Battle Climb

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  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.

  It was a prosaic departure. Wheldon felt it was an anti-climax. For all the months leading up to the inevitable declaration of war, and the weeks since it began, he had been preparing himself for this event. He had not expected to have to wait so long for his baptism of fire; if this was to be it. But the chances seemed to him just as likely that they would not even see any enemy ships. Surely Jerry wouldn’t leave his ships at anchor in broad daylight, knowing that the R.A.F. flew daily reconnaissances and after there had already been four attacks by Wellingtons, Hampdens and Blenheims by daylight? Even though those attacks had achieved nothing but the loss of several aircraft, wouldn’t Jerry move his ships in anticipation of a really big raid that would succeed where its predecessors had failed?

  The voices came through the intercom one at a time, checking that all was in working order. ‘Rear gunner to skipper…’ ‘Wireless op to skipper…’ ‘Observer to captain…’ ‘Second pilot…’

  Norton’s Wimpey trundled along the taxi track and turned onto the grass. There were no concrete runways at Brinstead yet. Wheldon saw it take off and impatiently edged forward. Delays meant oiled plugs and oiled plugs could mean a prang on take-off and a prang on take-off usually meant death. The Wimpey vibrated with life, the engines droned, the smells of fabric dope, warm oil, petrol and exhaust smoke drifted about the cockpit. Wheldon watched the next two take off and begin to orbit, overtaking Norton.

  Then three more were airborne and it was his turn to lead the last section off. The Wellington juddered over the ground, the grass became a green blur at the corner of the eye, the boundary fence seemed to be approaching with unwanted swiftness.

  Wheldon reminded himself that he had never before taken off with a full fuel load and 3000 lb of bombs. No wonder the hedge seemed to be rushing at him.

  The tail came up. Stick back. The Wimpey soared away and the fence was in reality still a good safe distance ahead. Over the hedge and into a gentle bank to port, a smooth turn, and there were the other two sections, in neat vics, waiting for him.

  ‘Rear gunner to Skipper, Number Two airborne…’ and presently Jock reported that Number Three was off the ground. Soon Wheldon could see his two wing men in position and after one more orbit Norton set course.

  Still, Wheldon felt no excitement or sense of drama.

  Flamborough Head was in sight from far away. The grey waves crashing in spume against its rocks looked cold despite the autumn sunshine. Eighteen other Wimpeys, in two formations, took shape: one coming from a Yorkshire station further north, the other from Norfolk and now a mile or so to the east. Norton’s nine slid into the lead. The others took station to his port and starboard, to form another, much bigger, V. The whole mass wheeled eastward and now the next sight of land would be the enemy offshore islands.

  Tracer sparkled from the nose and rear guns of all the Wellingtons. Jock tested the two in his turret and Ufland went forward to test the front pair. The pungency of burned cordite was added to the more familiar odours eddying about the draughty fuselage.

  For the first time, Wheldon tasted the spice of adventure, of imminent action, of excitement. For centuries men had reacted to the whiff of gunpowder in the same way. It stirred the senses, lent a man courage, made him eager for the fight.

  But they still had a long way to go and an hour later Wheldon’s ardour had cooled so low that he thought he must have imagined that fleeting elation and feeling of invincibility.

  They were half way across the North Sea and about to enter a belt of broken cloud whose base was far below and whose crests were not much above their own height. Norton led them in a gentle climb to 8000 ft, where they skimmed through the cloud tops and dampness seeped into the cockpits.

  When they had crossed the cloud range and let down to 5000 ft again, there was only clear sky.

  Wheldon discouraged chatter on the intercom but he broke the silence to say ‘Met have got it wrong again. That was the cloud we were supposed to find over the target area.’

  ‘Reckon they got the wind wrong, too,’ Ufland said. ‘It’s shifted to three-two-zero, and it’s a lot more than fifteen knots.’ He had been busy with his sextant, but Wheldon knew the imperfections of dead reckoning navigation and all the difficulties of using a sextant from an unstable platform like a Wimpey. Errors of 30 miles off track were not uncommon.

  ‘The Wingco’s changes of course should have corrected that,’ Wheldon said.

  ‘If not, we’re going to have a ringside view of the Flak on Wangerooge or Spiekeroog.’

  ‘Who are they, when they’re at home?’ came in Brum’s Brummy accent.

  ‘The last two islands in the Friesians.’ Wheldon told him. ‘Now belt up and go for’ard into the nose: see if you can spot anything before I can.’

  ‘O.K., Skip.’

  It was not long before there was another bleat from Brum. ‘Skipper, I can see something at two-o’clock that looks like islands.’

  So, apparently, could the Wing Commander, for there was a wheel to port and when Wheldon gazed out to starboard he could see the sliver of land that must be Wangerooge, with more sea beyond it that could only be the bight between it and the mainland.

  ‘Thanks, Brum. Come back to your station, now.’

  There was a third gun position in the Wellington Mk.1: a cylindrical barbette, equipped with one rearward-firing Vickers .303, known as the dustbin, that had to be lowered through the floor. It was much disliked: it was not very effective and its protrusion lopped many miles an hour off the aeroplane’s speed. If needed, it was the wireless operator’s job to lower and man it. Wheldon imagined that he could feel waves of Brum’s resentment reaching him through the silent intercom.

  Wangerooge slipped by several miles distant and the Wellingtons turned further east. Wheldon could see Wilhelmshaven ahead a long way off. In the middle ground he could soon make out ships at anchor, towards which Norton was leading them.

  Black clots appeared in the sky, reminding Wheldon of the blue-black stains with which Stevens’s ink was advertised. He thought first about ink and then, with a jolt, of Flak. This was genuine anti-aircraft fire that he was looking at and those inky smudges, now breaking up in dark grey whorls, were explosions. As they came closer they became more obviously explosions: each had
a crimson centre that flashed briefly and then glowed.

  When they came even closer, there was a loud bang as each one made its red flash, and there was also a rush of air that chucked the aircraft about.

  Wheldon glanced across at Vachell, who was staring from the starboard window.

  ‘Rear gunner to skipper. One of the kites on our starboard has been hit… starboard engine on fire… its going down… wing on fire as well, now… diving fast.’

  ‘O.K., Jock. Keep an eye out for fighters.’

  ‘Aye, Skip.’

  Wheldon heard a sucking sound and intake of breath. ‘Pete… another hit behind us… not one of our Squadron.’ It was Vachell’s voice, but it didn’t sound much like him.

  ‘Going down, Tony?’

  ‘H-he’s… he’s a bonfire…’

  An explosion roared above the noise of the engines and the closest of the shell bursts. A shock wave of air smote the Wimpey and set it wallowing and yawing.

  The Flak ahead was suddenly no more than drifting wraiths of smoke, dissipating in the wind.

  Norton was taking the formation directly over an anchorage. He dipped into a steep dive and Wheldon, looking for a target, gave half his attention to the Wing Commander. Norton’s Wellington levelled out amid a renewed flurry of bursting shells; and streaks of tracer from light Flak: 20 mm quadruple guns. Water spouted high where Norton’s bombs were exploding on the sea.

  A streak of flame and a billow of smoke erupted from the stern of a destroyer.

  Norton swung away, banking steeply, and dived again. Wheldon saw him level off so close to the sea that it looked as though the aeroplane was scooting along on its surface.

  The Flak was all around again, even at 5000 ft. There were several ships at anchor from which to select a target.

  ‘Captain to crew. There’s a big one dead ahead… looks like a supply ship of some kind… U-boat depot ship, maybe… she’s shooting at us now… that’s our target… see her, Beaky?’

  ‘Observer to skipper… yes, I’ve got her… left-left… more… too much… right a bit… steady…’ A shell burst under the Wellington, which bucked and dipped a wing, swung several degrees and shook from nose to tail.

  ‘Right, Skipper… right… left-left… bit more… steady… steady…’

  The Flak from the heavy guns had ceased but the light ones were still hurling it at the Wellingtons. ‘Rear gunner, Skip… fighters six-o’clock, up.’

  ‘Steady… left-left a bit… steady…’

  Wheldon was holding the shuddering Wimpey straight and level. Its flexible fuselage made this difficult in the disturbed air. A few heavy guns had resumed fire.

  ‘Rear gunner, Skip… the Flak’s hit one of their own fighters!’

  ‘Bombs gone!’

  Wheldon banked into a tight turn and looked down to see where their bombs fell.

  The ship was still shooting at them. There were six tall fountains in the sea around it.

  A Messerschmitt 109 flashed past a few feet overhead. Ufland opened fire with the front guns but his tracer missed the 109 by many yards.

  Wheldon heard the rear guns chattering.

  ‘Wireless Op… get the dustbin down.’

  ‘O.K. Skip.’

  Enemy fighters were fizzing in from all directions. Wheldon saw one of A Flight’s Wellingtons lose a wing as cannon fire sawed through it. It flipped onto its back and fell to the sea. A B Flight Wimpey was on fire and he saw two of the crew bale out while it plunged towards the water.

  Bullets ripped through the cockpit, in front of Wheldon.

  ‘Rear gunner… Skipper… hit… hit… sorry…’

  More bullets and cannon shells battered the Wellington. There was no more fire from the rear turret.

  ‘Tony, go and see what’s happened to Jock.’

  Wheldon felt the speed fall as the belly turret went down. He heard the gun shoot briefly. There were two explosions close behind him as cannon shells hit the dustbin.

  A voice came from the rear turret. ‘Skipper… second pilot… rear gunner’s had it… I’ve dragged him out… shall I man the turret?’

  ‘No… come and take a look at the dustbin. Observer?’

  ‘Observer, Skip.’

  ‘Leave the nose guns and go and take over the rear turret.’

  ‘Right.’

  Wheldon felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up into Vachell’s ashen face.

  ‘Pete… Brum… blown in half… Jesus… I got him out… shall I… s-shall I winch up the dustbin?’

  ‘Yeah, quick.’

  Wheldon was twisting port and starboard and switchbacking, while tracer flashed past on all sides and bullets smacked into the wings and fuselage.

  He knew when the belly turret had been fully raised. The aircraft began to fly more responsively.

  He looked round for company, saw four Wellingtons close ahead and joined them. A cannon shell brought sparks from his starboard engine and he heard it faltering, but it picked up and his heart thudded a little more slowly.

  The clouds had shifted before the wind and he made for them. The enemy fighters were breaking away, short of ammunition or fuel.

  All four of the other Wellingtons that Wheldon had first spotted belonged to his squadron and all had been damaged. He recognised Norton’s in the lead. Later he saw three stragglers in the distance and then a couple more formations: a pair and a threesome. He hoped that there were other survivors whom he had not seen.

  Flying a Wellington was always tiring. The geodetic airframe was more flexible than a conventional one and the aircraft needed frequent trimming and movements of the controls. This meant that the pilot could not switch on the automatic pilot and sit back idly. With control surfaces damaged by Flak and fighters, Wheldon could not use the automatic pilot at all and his arms and shoulders began to ache, his legs to feel cramped. He handed over to Vachell for a while, but the aeroplane started to wander and lose height, and Vachell’s rough corrections began to irritate him until he resumed control.

  All the way, he was conscious of the two dead men aboard. He was sure that Vachell and Ufland were equally preoccupied and depressed. It was not just the fact of the two erks having been killed, but the gory and hideous manner of their deaths. He had walked down to the rear, to stretch his legs, and the sight of their two mangled bodies had angered him as much as it had shocked. Their lives had been wasted. None of the enemy ships had been hit except the destroyer on which Norton had managed to drop one bomb: and then only by his crazy dive to less than a thousand feet. He was lucky not to have been caught in his own bomb blast.

  When Wheldon saw the English coast he was surprised by the extent of his emotion. He was not a sentimentalist, yet the first glimpse of the shores of home gave him an intensity of relief and affection that, for a moment, surpassed his anger at the whole conception and execution of the operation. He was also concerned about what Wing Commander Norton would have to say about the way in which he and others had delivered their attacks. It was no good repeatedly telling himself that they had been trained to bomb from 5000 ft, that that was the height at which they had practised, that it had been stated as their bombing height at briefing.

  Wheldon felt guilty and ashamed. He was bringing back two dead men whose lives would have been better sacrificed if he had followed Norton down to attack at low level, where he should have stood a good chance of a hit.

  On the other hand, a straight and level bombing run at that altitude might have brought death to them all; and a total miss, just the same.

  He was wondering how many dead and wounded there were aboard the Wing Commander’s aircraft.

  All these thoughts ceased buzzing about in his head when he entered the circuit and tried to lower his undercarriage. The lights that indicated when it was down and locked did not come on. He did not feel the usual juddering as the oleo legs extended and entered the slipstream. He could tell by feel that his wheels were still retracted.

  He flew low past the con
trol tower and called the duty pilot. ‘Is my undercart down?’

  ‘Starboard wheel partly down, only.’

  He rocked violently and asked again.

  ‘No change. Do you want to bale out or make a belly landing?’

  ‘I can’t bale out.’

  That would mean climbing to a thousand feet or more, pointing the Wimpey out to sea and taking to their parachutes while still over land; and choosing some place where they would not injure themselves when they hit the ground.

  The duty pilot took his meaning. ‘How many injured aboard?’

  ‘The wop and rear gunner aren’t injured; they’ve bloody had it.’ Burning anger and anxiety reached flash point and prompted him to the savagery.

  Wheldon had seen the ambulance going to meet the Wing Commander’s aircraft, and then a three-tonner driving up to supplement it when the others ahead of him landed. He saw now that the ambulance had already returned from Sick Quarters and was, all too obviously, at his service.

  He spoke only once to his crew. ‘Here goes, then. Hang on like bloody leeches. That sodding wheel’s going to make trouble.’

  It occurred to him only then that he had not offered the other two the choice of baling out while he circled the airfield. But he guessed that Vachell would have refused: Vachell was not the type to entrust his life to a cloth canopy by stepping out into space, if there was another choice. Ufland would have refused from pride to leave his captain.

  The partly lowered wheel brushed the grass and was knocked up so that it did not snap off and its leg did not dig into the ground. The underside of the Wellington scraped with a grinding, splintering noise and the scream of ripped canvas. Dust and clods of grassy earth spewed up on both sides and in front. A cloud of gritty dust billowed into the cockpit. The Wellington swung from side to side and its nose reared up as though it were trying to make one last leap into the air. Wheldon’s head was rocked violently to left and right and vibrations jarred his arms and legs.

  The Wellington hit the ground hard and floundered on for a hundred yards, in a fog of dust and smoke, but there was no fire.