re OK, I’m sure of it.”

  “Thank you, Ron.” I warmed to him. Of all my crew, he was the most self-contained, the least easy to get close to; and,’ as the oldest and the most experienced in the Service, he could give me the most comfort and support: which he knew. “All right, crew,” I went on, “we might just make it back up to our proper altitude by the time we get back to Belton if I keep climbing! Up there, we’re liable to run into fighters. I’m going down low enough to get below the usual fighter height band, but high enough to give us time to make a decent forced landing or ditching if we have to, and to send out an SOS and transmit for a decent fix if we do have to ditch.”

  Everyone knew that as a lame duck we would be easy victims for a fighter; we had neither speed nor manoeuvrability.

  Each of my crew sounded cheerful as he answered.

  “Bomb-aimer to captain: shall I stay on the front guns, in case we see something? Maybe I’ll get another crack at some searchlights.”

  “Yes, Bruce, you do that: and searchlights are the least of our problems, but have a go by all means.” I didn’t try to hide the fact that fighters may find us, but tried to sound jocular.

  “Navigator here: yes, just confine that interfering Highlander to the nose, Skipper; I can manage the navigation on my own.”

  “Wireless operator, Skip: I can give Nick a hand with the Gee charts if he needs it.”

  “Mid-upper here, Skipper: all quiet up here; but I can still see Berlin burning. Should be easy to pick out any fighters against that lot.”

  “Rear gunner to captain: I can see the fires, an’ all. Keith’s right, it’s a perfect background for spotting fighters.”

  “The further we get from the target the more y
our eyes will grow used to the dark, gunners, and the less chance of fighters. Fingers out everybody. Give me an ETA Belton, please, Nick.”

  He provided it promptly: we had three hours and 25 minutes of tiring flying ahead of us. I eased out of our shallow dive at 5,000 ft. and Dan came round with the coffee, which put fresh heart into us all.

  “How’s Wolfie?” I asked on the intercom.

  Nick, in the deep bass he assumed in his role as Big Bad Wolf, assured us all: “Wolfie’s fine, Captain, sir: but my eardrums hurt; not very considerate of you, Captain, sir, losing all that altitude so suddenly back there.”

  “My apologies,” I said. “Pity you haven’t got cloth ears, like the navigator; you wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

  I heard Eddie’s unmistakable coarse chuckle: it was a crew joke that Nick went deaf when asked for information, to give himself time to work it out.

  With pretended coldness, Nick gave me a correction of course; and added, “That’s just for the rest of us; as far as I’m concerned, the rear gunner can jettison his turret and carry on on the old heading: we won’t miss him.”

  And, as it turned out, we wouldn’t have missed any of our gunners, for we had the good fortune to meet no fighters anywhere on our route home.

  Just before we joined the circuit, I said, “Here’s where we get some benefit from that ruddy pasting we took over Berlin,” and I called Flying Control and asked for priority in landing as we had only two engines: “And,” I added, unable to keep the laughter out of my voice, “one-and-a-bit wings...and a prayer.”

  The air traffic controller on duty sounded amused when he acknowledged, but we were not the only one in a parlous situation. “You’re Number Three to land,” he told me. “Two others with the same kind of problems got in ahead of you.

  We were lazily orbiting in the circuit, awaiting our turn, when my relaxed, complacent mood was fractured by an unexpected outburst of voices as both gunners simultaneously called a warning. From their mingled voices I managed to infer that they had both spotted a fighter or fighters. Before either of them had finished speaking, both the mid-upper and tail guns were in action.

  We had no room to take evasive action, for we were at a mere 800 ft. We were crippled and ungainly-moving. There were several other Lancasters in the circuit.

  As well, apparently, as enemy intruders.

  I held my banking turn so as not to disturb the gunners’ aim. The aircraft was filled with the rattle of their six guns and the stench of cordite. Bullets and cannon shells slammed into Uncle.

  Again both Eddie’s and Keith’s voices rang in my ears, but exultantly this time: “Got him...got him...got him...got him...”

  I rolled out of my bank onto a level keel and an aircraft flashed a few feet overhead, from stern to nose. Sparks and flames were pouring out of it. As a night intruder it had to be either an Me 110 or a Ju 88; from its single fin I recognised it as the latter. Its starboard engine was well ablaze. Bruce’s two guns in the nose turret came into action and I saw the long rods of their tracer flogging the Junkers’s belly and tail unit: he must have riddled the fin and tail planes and punched a mass of holes in its lower fuselage.

  The port engine fell out of the wing, a ball of fire; the tail fin crumpled and collapsed.

  The intruder dropped onto the airfield and exploded.

  “Now you’ve done it, gunners!” I exclaimed, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice, not setting a good, captainlike example of calmness on the intercom. “Now you’ve really done it: we’ll all have to hold off until they clear that mess away. But well done chaps, damn well done.”

  Eddie, with his usual cheek, said, “I hope there’s a few more we can knock off while we’re waiting, Skip.”

  But if there were, they had obviously been deterred by the fate of their fellow, for there was no more trouble; and, as the Ju 88 had crashed on the grass, well clear of both runways, we did not have to orbit much longer.

  But, although I called the control tower again and suggested that, as a reward for having shot down the intruder, we should be allowed to land at once, all I got was a repetition of the instruction that I was No 3; accompanied by a raspberry from Flying Control and even louder ones from the other two damaged Lancs. ahead of us.

  Providentially the bullets and cannon shells the intruder had pumped into us had left the whole crew still unscathed and did no vital damage to the aircraft : they perforated the upper surface of the fuselage and some passed right through and out at one side, but no control cables, petrol lines or electrical wires suffered.

  What did shake us all, however, was that three of the stowed parachutes were riddled. It was unwholesome to think what would have happened if we had been forced to climb high enough to bale out safely; or what it would be like if anyone’s parachute were holed over enemy territory and we had no chance of forced-landing or ditching.

  Our destruction of the Junkers had caused a great stir and by the time we had parked the aeroplane and stepped out onto the tarmac both Gp. Capt. Jevons and Wg. Cdr. Leatham were waiting for us.

  There was also a considerable gathering of’ other air crews, erks, ground officers and a selection of the WAAF.

  “Form a queue on the right for autographs,” called Eddie.

  “Belt up, you silly sod,” I told him; knowing that Jevons had no sense of humour at all and that Leatham’s, such as it was, did not extend to such barrackroom drollery.

  But Eddie was irrepressible and I heard him, falling behind the rest of us, say to a bunch of Waafs, “If you don’t want me autograph you can ‘ave a kiss instead...if you’re lucky.” Which gave rise to much giggling and the pushing forward of three or four not unwilling candidates by their chums.

  While the group captain was speaking to us all I was conscious that Leatham was giving me a long, calculating stare.

  With a shock it came to me that he had not expected to see me back from Berlin.

  Ten

  Moakes had observed the malice in Wg. Cdr. Leatham’s pale, killer’s eyes when they lit on Bracken.

  He himself, flying in the centre of the gaggle of Lancasters provided by Belton — with the CO of the other squadron in the lead — had arrived home well before Bracken; and having been told that he had signalled that he had been damaged, was waiting to see him land, even before the spectacular encounter with the intruder which had brought the Squadron and Station Commanders.

  It had been a rough trip for Moakes, too. His aircraft had been holed by flak on the approach to the target and by a night fighter Me 110 on the way home. He had had to feather his starboard outer engine. His rear gun turret had been damaged when flak burst just astern, shearing off the barrels of two of the guns and jambirig the rotating mechanism. It was a miracle that the gunner was unharmed.

  He himself was regarding his Squadron Commander with scorn and loathing.

  Leatham had told him after the Air Commodore’s visit, now some weeks ago, “I’m afraid I’ve been joed for a hush-hush planning job, Donk. My orders are not to put myself on the ops. roster for the time being: I can’t tell you more about it; I’ve been dragged into planning something because I happen to have some specialised knowledge and apparently there’s no one else available who has. Damn nuisance, but there it is.”

  And when he did put himself back on the ops. roster it wouldn’t be on a day when there was any chance of a trip to Berlin cropping up, Moakes told himself.

  Gp. Capt. Jevons, who was good-hearted and well-meaning but equipped with as much sensibility as a dinosaur, had taken over the welcoming of the heroes of the hour as a matter of course; his right as Station Commander. Moakes didn’t object to that too much, but was offended by the way Leatham moved in; as though he had been waiting for them all the time. Oily beggar, Moakes ruminated. Hence he was regarding his CO with aversion, his thoughts invaded by rancour, instead of giving his attention to Bracken’s crew. The malignant look Leatham bent on Bracken gave Moakes a spasm of fear and comprehension.
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  What a joke! he thought first: so the lad’s caught the lovely Margaret’s eye and her old man’s all bitter and twisted about it. Lucky he’s no more than a kid...Then he remembered Ian Munroe. It was Ivy, with her eye for gossip sharpened by sojourn in married quarters, who had spotted that Margaret and he had a soft spot for each other. And it was at about that time that Leatham had started interfering with the Flight Commanders over the ops. roster. Munroe needed waking up, he had said, he was getting slack; put him on as often as you can. Then he had changed his attitude: now Munroe’s crew was one of the best; they must make the best possible use of it: which meant banging him on ops. whenever there was a particularly dirty do on. A third change of pretext occurred: Munroe deserves promotion: I want to get him through this tour as quickly as we can, so that he can start another one and get a flight of his own. So let’s hurry him along, Donk, and shove him through his thirty as fast as we can; but keeping him off any cushy ones, because he can handle the roughest stuff. The inevitable and foreseen result was the death of Munroe and six others along with him.

  So fear took hold of Moakes as he reviewed all that, waiting there in the hour before dawn, and as he realised that Bracken had certainly come here as a lad but had developed into a man very noticeably these last two or three months. There was the explanation for those dark rings under his eyes so often: it was not operational weariness or strain; not altogether. And Leatham had either suspected or confirmed it.

  Moakes had tumbled to Leatham’s aberration years before. There was surprisingly little of it in the Services, but enough ugly exceptions to have leaped obviously to the eye when they did occur. Long celibate service on remote and comfortless stations brought out latent tendencies and weaknesses in men. Moakes had known of it in barrack rooms and learned to recognise it in certain officers and senior NCOs. He had not been slow, on first acquaintance, to notice and interpret the feminine streak in Leatham.

  If Leatham knew or even suspected that young Bracken was having an affair with his wife he would treat him exactly as he had treated Munroe a year ago.