Bombing Run Read online

  The Wing Commander’s quiet, even voice, different from his usual breezy address, was incongruous with the welter of impressions imprinted on Wheldon’s memory.

  ‘Of the few attacks made on enemy shipping so far, only the Blenheims have had any success. They attack at low level, so they do sometimes manage to hit their targets. Unfortunately, they haven’t sunk any ships. They haven’t done much damage, either. Some of them have seen their bombs hit the target and bounce off before the long-delay fuses have detonated them. At least our bad aiming has spared us that annoyance!’ There was no reaction from his audience.

  ‘We’re going to be on the bombing range every day, until we can bring the average bombing error down to a distance that I consider acceptable. I would rather that we practised at five hundred feet than five thousand, but both Group and Command have other ideas. It’s all right for the Blenheims, but not for Wimpeys. It’s kind of them to feel so protective about Flak! But, as we know now, it’s fighters that are a bigger menace. If we could go in low and keep tight formation, for mutual covering fire, we could hit our targets and shoot down the fighters. Since we can’t, we’ve got to sharpen up our high-altitude bombing.

  ‘However, the weather conditions will not always allow us to attack from five thousand.’ A faint smile appeared slowly as the Wing Commander paused. ‘So, if we can cut down bombing error at five thousand, we’ll do even better at one thousand… or less.’

  Nobody was in any doubt of Norton’s intention. Wheldon had a churning sensation in his entrails. What the Wingco was hinting had nothing to do with elegant flying and masterly airmanship. It had everything to do with the tumult of hectic violence, improvisation and impulsiveness.

  Norton’s observer had been wounded when he attacked the destroyer, and his aeroplane badly damaged. But there had been no other casualties aboard and they had been the least molested by fighters. Other pilots on all three squadrons had emulated him, including two who were present now. Some had been shot down by Flak, most had scored nearer misses than those who had scrupulously stuck to their briefing. Wheldon did not believe that there was any sound conclusion to be drawn from such scanty evidence. Manifestly the Wing Commander did not concur.

  Norton talked for a while longer, inviting and answering questions. When he dismissed the other pilots, he told Wheldon to stay behind.

  ‘You showed exemplary steadiness under fire, Flight. I noticed, even though I was a few thousand feet below at the time.’ There was no sarcasm or contempt in Norton’s tone or look, but Wheldon felt his face grow warm. ‘I’m taking you as my Number Two next time B Flight are on the battle order.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ There was no apparent sarcasm in Wheldon’s acknowledgment either, but he knew precisely what Norton had left unspoken.

  *

  The loss of seven crews and their aircraft in two days, and the deaths, wounds and damage among some of those that had returned, made the squadron below establishment in men and machines. Neither could be quickly replaced. During the next two weeks a trickle of pilots and observers who had joined in peacetime arrived from Training Command. A couple of pilots turned up from Cranwell. Others trained in the Volunteer Reserve joined them. Freshly qualified air gunners returned from gunnery school. Brand new, and improved, Wellingtons were delivered: the 1C, in which the dustbin was replaced by a gun amidships on each beam.

  Every serviceable aeroplane was flown by a succession of pilots with co-pilots and observers for as many hours a day as possible. They spent their time on the bombing range, aiming eleven-pound bombs at horizontal targets 100 yards square.

  The sergeants’ and officers’ messes, which had witnessed some boisterous evenings in peacetime, were enlivened nearly every night by noisy groups around a piano and by rough and tumble games: rugger, using a cushion as the ball; high cockalorum; clambering around the anteroom without touching the floor. The best of the local pubs was much patronised. The newcomers were puzzled by the displays of high spirits: the daily flying routine was not enlivening. Nobody ever spoke of the squadron’s two disastrous raids.

  Soon navigation exercises by both day and night alternated with bombing and gunnery practice. Wheldon enjoyed night flying: not only because of the added demands it made on a crew’s skill or because he loved to be aloft with the ground out of sight and the stars seeming almost within arm’s reach, but also because it gave him a feeling of security. The time must come when all daylight raids ceased and the squadron would operate under cover of darkness. The Wellingtons, Blenheims and Hampdens had all suffered badly in daytime patrols along the German coast and there was still very little to show for them. He felt safe from fighters in the dark and confident that it would be difficult for searchlights and Flak to find him.

  He worried about Vachell, whose laughter was too frequent these days, whose eyes often showed a feverish excitement when he had drunk a few pints, who had become as fussy in his work, sometimes, as an old maid who had got her knitting in a tangle. Vachell seemed unable to relax at any time. Every evening he had to go to the cinema, a dance hall or a pub. He kept picking up new girls and trying to seduce them in his Morgan three-wheeler and becoming morose and resentful when he failed; which happened with almost all of them.

  Wheldon did not worry about Ufland, whose reaction to what they had been through seemed merely to increase his appetite, which lured him frequently to a fish and chip shop or one of the cafés which served sausages and eggs in large portions.

  The prospect of their next operation hung constantly over them all and each passing week made the tension greater. Even navigation exercises became fraught with particular dangers in wartime.

  On navigation exercises, a complete crew was detailed. The wireless operator was needed to provide bearings and fixes and sometimes receive a recall signal or instructions to divert to another airfield if the weather played tricks or someone crashed on the airfield at base. Even though the other two air gunners were not essential, Wing Commander Norton demanded them. He wished everyone to be airborne as often as possible; and knew that this was what they preferred. The A.Gs were, in general, given a hard time by their ground trade senior N.C.Os. Those who did not relish the risks involved in flying had no respect for those who did. They regarded an air gunner’s badge as an excuse for a mere erk to absent himself from his proper duties. They made no concessions to the A.Gs in the way of excusing them from such chores as fire guard or flarepath duty immediately after a long flight. Norton tried to compensate his air gunners by removing them from the clutches of their section sergeants, flight sergeants and warrant officers.

  The whole squadron had now been permanently crewed up and Wheldon’s two replacements, plus a sixth member now required for the additional gun, had all been chosen by him. A flight sergeant of his standing, his eight years’ service and consistent assessments as an above average or exceptional pilot, was indulged by his superior officers in a manner that was not accorded to pilot officers and flying officers with no more than half his service and with less skill. In his turn, Wheldon had indulged himself by way of amusement. There was already a wireless operator on the squadron called Legge, who had just done a gunnery course, and Wheldon asked for him. When a Volunteer Reserve air gunner named Knee and another who was a recalled regular Reservist named Foot were posted to the squadron, Wheldon could not resist adding them to his crew.

  The similarity between the three was a further oddity that pleased Wheldon’s sense of humour. Legge was in his early twenties, Knee was nineteen and Corporal Foot was getting on for thirty. But all were wiry and short, all shared a cheerful brand of cockiness and all were Londoners with accents that strongly proclaimed their origins: Limehouse, the Old Kent Road and Tottenham.

  Summer Time had been extended to mid-November, so taking off at 0900 hrs on a morning in late October for a six-hour navigation exercise meant returning while there was still ample daylight left. The three air gunners were jubilant. This was a day for the fortnightly pay parade.
It would be over by the time they had landed, done their final checks and handed in their parachutes. Instead of standing in a cold hangar, awaiting their turns, they would draw their money painlessly from the Accounts Section. Later, cash in their pockets, boots and buttons gleaming, they would take the bus to Scunthorpe and exercise their Cockney charms and wit on the local talent.

  ‘Got a date, haven’t I,’ Legge announced. ‘This tart, see, her husband’s on a searchlight in the Shetlands, isn’t he. Hasn’t been home for two months, has he. Piece of cake.’

  ‘Yeah, and she’s bringing a friend for me, an’ all.’ Knee sounded as eager as a small boy at a sweetshop window.

  ‘Can’t you keep this young lad from going astray, Athy?’ Foot’s nickname had been abbreviated from ‘Athlete’s Foot’. Wheldon’s tone was mock-aggrieved.

  ‘What, me? This little devil could lead me astray, an’ all. Besides, I’ve got fish of me own to fry, haven’t I.’

  ‘And you a married man!’

  ‘Got to keep in practice, haven’t I. Dummy run, like.’

  ‘Shocking,’ said Vachell. ‘Very bad type of air gunner we seem to be getting nowadays.’

  ‘Wish I could find a grass widow who runs a café,’ Ufland said. ‘I’d be putty in the hands of any good-looking woman who gave me free meals.’ He paused. ‘Come to think of it, she wouldn’t have to be all that good-looking…’

  They were climbing aboard and Wheldon thought how quickly and how well his crew had shaken down and fitted together. There was a recognisable atmosphere among them, a feeling of family.

  His aircraft, O for Orange, was still pristine, with less than a hundred hours’ flying. It smelled new and his seat cushion was still fat and resilient: like the kind of woman friend whom Beaky was always hoping to find, he couldn’t help thinking. He chuckled to himself and as he did so he realised that it was the first time he had felt like laughing in an aeroplane since… He left the thought unfinished and began his cockpit drill.

  The exercise they had been set was complicated. They were to fly at 8000 ft and their first leg would take them west to north Wales and the Great Orme’s Head, which they were to photograph. Thence they would fly north-east, avoiding Manchester and Leeds, and cross the coast at Flamborough Head, which they would also photograph. From there they had to fly north out to sea to a given latitude and longitude, then east to another, and finally south-west for Spurn Head, again to be photographed. Accurate navigation over the sea would make great demands on Ufland.

  They were above cloud for the last fifty miles of their approach to the Welsh coast.

  ‘Observer to captain. Great Orme’s Head coming up in ten miles.’

  ‘Righto, I’ll let down.’ Wheldon eased the Wellington towards the tops of the cumulus, hoping that they were on course and the hills were far below. Vapour dampened the windscreen and side windows, condensation trickled down the inside of the perspex.

  The Wellington bumped a little as it nosed its way down through the murk.

  Wheldon felt his scalp begin to sweat. However often he flew in cloud and however confident he was of his observer’s navigation, which he had checked while Vachell took the controls, he could never rid himself of his mistrust of calculations when he descended blindly, knowing that there was high ground somewhere beneath.

  He emerged into an instant vision of a sea of white-capped waves and no great promontory shouldering up from it.

  The wind must have changed drastically since they made their last fix.

  His eyes saw a convoy to starboard, with Liverpool beyond, the Wirral immediately recognisable, at the same moment that the first shells burst around the Wellington. The Navy’s aircraft recognition might be imperfect, but its aim was damnably close. The Wellington tipped onto a wingtip and bounced high at the same time. The flash and bellow of more shells sent it reeling in the opposite direction. A few seconds later it was plunging.

  ‘Colours of the day… Letters… Quick.’

  Vachell grabbed the Verey pistol and fired a cartridge. Legge scrambled to the front turret and began to flash the letters of the day with the Aldis lamp while Wheldon blinked them out with his downward recognition light.

  An acknowledgment came from the bridge of a destroyer. It was followed by ‘You are offside.’

  ‘Captain to wireless op. Send “And your shooting is lousy.” Tell me when you finish and I’ll piss off back into cloud.’

  But the Navy amiably made ‘We identified you and aimed wide. Like us to show you what we can do?’

  So Wheldon stayed below cloud and banked to find his first turning point, and said ‘Send “No free kicks today”.’

  ‘Observer, Skipper: sorry about that. Wind’s all to cock.’

  ‘O.K., Beaky, we’ll check all the way to Flamborough Head. Got that, Wireless Op?’

  ‘Yes, Skipper. Bearings as often as I can.’

  ‘Trigger-happy maniacs.’ Vachell’s voice betrayed a faint tremor. Wheldon thought he would have been wiser not to say anything.

  Wheldon’s mood of well-being returned. He was flying above cloud through which he had infrequent glimpses of the ground. The purpose of a nav ex was to test the accuracy of an observer’s navigation rather than a pilot’s ability to fly accurate courses. It seemed to him that there was little point in it if frequent visual checks could be made. Towns, railway lines, rivers and hills all made it easy to orient oneself. Beaky would have to rely mostly on dead reckoning and Athy Foot’s bearings; which was excellent training. Wheldon wished he could paint or write poetry or in some way record his pleasure in flitting about the sky. To tell himself that it was bloody marvellous seemed as insulting to his emotions and to the element he loved as it was inadequate.

  The east coast came in sight and Flamborough Head stood out through a clear patch of sky. They flew directly over it. He would ask for a copy of the photograph and twenty years from now it would bring back clearly the pleasure he was deriving from flying this brand new Wimpey.

  Ufland gave him the next course and everyone, except Ufland himself, who was busy at his navigation table, searched for a convoy. But there was to be no alarm this time. Far away to the north a small convoy was coming south, probably from Newcastle or Leith. There were barrage balloons, silverly reflecting the sun, floating above four of the merchantmen. There had been many more around Manchester, which they had spotted briefly. The sight of these fat sausages tranquilly floating high at the ends of their cables added to Wheldon’s pleasure. They looked like fat, jolly old ladies and gentlemen taking the air in a park. Despite their warlike purpose, they conveyed a sense of peace. There were other aircraft in sight nearly all the time: camouflaged bombers and fighters on practise flights, bright yellow trainers. The sky was busy with the traffic of aggression, but the calm smugness of the balloons was endearingly aloof and peaceful.

  Cloud was thicker out at sea and soon the Wellington was between two layers, with another layer further above, seen now and then through gaps; and a yet lower one, also seen through occasional breaks, below the one over whose crests Orange was skimming.

  When Wheldon turned onto the leg for Spurn Head, clouds had piled high to the west and it was not long before he flew into a belt of rain. The rain persisted and the cloud tops humped high as he approached the coast. He was forced to climb and bucket along in turbulent air just below the cloud layer overhead.

  ‘Spurn Head twenty miles ahead, Skipper.’

  ‘Letting down now, Observer.’ He would break cloud well out to sea.

  The altimeter unwound steadily from 8000 ft to 1000 ft and Wheldon began to worry. He eased the rate of descent and each hundred feet of decreased altitude reeled off slowly.

  The thick cloud gave way to whorls of drifting vapour at 600 ft. There was water below, but it was not the sea. This was a stretch of brownish-grey waterway and it was busy with shipping. There were docks and a large town ahead and he could see both banks of the broad river. They were over Hull.

 
Barrage balloons were just visible in the cloud base: left aloft in the canny expectation of a surprise attack that would take advantage of cloud cover.

  Cables, invisible to Wheldon, surrounded the Wellington. He turned steeply eastward to escape down-river, out to sea again.

  The aircraft juddered violently and, in its bank to port, swung viciously to starboard. For a moment it felt as though he had hit a buffer at the end of a railway line. The starboard wing dropped with such force that it put the Wellington into a bank on that side.

  Vachell’s voice croaked ‘Christ! We’ve hit a cable.’

  Bringing the aircraft level, with less than 100 ft between it and the water, Wheldon saw that several feet had been sliced off the starboard wingtip. Jagged timber and torn canvas were forlornly breaking and tearing away.

  He climbed until he was at 400 ft and looked carefully at the damage. The wing had stopped breaking up. He had to exert great effort to prevent it sagging, but it would see them home.

  ‘Give me a course for base, Observer.’

  Wheldon felt as though a mule had kicked him in the stomach. He had never been involved in an accident in all his thousand hours and more of flying. Now there would be a court of inquiry and both he and Ufland would be made to look incompetent, even if the court attached no blame to either.

  Vachell was looking at him. ‘Well done, Skipper… damn good show… anyone else but you, we’d have gone for a burton, for sure.’

  Wheldon did not reply. If their lower wing as they turned had snagged a cable, they would have side-slipped into the drink before he could correct the Wimpey’s altitude. Relief at being snatched from death had clouded his second dicky’s judgment. He had performed no miracle, just displayed his exceptional skill. He had a feeling of personal loneliness, drawn into himself. He had never come so close to disaster and it reminded him that all sorts of unexpected ends awaited those who defied the law of gravity.