Bomber

by Paul Dowswell

  ‘… in purple ink,’ butted in Ray.

  ‘… recommending us for a medal.’

  Gordon and Ray made them all laugh, even the officers. For a few hours that night, Harry completely forgot he was a ball turret gunner on active service.

  Harry’s night out was complete when the pub filled up with a group of noisy girls, just off the evening shift at a nearby factory, by the look of their overalls and headscarves. When he went to buy the guys a drink, he found himself standing next to a familiar face at the bar. He recognised Tilly at once, and even in her factory clothes he still thought she looked beautiful. He asked if he could buy her a drink.

  ‘You came for tea with Grandma,’ she said. ‘Harry, isn’t it? Did you send your trinkets back home?’

  Harry admitted he hadn’t. He wanted to tell her about the extraordinary things that had happened to him since he had last seen her, but he wasn’t sure if it was all supposed to be a secret so instead he asked her what she had been doing. Tilly worked in the sugar beet factory five days a week – ‘You come home just coated in this musty sweet stink. You must have noticed the smell from the factory at the airbase when the wind’s blowing that way.’

  When he asked about her family, she told him she had a brother who flew Lancaster bombers out of Waddington in Lincolnshire.

  ‘Whoops, shouldn’t have told you that,’ she said, clasping a hand to her mouth. ‘All this “Careless talk costs lives” is so annoying. We’re supposed to treat everyone like a spy. You don’t look like a spy to me.’

  Harry told her the story about Bomber Harris and the gold-plated telephone. She roared with laughter and said she couldn’t wait to tell Colin. ‘That’s his name, but I suppose that’s a secret too.’

  John came up to the bar. ‘Hey, Harry, where are the drinks?’ he said and smiled broadly at them both, then ordered another round for the non-coms. Harry was pleased he didn’t try to join them and just as pleased to see Tilly had practically ignored him.

  As the evening ended she asked him if he had been to Norwich yet. Harry said how much he’d like to explore the city, having seen it from the air.

  ‘I know just the person to show you around.’

  Harry sensed she was playing with him and wondered if she was going to suggest her grandma.

  ‘Next time you’re on leave at the weekend, drop off a note with my grandmother, and I’ll take you.’

  Harry floated back to base on a cloud. Maybe it was the beer, but he felt euphoric. He couldn’t believe his luck. That night he fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

  CHAPTER 12

  Westerschelde, Occupied Netherlands, September 24th, 1943

  Feldwebel Richter could see the tail of the Fortress just poking over the breaking waves in the outgoing tide – a splash of red and silver in a grey sea and grey sky. He shivered and pulled his Wehrmacht greatcoat tight around his collar. A fierce wind whipped in from the north, sweeping over the deck of the salvage vessel. It was dreary out here, still and silent save for the splash of waves and the mournful cry of gulls. It was a place of the dead. Richter could see the apprehension on the faces of his salvage squad, but he had been told this was valuable work and it had to be done.

  The Fortress had crash-landed in the shallow waters of the Westerschelde, north-west of Antwerp, on the way back from that raid on the marshalling yards at Münster.

  It took at least an hour for the diver and the lifting crew to attach heavy canvas straps to the wings and raise the plane out of the murky shallows. But once they had got it to the surface they had only to steam a few yards further to deposit it on the exposed mudflats of the tidal zone.

  With a creaking and grinding of metal, the rear of the fuselage snapped as the Fortress settled into the muddy beach. Water flooded out in a torrent, and in smaller streams and rivulets from the many other holes that peppered the front part of the fuselage.

  As soon as the craft broke surface Richter could see the pilot and co-pilot were still in the cockpit. He wondered if any of the others had got out. He noted the name too – Carolina Peach – and a garish painting of a semi-naked girl with wavy blonde hair.

  A thin drizzle started to settle in and the Feldwebel reached for another cigarette to take his mind off the task ahead. The Dutch captain came over and told him in broken German that he and his men had about half an hour to recover the bodies before the tide came in to reclaim the downed bomber.

  So Feldwebel Richter and his squad boarded the small sailboat that came attached to the barge and were swiftly ferried the short distance to the wrecked aircraft.

  Richter was first in, entering through the broken rear section. The first thing he saw was the body of one of the crew, hand still clasped around the handle of the rear exit door. He was almost certainly a gunner, judging by the sergeant rank visible on his sodden uniform. A small man, Richter noticed, with matted blond hair. He looked like an Aryan, one of the master race.

  The rest of the crew were there – all ten of them. No one had bailed out. Most were in a jumble of arms and legs in the radio operator’s compartment. It was an unpleasant business, untangling this soaking human knot, but it could have been far worse. The Fortress had only been in the sea a day or two, and decomposition had barely begun.

  One by one they brought the bodies out to lay them on the shore. The pilot and co-pilot were the most difficult to extract and they had dropped both of them as they struggled through the cramped, cluttered interior.

  They looked peaceful enough, Richter supposed, and imagined all of them had been killed or knocked unconscious when their Fortress crashed into the sea. They said the sea was as hard as a brick wall if you came down too fast. The one at the rear door had nearly made it out, but it had jammed by the look of it. Richter almost felt a stab of pity for the man. But then he remembered the mess Allied bombers had made of his home town of Hamburg and thought no more about it.

  When they had all the dead men out they ferried them over to the barge and chugged south-east with the incoming tide to Antwerp. On the journey back Richter’s men completed the melancholy task of removing all the clothes from the bodies, from flying helmets to socks and underwear.

  The deathly white corpses were loaded into a van that took them straight to Antwerp’s crematorium. Their clothes were washed and ironed and sent to Gestapo headquarters at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse in Berlin.

  CHAPTER 13

  Kirkstead, East Anglia, October 1st, 1943

  At five o’ clock in the morning, Ernie Benik arrived with a thermos of fresh coffee. There was a briefing at six. Harry had a thick head. It had been the Jewish New Year the night before, and most of the Jewish guys on the base had met up to celebrate. Harry had enjoyed himself, but the evening left him aching for home.

  Just as the Macey May’s non-coms were entering the briefing hut, Stearley dashed up to them.

  ‘We’ve got a passenger,’ he said.

  They stared uneasily, awaiting the rest of the news.

  ‘That news guy, Eddie Burnet. You might have seen him hanging around the base these last couple of days. He’s coming with us.’

  ‘Says who?’ Corrales could barely contain his amazement.

  ‘Look, boys, this is straight from the top. Gotta go.’

  The Macey May’s non-coms shuffled into the briefing room, muttering to themselves.

  When the curtain over the map of Europe was drawn back to reveal the target, a concerned murmur rippled around the room. They were going to Stuttgart to bomb the factories there. They’d all heard the stories. Barely a month ago, an Eighth Air Force raid on the city had cost them nearly fifty bombers. The city was deep in southern Germany. It was going to be a long flight.

  Kittering finished his briefing and then called for the crew of the Macey May to remain behind when the rest of the men had been dismissed. He drew heavily on his cigarette and his words came out in a cascade of smoke.

  ‘You’ve all seen Eddie Burnet around the station. He’s telling the
folks back home about what brave boys you all are and how you’re helping to win the war. Eddie was going up with Sally D, but ground crew are still working on her. I thought you Macey May fellas would do instead. He’s got orders not to get in your way, but if you smile sweetly he’ll take your pictures and tell all the readers of Life magazine what a bunch of heroes you are.’

  Kittering cast a flinty eye at the tall figure of Corrales at the back of the group with his peaked cap perched right at the back of his head. ‘I expect you all to behave in an exemplary fashion for the benefit of your passenger.’ Then he dismissed them too. ‘OK, on your way, and Godspeed.’

  The Macey May’s non-coms shuffled out of the door. The sun had come out and the sky was now almost cloudless.

  ‘Looking good. Blue sky’s no place to hide a Messerschmitt,’ said John.

  ‘So what about Burnet?’ said Ralph Dalinsky.

  ‘I bet Stearley’s wetting his pants with excitement,’ said Skaggs. ‘I seen him buttering Burnet up. He’s probably thinking he’ll get even more ladies chasing after him if he had his picture in Life magazine.’

  ‘Hey, maybe that’ll work for us all!’ Corrales said. ‘Maybe we will be all over Life magazine. My mama reads that. She’ll be showing it to all the neighbours.’

  They all took a final trip to the latrine, then suited up. ‘Hey, Harry, we’re going to be fine,’ said John as he zipped up his heavy fur-lined boots. ‘The news guy, he’s famous. I read him since I was a kid. He was in the Spanish Civil War, and he was at Dunkirk, and then the Blitz. Guy must be invincible!’

  Ralph said, ‘Last thing he did I saw was interview Clark Gable.’

  ‘I like Gable,’ said Coralles. ‘He’s a gunner, ain’t he, over in Polebrook? Hah. Just like us. Anyone that famous who volunteers for this must be crazy!’

  ‘Gable’s just doing his duty,’ Skaggs said, ‘like we all are. I don’t give a damn if he’s a film star. They ain’t special, least no more than anyone else who volunteers to fly combat missions.’

  Dalinsky changed the subject. ‘I read the news guy too. He interviewed FDR last year.’

  ‘What!’ said Harry. ‘This guy’s interviewed the president! And now he’s come to talk to us!’

  This was extraordinary. Harry forgot about what they were going to do. He was rubbing shoulders with a man who had met Franklin Delano Roosevelt. His parents were lifelong Democrats. They had a picture of FDR up in the kitchen. They would be over the moon when they heard about this.

  The non-coms collected their guns at the armoury, then clambered aboard a jeep that took them across the base to the Macey May’s hardstand. The officers were already there, gathered under the nose of the B-17, chatting and smoking with another figure.

  ‘Yup, that’s him,’ said Skaggs. ‘Let’s hope he’s not a jerk.’

  ‘Hey, boys, come and meet our passenger,’ said Holberg.

  ‘Hi, fellas.’ Eddie Burnet shook their hands. ‘Colonel Kittering told me you’d all take a good photo. That’s why he put me in with you.’

  The crew scoffed and sniggered in disbelief. The colonel hadn’t told them that part.

  ‘It’s a great honour to fly with you all. I haven’t flown a combat mission before so I have to tell you I’m scared shitless.’

  They all chuckled and Harry liked the man at once. He was older than them, maybe in his thirties.

  ‘You do know this is only our second combat mission, right?’ said Corrales.

  For a second Burnet eye’s flickered in surprise. He hid it well enough. ‘Great! What a story that’ll make.’

  * * *

  Inside the Fortress Harry was struck by the familiar odour of aviation fuel, sweat, lubricating oil, copper wires, a hint of urine. Before, the smell had always been comforting, and a little exciting, but now, going into combat for the second time, he found it unsettling, sinister even.

  Once they were off the ground he waited as long as he could before he squeezed into his turret. He wanted Eddie to interview him. Sure enough, as they climbed above the Norfolk landscape, the journalist made his way down the fuselage.

  ‘Christ, it’s noisy in here!’

  ‘Better talk to Harry first,’ shouted John. ‘He’s gotta get into his turret any minute.’

  Harry grinned. John had read his mind.

  ‘So what’s it like in there, Sergeant?’

  Harry thought for a while. Should he be honest and tell him it was claustrophobic and he often had nightmares about being trapped, or crushed to death if he couldn’t get out and the Fortress had to do a belly landing? Or should he lie?

  He lied.

  ‘Great piece of machinery, sir,’ said Harry. ‘You slide in and then everything moves around smooth as you like. None of them Messerschmitts are gonna get past me!’

  ‘That’s the spirit, son,’ said Burnet. ‘Now, where you from?’

  ‘Brooklyn, sir.’

  ‘No kidding. I’m just across the water.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Lexington Avenue. Chrysler Building.’

  It was the most exclusive address in New York.

  ‘You can probably see into our apartment windows!’ Harry joked.

  ‘No kidding,’ said Burnet again. ‘You on the river front?’

  ‘Almost.’

  Harry had watched that skyscraper go up when he was a kid. ‘Hey, here we are,’ he said. ‘You living in the most beautiful building in the world, me in the most beautiful plane in the world.’

  He hoped the journalist would write that down, but he didn’t.

  Harry meant it. He loved the B-17. It was the most elegant, magnificent machine he had ever seen.

  ‘Let’s have a shot of you getting in your turret,’ said Burnet. ‘I wanna get as many shots off as I can before we get too high. I’ve been warned things might freeze up above fifteen thousand feet.’

  Harry felt pleased with himself. Burnet had spoken to him, and now he wanted a pic. That was something his mom and dad would be proud to show to all their friends.

  Harry anchored the turret in its straight-down position and opened the hatch. For a moment he even forgot that pit of the stomach fear he usually felt, levering himself into that little bubble thousands of feet above the surface of the earth.

  ‘No parachute, huh?’ said Burnet.

  ‘No space,’ said Harry.

  ‘You worry about that?’ asked Burnet.

  ‘No, sir,’ he lied. ‘My buddies will help me out if we get into trouble.’

  Harry squeezed down, stopping to give a thumbs-up and a grin when he was halfway in. Then he snapped the lid down, taking extra care to ensure the latches were locked tight. He pressed the control buttons and felt the mechanism respond with a reassuring swiftness. That was it. He was alone now, until Holberg told him he could get out.

  Harry smiled. For a moment this strange turn of events had taken their minds off an awful truth. But then it hit him hard. Today was another day when there might not be an afternoon. There might not even be a midday, if they were unlucky.

  CHAPTER 14

  Above Liège, October 1st, 1943

  Hauptmann Heinz Frey peered down from the cockpit of his Messerschmitt 109. He had never got used to that mixture of fear and excitement he felt before an attack. How could you? There you were, ten thousand metres up in the stratosphere, one or two thousand metres higher than the bombers, ready to scream down out of the sun. His airspeed indicator touched 640 kilometres an hour when he did that. It was a phenomenal feeling. Like being one of the gods of ancient times. And then in a matter of seconds the bombers would change from tiny specks streaming white trails to great lumbering machines spitting tracer.

  If you were lucky, they crumbled under your cannon fire. You could see sparks and flashes dancing along the wings and fuselage. Sometimes they blew up in front of you, if you hit a bomb or a fuel tank. That was alarming. You could get caught up in that.

  Then you would streak past and in a split second you m
ight see the frightened faces of the boys inside. Frey didn’t like that. Once he caught a glimpse inside the cockpit of a Fortress he had hit and there was a pilot sitting there in his brown leather jacket, his head missing. The co-pilot staring straight ahead. At that moment Frey had felt an overwhelming desire to throw up into his oxygen mask. But he managed to hold it down. You had to be careful as you dived through the formations – ‘combat boxes’, he had heard they called them. A split second’s bad timing, a momentary twitch of the joystick in the wrong direction, and you could collide and both of you would be engulfed in a great fireball. He had seen that happen a couple of times.

  Like many of his comrades he was a veteran from the Russian front. They didn’t usually make those kinds of mistakes. But the older pilots like him, the ones who had reached their mid-twenties, were slowly disappearing and being replaced by fresh-faced young boys. The new ones were full of Nazi zeal, but that didn’t make up for experience.

  Something else you noticed too, when you dived through the formations, were the pictures the Americans painted on the noses of their bombers. Nudes, or at least the scantiest clad girls imaginable. Frey sometimes wondered if these pictures were a deliberate ploy by the Americans to put the fighter pilots off their aim. The Propaganda and Enlightenment officials of the Luftwaffe had given them a talk recently and one political officer had told them these ‘obscene paintings’ were an obvious sign of the decadence of that ‘cesspit of a mongrel nation’.

  But Frey had a sneaking regard for these Yankee pilots. Theirs was a terrifying job, and, like him, they were doing their duty. He was glad it wasn’t him stuck in one of those lumbering machines, although even he could admit that the Fortresses were beautiful-looking aircraft. He even went to talk to them sometimes, if they crashed near his airbase. They were OK. Decent men in the main. A few had come from German stock and had even spoken to him like natives. They were careful not to talk politics on those occasions.