At Syerston the Station Commander, Group Captain Francis Samuel Hodder decided to fly on the raid on the 106 Squadron Lancaster flown by Pilot Officer Robbie Robertson. Sergeant James Cunliffe was also a last minute addition to the crew as a replacement for Moseley, the English flight engineer. The rest of the usual crew consisted of Sergeant Frank Stanford Green RCAF, navigator, Sergeants Arthur Taylor the wireless operator and Freddy Tysall the mid-upper gunner and Flying Officer Shadbolt the rear gunner. Geoffrey Willatt the bomb aimer had no unusual feelings before the trip – ‘definitely no premonitions’ – but he felt the usual ‘hot, excited sensation, usually identified with an important interview, or an innings at cricket’. He had left wife Audrey in bed with a bit of a headache and quite expected to slip off home and see her again at midday on Monday:
We were briefed for what was at least an easier trip than the last two to the ‘Big City’ and had eaten rather indigestibly greasy Spam and fried egg. There was the familiar sitting round in the mess, half hoping the trip would be ‘scrubbed’ for bad weather but at the same time wishing to do one more trip towards finishing a tour of ‘ops’ – probably two more only. We dressed at the flight hut, checked everything in the aircraft and then taxied to the take-off point. There were groups of people at the watch-office and at the end of the runway holding their thumbs up – the farmer and family sitting on a gate giving the good luck sign. Engines wide open just after Robbie said, ‘OK boys, here we go,’ followed by that nerve-shattering roar, which would last throughout the trip. It was a perfect take-off but gave me my usual breath-holding feeling till we were safely off the deck and up to 1,000 feet. Up to this height, a failure in any of the engines, or a small mistake by the pilot, if you’re loaded with explosives and it’s kaput.
At last we’d gained sufficient height and left the neighbourhood of our base for the coast, with a last look from me where Audrey would be waiting for me the next day. Oxygen turned on and as darkness finally closed in protectively we crossed the English coast. No pinpoint on the enemy coast, as the ground was obscured by the cloud but there were a few ineffective fingers of searchlights and a few half-hearted flashes from coastal batteries. We were now seemingly floating on the upper fringe of a grey cloud, which sent sparks of static lightning off my guns and bomb sight – not a dangerous kind of cloud and protective in a way but making things bumpy. I had no special worries about Mannheim as a target and didn’t expect an undue amount of opposition – the usual bunches of searchlights, flak and hovering fighters but not to compare with the Ruhr (‘Happy Valley’) or Berlin.
Pilot Officer Reg Lawton the navigator on Stirling U-Uncle on 196 Squadron at Witchford piloted by Squadron Leader D M Edmondson was making his first trip to Germany:
It was Edmondson’s second trip, as he had done one as observer and he came back and thoroughly alarmed us. Anyway this trip went well until we reached the target. As we approached, the pilot told me to leave the navigating in my curtained cabin and come and sit in the right-hand seat and open the bomb-doors. This was a big mistake. It was not my job. I didn’t even know how to do it. I was horrified at the sight of what was going on outside. With enemy flares lighting up the sky many of our planes looked like they were in daylight and I lost my night vision. We were risking our lives for nothing because the target seemed to be one vast fire, without our load. We were hit repeatedly by flak [over Spayer] and I hurriedly got back to my navigation as the bombs were going. The bomb-aimer and rear gunner both called out ‘enemy fighters attacking’ and we went into violent evasive action for some minutes. I should never have left my work as I was now called on for a course for home, with all my timing lost as well as courses flown during the evasive action. The pilot was exhausted. He had operated the fire extinguishers in both inboard engines, which was successful and he then restarted both these engines. And they worked! Bristol radials – marvellous. The starboard outer engine, which gave all the power to our instruments, was just a mass of tangled struts in a huge hole in the wing. I gave a course for our next turning point (which was halfway between Paris and the coast).
Having bombed at 17,500 feet, which was the maximum a Stirling could get too, we started back at 12,000 feet. We were very slow and steadily losing height. After a bit I took an astro-fix but the plane was vibrating so much I took no notice of it. It put us well south of track and actually I was dead right. I was just going to give the pilot the change of course north for the coast when we were plastered by flak again. We had flown straight and alone into the defences of Paris. We survived this and after some minutes the pilot called me up and told me to go forward and see if I could pinpoint our position as we crossed the coast. I gingerly went down the steps into the nose, because some of the extreme front had been shot away and the bomb-aimer was injured in the eyes, so there was quite a wind blowing and cold too. I saw the coast pass under us but could not locate the area and I didn’t know in the dark where to plug in my intercom. When I climbed back the pilot was very relieved as he thought I had fallen out of the wreckage. We were now down to 1,000 feet and the engines were on fire again. The flight engineer had been telling us long ago we were out of petrol and at this height we flew right through the London balloon barrage. I don’t know why we didn’t make for one of the ‘crash’ aerodromes but I got us back to our own station. As we were burning we came in to crash-land, without any preliminaries, such as doing a circuit. We had no flaps and came in much too fast. As we touched down the fuselage broke in two at the trailing edge of the wings. The front part we were in skidded a long way off the runway and headed straight for the control tower, which gave them a fright. We all scrambled out and were OK except for the bomb aimer who soon recovered. No one commiserated with us. No one praised us. No medals were offered. We were shaken and worried that all trips were like this but I was not frightened at any stage (6 hours 50 minutes flying time) nor did the rest of the crew seem to be.23
The raid was successful but 34 aircraft were missing.24
At Elvington there was no word from two Halifax IIs on 77 Squadron that were overdue. While in the target area Flight Sergeant Douglas Charles William Hamblyn RNZAF, the pilot of U-Uncle, was obliged to dive steeply in order to avoid a mid-air collision. Level flight was resumed at 11,000 feet but soon afterwards the Halifax was raked by fire from a night fighter. The New Zealand pilot was mortally wounded, and flames quickly spread along the entire length of the fuselage. Out of control, U-Uncle crashed in the target area. Only three men bailed out and they were rounded up and taken into captivity. Elsewhere K-King and Pilot Officer Mathers’ crew lay dead in their crumpled and smashed Halifax awaiting burial in Durnbach War Cemetery.
On 9 Squadron EE136 WS-R better known as Spirit of Russia, with Pilot Officer Jimmy McCubbin in command, was attacked by a night fighter near the target. Cannon fire destroyed the port fin, damaged the R/T and mid-upper turret and wounded Rhodesian Flight Sergeant ‘Charlie’ Houbert in the head and shoulder. Houbert had fired 20 rounds before being hit and he took no further part in the combat. During five attacks on the Lancaster Flight Sergeant Jim ‘Geordie’ Elliott the rear gunner poured 3,000 rounds into the fighter. In the final attack Elliott’s fire scored hits and the fighter burst into flames and dived under the starboard wing leaving a trail of fire behind it, seen by both the flight engineer and Ken Pagnell the bomb-aimer. Elliott was awarded an enemy fighter ‘destroyed’ and he also received the DFM. Though badly damaged Spirit of Russia made it back to Bardney where there were ‘too many hits even to start to count’. The damage put the Lancaster out of action until November. In the meantime McCubbin received the DFC and became tour-expired.25
At Syerston the 106 Squadron Lancaster III flown by ‘Robbie’ Robertson was overdue. Geoffrey Willatt recalls:
We came clear of the cloud a few minutes before TOT (Time On Target) and there it was – the family party. A ring of weaving searchlights, the air filled with flashes from flak, cascades of red, yellow and green markers, dull red fire
s where buildings were alight and winking bright white patches where incendiaries had missed a mark. And above all, a thick black pall of smoke, rising to at least 15,000 feet, glowing red on one side where the fires were reflected. I was too busy during the next few minutes to be frightened – nonsense, I was always scared stiff – but these few minutes when we drifted slowly and evenly through all flak and danger (we must be clearly silhouetted against the fires for the fighters to see) must seem hours to the rest of the crew. The great danger is that the gunner will be fascinated by the amazing scene and forget to look for the enemy. At last I said, ‘Bombs gone’ and the aircraft bounced up as the ‘cookie’ went. A further period straight and level while the photo was taken; and then we turned off. The air seemed full of aircraft and quite near, a squirt of cannon fire streamed through the air like a string of red sausages and we drifted through puffs of smoke from nearby bursts of flak. A Halifax with one wing on fire charged past our nose, losing height in a shallow dive. Robbie said, ‘Better get out of this’ and down went the nose, leaving me with that ‘lift’ feeling and for a second I literally left the floor. Then the navigator gave the next course to turn on to; we turned, levelled up and Robbie said, ‘On course.’ Then it happened. The most startling thing about it was the noise. Normally, you can hear nothing above the roar of the engines – not even flak (unless splinters hit the aircraft – a frequent occurrence) or bombs dropping. This then was a metallic, ripping, shattering, clicking sound, repeated three or four times at split second intervals. The nearest simile I can think of is the noise made by two billiard balls cracked together but magnified a thousand times and loud enough to make my head sing. I involuntarily ducked down and back and saw that my position for my particular job had, for the moment, saved my life. There was a wide hole in the instrument panel behind and above my head and another in the side of the nose, a few inches above my head as I’d crouched down.
From this time it all seemed to take hours but I suppose it was only a few seconds before I really did things. The engines still roared but the nose seemed to be dropping. I knelt on the step and poked my head into the pilot’s compartment. All three seats were empty. This was shock enough in itself but then I could see a chaotic mess of people lying in a static heap at the side of the pilot’s seat and inextricably entangled with the controls. They were all hit and probably dead, Robbie definitely so, hit in the head. We were now diving steeply, with the port inner engine and port wing on fire and a long streamer of flame streaking back. Obviously this was the moment of crisis so common to movies, where one is ice-cold and efficient. Anyway, I’d always said that if anything happened, I’d be through the hole in a few seconds. I tried to call up on the intercom – it was dead – and it was impossible to climb back over the bodies to speak to anyone. No alternative but to go through the hole. ‘Chute clipped on, helmet off, hatch pulled open and through the hole feet first, lowering myself on my elbows and hanging onto the ripcord handle with my right hand. Whoosh! And there I was in midair, immediately followed by a sickening jerk on my groin as the ’chute opened. I don’t remember pulling the cord: I was probably unconscious from lack of oxygen; anyway, I was fighting for breath. There was a horrible tearing and burning feeling between my legs where the harness pulled and my fur collar was clapped tightly over my face and ears. Both my boots were tugged off by the wind and my feet were freezing cold. I drifted slowly down recovering my breath and trying to ease the pain in my groin. The target was still burning nicely, bombs thumping, flak cracking and searchlights waving about. What a good thing I wasn’t dangling in the air in the middle of it! Then my ’chute started to rock and rotate and behave like something at Nottingham Goose Fair. I tried to remember instructions, pulling alternative ropes but my groin hurt me too much to think clearly. The great thing was that I was so far safe but might hit a house or something equally hard on ‘arriving’.
I suppose I descended for about a quarter of an hour and tried to make out ground detail; strips of alternate light and dark – long and narrow and probably factory workshops. The parachute drill kept running through my mind – twist if necessary by crossing straps so as to face downwind with knees slightly bent but braced and arm across the face to protect it. Land slightly on the toes and bend the knees. Thump! I landed on my heels, sideways, straight legs and leaning backwards – not per textbook and five minutes earlier than I’d expected. A few minutes to recover my breath and to think that at least I was still alive and on the ground and then I found that the total damage was bruised heels, a piece bitten out of my tongue, a pain in the chest (afterwards found to be two cracked ribs) and a splitting headache; all this in addition to the throbbing pain in my groin, which I took to be a rupture. A horrid period followed while I lay on the damp grass and wondered what I could’ve done to save the rest of the crew – obviously nothing, since the ‘kite’ probably blew up within minutes and a blazing aircraft would be attacked again and again by fighters, being perfectly visible. The next illogical thought was that perhaps someone had managed to fly it, the fire had gone out and they were on their way back to England without me. Above all, I felt so far away from home and everyone there. I had to move every few minutes to ease the pain and eventually it improved a bit. My eyes grew accustomed to the dark and I saw I was in a narrow field near a railway and a signal box. At last I rolled up in my ’chute and went to sleep, waking at dawn feeling very cold and miserable.
I buried everything that would identify me as RAF, sorted out my compass and map and crawled into some bushes, dragging my ’chute with me just as a farm cart slowly creaked by a few yards away, driven by a sleepy old farmer – my first German. I lay in a narrow strip of four-foot grape vines next to a railway, with no house in sight. Last night’s glow of fire from the target and the rising sun, together with the destination boards on passing trains, gave me my exact position on the silk handkerchief map, which we all carried, together with a button compass. My next Germans came in hundreds – crowded in the compartments of trains, perched on observation platforms between coaches, jammed in corridors – civilians, soldiers, sailors, all kinds. I lay under the vines thinking of home and worrying a lot about how long it would be before all at home were notified. I must try and walk to a neutral country and get sent home – service instructions. Sleep in the daytime and walk at night, conserving carefully my scanty rations. But there was the problem of shoes, which I solved by making sandals from my parachute with a tiny penknife with scissors attached which I always carried. I kept sucking sour grapes, thirst being a big problem and crawled round my grape patch spying out the land. The trains all passed too fast to jump on at night – therefore I must walk. I finally went to sleep after having buried everything except the few things I should carry and put your photo in the back of my watch.
I was woken by a persistent tearing sound but luckily didn’t move because this was caused by a farm girl picking peas a few feet from my head and at the end of my grape patch. She was in a most indelicate position with her back turned to me in a wide skirt, bending forward to pluck the peas. I wonder what she’d have done if I’d popped up suddenly from my bushes? I lay still until she, an old man and others beyond the railway went home. My bitten tongue was swollen but my groin and chest felt much better. I put my fisherman’s jersey over my battle-dress and stood up for a good look round, miraculously missing being seen by the signalman going off duty. I was seen by the driver of a passing engine. The railway track led roughly in the right direction – the Swiss frontier – and I set off down it; I was prepared to duck down at the side of the track if a train came. My sandals were not a success and slipped off every few yards until I was almost barefoot after only half an hour. I narrowly escaped a signalman in his box and nearly walked straight into a station! I therefore left the line and struck across country, which included a bewildering alternation of breast-high grape vines, plough land, stubble, vegetables and streams. Skirting a farmhouse, where a dog barked every time I moved, I fell into a stream,
which just about finished my sandals. After about three hours’ stumbling, I crouched for a long time wondering how to cross a wide stream. It turned out to be a road with the newly risen moon shining on it. I was finally convinced by a man riding along it on a bicycle. I was obviously tired and a bit ‘dopey’. I struck a main crossroads and thought what fun it would be to ‘thumb’ a lift to Strasbourg but I finally set off down the minor road. I’d had enough cross-country stumbling. I had to nip smartly behind a tree about every five minutes whilst cyclists came by – must be a night-shift somewhere near here. At one point there were no trees, so I lay flat on the ground at the side of the road.
A village and town had to be avoided and I fell down a steep bank when leaving the road. At last, when I thought I was too tired to go any further and was sitting under a tree chewing a sour pear (they seemed as nice as peaches as by now I was very thirsty), the sky started to get grey. I wandered round trying to find a lair to hide in during the day and after trying a cabbage patch and a patch of vines, came across the ‘escapers’ friend’ – a haystack. But it was not a proper one and consisted of bean-straw (pyramid-shaped) and raised a foot off the ground on a framework; it was prickly and draughty and full of bugs. I chewed another Horlicks tablet, slept for a bit and woke to find my legs sticking out and a farmer ploughing a hundred yards away. I was now feeling cramped, cold, depressed and bugridden but above all, thirsty. The RAF says quite glibly, ‘Walk to a neutral country,’ but without shoes this seemed pretty hopeless, particularly as the nearest route went across some mountains. Supposing I was almost certainly caught eventually, further walking would only prolong the time till you were notified that I was safe. This was an awful, depressed and useless state of mind to be in but I suppose my condition accounted for it. Anyway, the whole thing was quickly decided for me. A scratching sound began on the other side of my haystack. I lay still for about half an hour after it stopped, hoping it had only been a rabbit or mouse but just in case it was human. I resisted the impulse to look for a long time and then poked my head out, to see nothing. The ploughing farmer was now some distance away so I crawled out and cautiously looked round the stack. I was face to face with an old peasant with a pitchfork who must have been patiently waiting for me to emerge, for he didn’t seem in the least surprised, although he looked very frightened. There were farm people dotted round the fields in all directions; I was definitely caught. I didn’t like men with pitchforks even if they did look scared, so I said timidly ‘RAF’ and tried not to look like a terror-bomber. He looked rather vague but pointed to the village nearby and said, ‘Sechs kamerad tod da’ (six friends dead there) and just stood gazing at me. It was a long walk to the village and all the way the groups of workers just stood and watched me from all sides. An odd feeling, slopping slowly along (I was tired) in the remains of my sandals with everyone looking but nobody making a movement. I tried Guten morgen in my best school German to one who looked a bit hostile but he didn’t answer.
Bomber Command Page 15
