Bomber Command

by Martin Bowman

  P-Peter, a 158 Squadron Halifax, had crashed on take-off from Lissett when a tyre burst and a fire broke out but the crew had escaped serious injury. Two other Halifax IIs on the Squadron failed to return from Kassel, as did two Lancasters on 166 Squadron at Kirmington. The pilot of one survived and was taken into captivity but the rest of his crew were killed. Flight Lieutenant Charles Neville Hammond DFC, the pilot of the other Lancaster, and five of his crew including Master Sergeant John W Walton USAAF were also killed. Another American died on A-Apple, a 419 ‘Moose’ Squadron RCAF Halifax II at Middleton St. George flown by Wing Commander Gordon Archibald McMurdy RCAF. The Skipper and four of his crew, including Flight Sergeant Francis Weatherford Peterkin, a ‘Yank in Canadian clothing’ died. Three men survived. One of them was Sergeant Jack Woods who was flying his 15th operation as the wireless operator:

  Our aircraft was hit by flak a few minutes after we bombed the target. It must have hit something vital because the order to bail out came within seconds. The navigator opened the nose hatch and he and the bomb aimer jumped out. Somebody else went out before me; I think it must have been the second pilot – a new chap on his first trip. I felt the pack hit me in the face when I jumped, as it was bound to with the chest-type chutes and I might have been dazed, because I only seemed to be in the air for a few seconds before I landed, close by a railway line. When I took the chute off I saw blood dripping on the silk – I’d got a few cuts when we were hit. I stuffed the chute in a hedge and started to walk along the line. I ought to have hidden for a while and made a plan but I didn’t think it out well enough. I didn’t know whether it was Christmas or Easter, actually. I just went on walking until the Germans picked me up – railway workers, they were.23

  Altogether, the RAF lost 43 aircraft on the operation to Kassel. At Melbourne three Lancasters on 10 Squadron failed to return and it was the same story on 103 Squadron at Elsham Wolds. At Leeming four Halifax Vs on 427 ‘Lion’ Squadron RCAF were missing and at Tholthorpe four Halifax Vs had fallen victim to flak and fighters. Besides those already mentioned, seven other Squadrons including 100 Squadron at Grimsby each lost two bombers. O-Orange, the Lancaster flown by Pilot Officer Peter Ronald Andrews, crashed into the side of a hill as the crew were returning to base. Andrews and two crew men died; four were injured. HW-J2 piloted by Flight Sergeant Hilton George Brownjohn RAAF, which failed to make it home to Grimsby, went down on the east bank of the Weser. The Australian and one of his crew died in the wreckage of the Lancaster. Five men including 1st Lieutenant H A Rainbird USAAF were captured after bailing out and they were taken into captivity.24

  All manner of German aircraft were employed against the bombers this night and they included Dornier 217s and Ju 88s. Z-Zebra, the Lancaster piloted by 28-year-old Flying Officer Albert Edward Manning, who was on his second op on 9 Squadron, was attacked by one of the Dorniers. Manning, who was from Ipswich, had a somewhat cosmopolitan crew that was not unique in Bomber Command: the bomb aimer was from Winnipeg, the WOp was from Melbourne, the flight engineer was from Hornsey and two of the gunners were from Scotland and Chichester while Sergeant John James Zammit came from New York. Manning’s 27-year-old mid-upper gunner, Sergeant Gilbert George Provis and the rear gunner both sighted the enemy aircraft 300 yards starboard quarter up. The rear gunner told Manning to corkscrew starboard and both gunners opened fire on their attacker as the Dornier’s machine gun fire passed over the Lancaster. Standing in the astrodome, Flying Officer James White Hearn the 30-year-old navigator from Bonnyrigg sighted a second enemy aircraft port quarter up at 400 yards. As Hearn warned the gunners the attacker opened fire and hit the Lancaster all along the port side. Hearn was slightly injured. Provis, who was a Welshman from Ystrad, was killed and the rear gunner was wounded. As the two attackers broke away Hearn saw two Ju 88s closing in, one on either beam down. They fired but missed. Manning continued to corkscrew throughout the attacks, which happened almost simultaneously. The hydraulic pipes below Manning’s seat were severed but he managed to get the Lancaster back to Bardney.25

  At Leconfield on 3 November J-Johnny, a Halifax II on 466 Squadron RAAF that was in the process of converting from Wimpys to the radial-engined Halifax III, took off on an air to sea firing practice and exploded and crashed in the sea off Flamborough Head with the loss of the entire crew. All except one were Australian. At Holme-on-Spalding Moor that same morning a thickish haze with several patches of very low cloud persisted. Flying Officer ‘Fred’ Hall on 76 Squadron was preparing his navigation charts in readiness for that night’s operation to Düsseldorf, which, after a lapse of almost five months was earmarked for a raid by just over 570 bombers. The young navigator was therefore unavailable when his pilot, Flight Lieutenant Jimmy Steele and the others took their faithful Halifax Betty the Heffulump up for an air test. Miss Dorothy Robson BSc who was from the Royal Aircraft Establishment at Farnborough was invited to fly with the crew. Small and vivacious, she was known affectionately as ‘Bomb-Sight Bertha’ because the 23-year-old who came from Hartlepool and had studied at Leeds University for her degree was the acknowledged expert in the function of the Mk.XIV bomb-sight, designed by Professor P M S Blackett and Dr. Braddon. She would say that it embarrassed her to lecture bomb aimers but she never showed it. Her manner was conversational and easy and her vast knowledge earned great respect. Dorothy and six airmen boarded the Halifax for the short flight. At 11.55 hours Betty the Heffulump crashed 300 yards north-east of Allotment Farm between Goodmanham and Middleton-on-the-Wolds. Three of the crew were killed instantly and one died shortly after being admitted to hospital. Jimmy Steele, Miss Robson and Flight Sergeant Harry Welch RCAF the rear gunner were injured. The English pilot and the Canadian rear gunner died of their injuries the following day; Miss Robson succumbed on 5 November.26

  Sergeant Harold Church (Harry to all his RAF friends) was the 21-year-old navigator on Norman Carfoot’s crew on 49 Squadron at Fiskerton, a few miles east of Lincoln:

  We did not know, we could not know, that within two hours some of us would die, violently. Statistically, we were aware that there was at least a 5 per cent chance we would not return that night or any other such night, but we refused to admit it, even to ourselves. A one in twenty chance tonight did not necessarily mean a certainty by twenty such nights. It happened to others, so we persuaded ourselves; we believed, or pretended to believe, we were immune, even though, privately, most of us were scared of what lay ahead. Even if we had known, there was little anyone of us could do except report sick and it was too late for that now. It would be unthinkable to desert comrades with whom work and pleasure had been shared. Besides, any action deliberately taken to avoid participation would result in disgrace. A month earlier, one friend, a flight sergeant, suffering from extreme stress, had asked to be relieved of any more operational flying. The letters ‘LMF’ had been duly entered in his service book and he had been reduced to the ranks and sent elsewhere and was now probably cleaning lavatories or whitewashing coal. It was harsh treatment for such a person, a volunteer, as we all were, who was genuinely at the end of his tether, but possibly advisable in order to attempt to ensure that expensive training was not wasted. Fortunately such action was necessary only for a few. It is surprising how much value is attached to self-esteem. What was it that Shakespeare wrote, in Hamlet? ‘This above all: to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.’ If we had opted out, we would remember and be ashamed of ourselves for the rest of our lives.

  Fourteen colleagues had failed to return one night the previous week. We had raised our glasses and toasted ‘Absent Friends’ and then those friends had been replaced almost immediately by new crews, who would soon become friends, even if only for a short time. Such was life – and death – in the autumn of 1943 on a Lancaster bomber station. 49 Squadron was one of many in 5 Group, regarded by many and certainly by the crews themselves, as the elite of Bomber Command. Unlike most bomber squadrons, here painted e
mblems of blondes or bombs on the fuselages were scorned. This squadron was above such fripperies; the Lancasters flew unadorned, their crews proud of their individuality. Only the RAF roundels, the squadron identification letters (EA) and the individual aircraft letters were displayed. Nothing else was necessary. If questioned, though, they would have had to admit that the lack of emblems was based on pure superstition. Earlier in the war a few crews on the squadron had had their aircraft decorated with emblems and it so happened that they were the ones that failed to return. So the commanding officer, or someone else in authority, had decreed that such adornments were not welcome. Many airmen were superstitious and a large number of them carried mascots on their operations.

  On the evening of 3 November our crew of seven stood by the huge undercarriage of our Lancaster, E-Easy, flies open, ready for the ritual urination before climbing into the aircraft’s dark and narrow interior. As well as fulfilling a superstitious need, this was a very practical thing to do, as there would be no other reasonable opportunity for several hours. True, there was the Elsan (the chemical urinal) but there was little time to use that. The stars twinkled brightly in the early November sky; mist lay like a silver carpet on the damp grass; the dope on the wings and fuselage contributed to the unmistakable and evocative smell of a wartime airfield at night, one that cannot be described to those who have not experienced it. The heightened awareness of the senses augmented the sights, sounds and smells to produce a feeling of excitement and adventure. This feeling was a natural one for young men. I was born and bred in Hemsby, Norfolk. I was able to boast, quite modestly of course, that I had never been lost in the air. I neglected to mention that on one occasion I had got lost in Lincoln after drinking a few pints! Some of our crew were still teenagers. Older men (over 30 years of age) were often considered unsuitable for the job and they usually had more sense than to volunteer for flying duties, even though they did get paid an extra shilling or so a day as flying pay. Was it by reason of their youth or their hairstyle that RAF air-crews were nicknamed the ‘Brylcreem Boys’ by some in the other armed services?

  This was the seventeenth ‘op’ for most of the crew, although the great majority of them had been undertaken with another squadron before being posted to this special one. ‘Op’, short for operation, sounded more casual, less ostentatious, than the American ‘mission’. We had only thirteen more to do after this one to complete our tour. Completing a tour was not a simple exercise; towards the end of 1943 few crews managed to complete thirty operations over enemy territory. However, they did have the privilege of a week’s leave every month or so. If they were lucky and the weather was suitable, the tour could be completed in four to six months. Then they would be entitled to a long rest, probably as instructors, before beginning another tour. Needless to say, the completion of those thirty operations provided a reason for great celebration, both by and for the fortunate crew. Unfortunately many crews did not complete a tour at the same time; some individuals missed operations for one reason or another and then had to function as a replacement with another crew.

  E-Easy was an almost new Lancaster, only weeks old. It had been delivered to the squadron by a young female pilot. Many aircraft were flown to the operating squadrons by young women of the Air Transport Auxiliary, who, by reason of their sex, were not allowed to fly on operations. I for one felt envious and quite inadequate when seeing these slips of girls piloting huge aircraft so competently. At Elementary Flying Training School, more than a year before, I had learned to fly a Tiger Moth. I was allowed to go solo after ten hours of instruction, but after that memorable flight, which lasted about 15 minutes, I tried to land about 6 feet above the ground! The Tiger Moth had inelegantly bounced and bounced again, before coming to rest close to a hedge on the perimeter fence with a damaged undercarriage. I was not particularly popular with the instructor. I liked to think that I was chosen for the navigators’ course because of my good examination marks and ability in that occupation, rather than because of any lack of promise as a trainee pilot. After all, I had managed to fly once without the help and advice of an instructor.

  The commanding officer, Wing Commander A A Adams DFC, inevitably known as ‘Triple A’, enjoyed flying E-Easy and usually did so when he selected himself for operations. When ‘Wingco’ was not flying Norman welcomed the opportunity to take over what he liked to think of as his ‘own’ aircraft for night-flying exercises as well as operations. Our previous regular Lancaster, F-Freddie had been written off, full of bullet and shrapnel holes and with one engine damaged beyond repair, on a previous op. Even with the aircraft in that condition, Norman had landed with his usual skill and aplomb. Norman Carfoot, a flight lieutenant by the age of 21, had already completed almost 2,000 hours’ flying, most of them on Sunderlands patrolling the Atlantic, searching for enemy submarines. He had become bored with this comparatively mundane life and had requested a transfer to Bomber Command. A burly young man, he had the confidence and deep respect of his crew, who would willingly accompany him to hell and back – and often did. The aircraft he piloted did not just land; they floated down on to the runway and kissed the ground lightly. Norman’s magnificent moustache was the envy of many air-crews. Why did they still have mere down on their upper lips when they had tried so hard to grow something to twirl? All they could do to be different was to leave undone the top button of their tunic or battle-dress. This method of ‘cocking a snook’ at authority became a tradition in Bomber Command.

  Lancasters were marvellous aircraft, but they did differ in performance. While F-Freddie had been a bit of a beast, slow to climb and slow to turn, E-Easy was a delight, with a ceiling of 22,000 feet fully loaded and a top speed of almost 200 knots unloaded. The average life of a Lancaster on operations was, in those days, about forty hours.

  The briefing had been held that afternoon and was attended by all fourteen crews nominated for the operation. The number of aircraft involved depended on the demands of 5 Group Headquarters, the number of serviceable aircraft and the number of crews available. Therefore it was only on rare occasions that all the squadron’s Lancasters were involved in a particular operation. When the target was announced by the wing commander as Düsseldorf, there were hearty groans. The Rhine/Ruhr Valley, known by air-crew as ‘Happy Valley’, was not a popular destination, being well guarded by antiaircraft batteries, searchlights and fighters. ‘Short, sharp and shitty’ was the pithy description given to these trips by the aircrews. Together with all the other information necessary, we were given tracks to follow, expected wind velocities and known searchlight and flak sites and were advised of predicted cloud cover. The briefings always ended with ‘Synchronise your watches, gentlemen; the time is now—.’

  After the briefing the navigators stayed to complete their plotting of tracks and establish the first course to follow, based on the predicted wind velocity supplied by the met officer. Later, they would need to obtain fixes on their actual position over the ground, calculate the actual wind speed and direction and work out the new compass course to take. This information would then be passed to the pilot over the intercom. Individual preparations were made by all other members of the air-crew. It was ironic that many of the ground staff would already have a good idea of the target area for tonight; the amount of petrol put in the tanks to ensure that the maximum bomb-load was carried gave them a vital clue. Just 500–600 gallons, with a consumption rate of about a gallon a mile, meant a short trip and there was only one realistic destination: ‘Happy Valley’. Many of the ops recently had been concentrated in that area and they were the most dreaded targets, along with the ‘Big City’, as Berlin was known. Then came the kitting-out; helmet, oxygen mask, flying boots, jackets, parachute harnesses and Mae Wests were donned and parachutes issued. Valuables and all form of identification were handed in or put in lockers.

  We were then ready for transport to the dispersed hard-standings. We were usually driven out by a pretty young blonde WAAF called Vi who was always very quiet o
n such occasions, though usually happy and talkative, particularly when she collected us on our return. Climbing the steps behind the wing on the starboard side, we made our way along the narrow fuselage, made clumsy by our accoutrements. We who were stationed at the fore climbed laboriously over the main spar, while the rear and mid-upper gunners settled themselves for an uncomfortable journey. The four mighty Merlin engines were started; one by one they coughed, spluttered and roared into life. The necessary checks were made to ensure all was well. At a signal the aircraft taxied out of its dispersal bay, leading the rest of the squadron aircraft towards the main runway. When we reached the runway, we waited for the ‘take-off’ signal and then the engines howled at full throttle as E-Easy sped towards the far hedge. Becoming airborne was always a tricky business with a full load of bombs and with only two or three minutes between each aircraft taking off. Three weeks before one Lanc had failed to lift off, with disastrous consequences for all the crew as well as the plane itself. Fortunately the bombs had not exploded. Tonight we had about 14,000lb of bombs slung under the Lanc, consisting of two ‘cookies’ and several smaller bombs and incendiaries. No doubt the ground crew had inscribed the cookies with short and impolite messages addressed to Mr A. Hitler.

  Once airborne, the usual drills were followed. The undercarriage was retracted and a course set. We climbed steadily, westwards first to gain height, then eastwards, for the rendezvous over Skegness. Some 589 bombers, mainly Lancasters and Halifaxes, were operational that evening, all on the same course, flying without exterior lights along a corridor some 20 miles long, 2 miles wide and at heights between 16,000 and 22,000 feet. On previous operations there had been many near-misses and some had no doubt collided, but it was a calculated risk; certainly it was preferable to the use of navigation lights or straying from the main stream, where a ponderous bomber could be easily picked off by an enemy fighter. There was safety in numbers; the enemy could not attack all the aircraft at once! It was a grim fact that those singled out for special attention seldom returned to base and those that did return usually bore scars. Landings with only three engines functioning were not unusual, while shell holes in the wings were commonplace.