Bombing Run Read online

  The first explosions pocked the air well ahead of the Wellingtons. Their flaming red cores and lingering black smoke looked no more threatening than Guy Fawkes fireworks.

  ‘Rear gunner, Skipper… Flak close astern, about same height.’

  Bracketed, damn it. As the realisation came, Wheldon felt the impact of a violent concussion that tipped the aircraft steeply onto its nose. Before he had recovered from the shock of being suddenly pitched forward, his ears were pounded by the roar of an explosion.

  ‘Everybody O.K.?’

  He asked the question while the aircraft was still at a nearly vertical angle and before he began to ease out of the dive. Answering voices tinnated in his ringing ears. He had the impression that there was no damage to D-Don and no injury to his crew, but his mind was confused by lack of oxygen, the unexpected slam of the bomb burst close beneath his tail, the noise, the sudden downward tilt.

  The plunge had hurled him forward. He tried to sit back and to bring the Wimpey gently out of its wild dive without tearing its wings off.

  He found that he could not budge. He was bending forward as though bound to the control column and he could not shift it towards him and raise D’s nose.

  Christ! I am bloody well hooked to the stick. Looking down he saw that the hooks of his parachute harness were caught in the spade grip. He looked to his right. Vachell was sprawling on the floor, striving to pick himself up.

  They had lost 2,000 ft and the sea already looked alarmingly closer.

  What a press-on-regardless type the Wingco will think me! Going in to bomb at masthead height!

  Vachell was on his feet and the altimeter showed 6,500 ft. Vachell looked as though he were about to vomit; again. Wheldon remembered seeing the air gunner’s pulped corpse being winched out of the battered Wimpey after the squadron’s first op. Great type for puking, was Vachell.

  Vachell’s hands were on the stick now, and the pair of them tried to haul it back.

  ‘Unhook me…’ Wheldon shouted without looking at Vachell. His eyes were on the rapidly-approaching sea and the five enemy warships.

  He felt Vachell fumbling. Vachell’s head got in the way. He tried to raise himself to look over it. He wished he had not been able to: the sea was damnably close.

  Four thousand feet.

  Light Flak came streaking up from all five vessels.

  Hell, I can’t alter course. All the bastards need to do is cone their fire dead ahead, and I’ll fly into it.

  Two thousand feet, and shells were ripping through the Wimpey.

  One thousand and Vachell pulled him free.

  At 200 ft, with the aircraft vibrating horribly under the strain of levelling out, creaking loudly in protest at the crushing stress on its fuselage and wings, Wheldon saw the sea flatten beneath him.

  Waterspouts rose around the warships.

  ‘Bloody hell! Some damned idiot’s bombing… all we need is for one of our own bombs to hit us…’

  Now that he was down here, he might as well make the most of it. There was no point in climbing much higher before he bombed; except for the fact that his bombs were fused to explode on impact. He would go up to a thousand to bomb, and shove the throttles wide as soon as Rhys released the bombs.

  ‘Get up there, Taffy… we’ll bomb from one thousand. Quick.’

  At 200 ft few of the ships’ 37 mm guns could bear on him. At 1,000 ft, he would be exposed to all of them. It was either that or being blown up by his own bombs’ blast. He had no other choice: if he pulled away and climbed to, say, 5,000 ft, he would have to attack on his own. All the others would have finished by then. He would attract the whole weight of light and heavy Flak.

  He swung around in a tight bank and made his bombing run from astern. The cruiser was weaving but she was too big to make rapid changes of direction. He followed her with light touches on his rudder pedals, skidding instead of banking.

  ‘Ready, Taffy?’

  ‘Ready, Skip.’

  ‘Let the bastards have it, then.’

  Five seconds… four… three… two… one…

  ‘Bombs gone’ and the feeling that a heavy weight had been shed came together. Wheldon put the stick forward to increase his acceleration as he opened the throttles wide.

  A rush of disturbed air struck the aircraft and slammed it sideways. It began to yaw and pitch and Wheldon barely dragged it out of the sea, towards which it was hurtling with the added impetus of the bomb blast.

  ‘We hit her, Skip… we hit her…’ Wheldon did not reply to Fuller’s excited yell.

  He turned, to see for himself.

  Flames and smoke leaped and coiled from the cruiser’s foredeck. They had obviously just managed to hit her with one bomb. She had lost speed and it looked as though her bows were sinking a little.

  ‘Good show, Taffy.’ An absurd image of the fatuous old flight looie in the Scunthorpe pub came to mind with the words. Wheldon uttered a sudden loud laugh. He felt light-headed.

  Bombs were bursting all over the sea, but none was closer than three hundred yards to any of the ships. Most were twice that distance away, some fell more than half a mile from them.

  So much for training at 5,000 ft and bombing from twice that height, Wheldon thought.

  As he drew away from the Flak, so it became easier for the guns to bear on him, with the angle of necessary depression of their barrels growing less. A burst of 37 mm hit D-Don. Flames spurted from his port engine. The propeller shattered even as he feathered it. He hugged the water until he had put enough distance behind him to risk starting a climb. Sluggishly, the Wellington lumbered up to 1,500 ft.

  Rhys gave a course for base.

  Wheldon searched the sky for the rest of the formation. Far overhead, tracer slashed between Wellingtons and the Me 109s and 110s that had come to intercept them. He could not see the fighters except as shapeless specks reflecting the sun: at that range they were too small; but he could see their tracer and he could see a Wimpey on fire and falling to the sea.

  ‘Rear Gunner… anyone chasing us?’

  ‘No, Skipper… not yet!’

  ‘We’ll be out of their range in a minute.’

  ‘A Wimpey’s just blown up, Skipper.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Vachell said ‘I can see the second wave coming in, Pete.’

  ‘They won’t hit a bloody thing, either, from ten thousand.’

  ‘If they even get to the target, with all those fighters scrambled.’

  ‘Well, even if it was forced on us, we hit the bastard.’ Wheldon began to shake with laughter and nervous reaction. ‘Just thought of something: the Wingco will think we deliberately ignored orders. He’ll give me a hell of a rocket.’

  ‘Or put you up for a gong.’

  Rhys chipped in. ‘If he gets back. He might have been in one of those two that were shot down.’

  ‘And they weren’t the only ones, I’ll bet,’ Corporal Edkins said.

  ‘Hello Eddie… you all right? I’d forgotten all about you.’

  ‘I’m O.K., Skipper. Didn’t you hear me shooting up Jerry when we were bombing?’

  ‘I smelled your guns, Eddie… too busy to hear them in all that noise. Hit anything?’

  ‘I reckon I killed a dozen or so Jerry matelots, Skip.’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘I gave ‘em a good strafing an’ all, Skip, when we had ‘em astern.’ Fuller sounded offended.

  ‘Well done, Earthy. Well done everybody.’

  Rhys hesitantly asked ‘What happened, Skip?’

  ‘Oh, when that shell burst close astern and tipped us onto our nose, my harness got entangled with the stick. Tony only just got me free in time.’

  There was an awed silence, broken by Rhys’s ‘Shall I hand round the rations now, Skip?’

  ‘O.K., Taffy, good idea.’

  Wheldon checked over his instruments. The starboard engine was overheating. He felt a sharp nervous twinge of stomach cramp. Looking round at Vachell, he saw that he
had also noticed the oil temperature and pressure gauges.

  When Rhys appeared with a flask of coffee and a packet of sandwiches, Wheldon said ‘We may not make it all the way back, Taffy. Give Eddie our position and I’ll tell him to pass it on to base.’

  ‘O.K.’ Rhys hesitated. ‘Think we might have to ditch?’

  ‘We might. But if you can get a good fix, A.S.R. will find us all right.’ Air sea rescue had everyone’s confidence.

  ‘Still a bit far from home to pick up good bearings, Skip, but I’ll ask Eddie to try.’

  ‘Give him a D/R position anyway, to be going on with.’

  Dead reckoning navigation so far from the English coast was a poor bet for accuracy, but it was not time to start worrying yet.

  They were still 50 miles from the English coast when the starboard engine gushed a thick clot of oily smoke and the oil pressure fell almost to zero. The temperature climbed well past danger level and a steady stream of smoke poured out of the engine, with an evil stench.

  Seven

  This was not going to bear much resemblance to the dinghy drills which the crew had found such an amusing excuse for horseplay in a warmed indoor swimming bath. The sea was choppy and looked cruelly cold. The aircraft was skimming over the wavetops at over 100 m.p.h.

  ‘Ditching stations… ditching stations.’ Wheldon strove to sound calm. Corporal Edkins had been repeatedly sending an S.O.S., with the aircraft’s position and course. Rhys and Vachell clambered astern to brace themselves behind the main spar.

  ‘Wireless Op… go and join the others now… I can’t hold her off much longer… quick, Eddie.’

  ‘Right, Skipper.’ Edkins clamped the key down so that it would transmit a continuous note on which bearings could be taken until the Wellington sank. He hurried aft and took up his position beside the other two.

  A rear gunner’s station was always a lonely one and at this moment Fuller felt lonelier than ever, bereft and in fear that the impact when they hit the water would break off the tail unit and separate him from helping hands, if needed, and the dinghy. He thought wistfully of the comradeship and banter he so much enjoyed when working on the aeroplane’s starboard engine at dispersals or in the hangar; and, before that, the cheerful companionship of the warm garage where he had earned his living in cosy Peterborough.

  He was more grateful than he had ever been to anyone in all his 23 years when he heard Wheldon’s voice. ‘Happy in your work, Rear Gunner?’

  His voice shook a trifle, but he forced himself to sound unafraid. ‘I’ll do anything for seven days’ survivors leave, Skipper,’ and was proud when he heard Wheldon laugh.

  ‘Don’t worry, Earthy… I won’t put her down tail-first… you’ll be all right… hang on…’

  Thank God! God? He hadn’t been to church except when compelled to on parade, for a decade, but the phrase came automatically to his mind—there was only a moderate sea running. In theory, a pilot had the choice between ditching across wind, between waves, and risking being tipped wingtip over wingtip; or into wind, with its risk of the aircraft nosing down if it hit a wavetop, or breaking its back. In practice, this time, he had no choice but to land straight ahead, which happened to be more or less dead into wind.

  Dusk was gathering, which made it difficult to judge height so close to any surface. Over water broken by the shifting crests and troughs of six-foot waves, its grey merging with the gloom of a late afternoon in winter, Wheldon could not be sure at which instant the Wellington would alight.

  The nose crashed into the side of a wave and speed fell away so rapidly that he was flung hard against his straps and felt his upper body, from hips to head, forced forward and then back, twisted and stretched, thrust from side to side. The air was driven from his lungs. His back was rent by a searing pain. Water flooded the cockpit. The sea salt stung his eyes. As he drew a deep breath, he choked on the briny water that forced its way into his mouth. In the abrupt silence that followed the failure of the engine, he heard the sizzling of hot metal doused by cold water. His head had hit some part of the cockpit that broke at the moment of impact. He was dizzy and it took him a slow half-minute to clear his mind.

  He began to undo his straps. Every movement hurt. He hurried, fearing that the aircraft would sink and drag him down with it. But it was rising and falling on the restless sea, rocking at the same time, and the water level was still only up to his hips. Vachell had been able to pull the lever that inflated the flotation bags in the bomb bay, then: well done, Tony…

  Wheldon’s efforts to free himself became less hasty. He moved from his seat, bent like a very old and rheumaticky ploughman, each attempt to stand straight sending agonising twinges through his back. He heard voices calling to him, and shouted ‘I’m O.K.… coming…’

  The fuselage lay more than half under water and he sloshed through with it lapping well above his knees, the cold penetrating his sodden fur-lined boots and his clinging wet trousers. The escape hatches were off and waves kept breaking against the foundering fuselage and throwing foam and spray into his face.

  He clambered out and saw the dinghy trailing astern by its painter, still attached to the tail. It was Rhys’s job to release the dinghy from its stowage, and he had done it; so he must have escaped serious injury. Two men were in the dinghy, neither moving.

  Wheldon shouted ‘Anyone missing? Where’s Eddie?’

  A hand gripped his arm and Vachell said quietly ‘Everyone’s out, Pete. Come on…’ Wheldon could not stifle a groan and an angry ‘Damn’ as Vachell tugged at him. ‘What’s up, Pete? Hurt?’

  ‘I’m all right… twisted back…’ Wheldon was annoyed and ashamed to find how difficult he found it to speak. His movements were laboured and pain-wracked.

  ‘I’ll hang on to you.’ Vachell moved into sight and Wheldon saw that blood was running from his scalp and his right hand.

  ‘Y-you’re bleeding…’ The words came thickly and he felt stupid at stating the obvious. His teeth were chattering with cold. ‘I’m O.K…l-look after your… yourself.’

  ‘Come on, Pete, get on with it… don’t argue… I’m all right.’ Vachell was shaking and Wheldon could feel it through the hand that still held his arm and was helping him to shuffle, on his bottom, along the top of the fuselage. Was it shock or cold? Or was it just plain funk that was making Vachell tremble? The thought persisted and brought a flare of contempt.

  Someone was in the water, near the dinghy, supported by his inflated mae west, swimming with a slow clumsy stroke. Through his sore eyes, Wheldon recognised Corporal Edkins. Then the two in the dinghy must be Rhys and Fuller. Struggling to the tail end of the long fuselage was as exhausting as a cross-country. And I haven’t run in a cross-country since I was at Halton, Wheldon thought. God, I wish I were fitter…

  ‘Stay there, Pete.’ Vachell moved past him and slid into the sea. ‘Hang on, Eddie… I’ll give you a hand.’

  Wheldon saw that Edkins was gasping and breathing heavily, trying to haul himself into the dinghy with one arm. He turned and his voice came faintly. ‘I… I’m O.K… get the skipper in… the… the dinghy.’

  A few strokes took Vachell to the dinghy, which was bobbing up and down rapidly, pitching simultaneously and drifting from within a foot of the aircraft to the extremity of its painter. He heaved himself aboard and reached down. As he tugged Edkins aboard, Edkins gave a piercing yell of agony; then lay sobbing at the bottom of the small rubber craft, entangled with its other two occupants.

  Vachell, using one of the canvas paddles, began to move the dinghy along the Wellington’s side, closer to Wheldon. The Wellington was settling deeper in the water. If they didn’t get clear in a couple of minutes, they would be sucked down with the wreckage as it broke up and sank.

  Wheldon forced himself a little further, then leaned over and toppled into the dinghy. It went down some inches under his weight and shipped water.

  ‘Sorry…’ He gasped and sucked in air, his chest and back feeling as though they ha
d been almost torn asunder. He was quivering now in every limb. It was a shock, when he looked up, to see how calmly Vachell was paddling away from the wreck, the painter cast off and the dinghy moving fast as the breeze and Vachell’s paddling took it.

  ‘Give… give m-me the p-paddle… b-bandage… your wounds…’

  ‘L-later, Pete…’ Vachell, panting with exertion, blood and sea water in rivulets on his head and face and on his right hand, did not stop until he had driven the dinghy a hundred yards from the fast-sinking Wellington.

  ‘Wh-what’s the damage?’ Wheldon struggled to sit upright.

  ‘Eddie… broken arm… Taffy…ribs crushed… F-Fuller… bash on the head… knocked out… leg twisted… probably knee and ankle sprained…’

  ‘B-bunch of crocks, aren’t we. Rations? Flares?’

  ‘Taffy’s got the emergency rations… I hung on to the flask with some coffee left… and the Verey pistol… some cartridges… dinghy pack O.K., I think… water… grub… flares.’

  ‘Bloody good show, Tony. We’re all right, then… they’ll soon pick us up.’

  ‘Not before tomorrow, they won’t… too dark soon… first light tomorrow… if we don’t drift too far…’

  Hell, thought Wheldon, who’s in command of this crew: Vachell or I?

  He grabbed for the paddle. ‘Bandages… I’ll paddle… then we’ll fix the others up…’ As he paddled he kept looking up at the sky but there was no sign of any other Wellington: the rest—those that had survived—had remained obediently at ten thousand feet.

  Why the hell, just this once, hadn’t the Wingco done his usual death-or-glory stuff and dived at the cruiser? They might, then, have flown back together and the Wingco could have orbited for a while until a launch or a seaplane was well on its way.

  Wheldon wondered what had happened to Wing Commander Norton, anyway, and how many of the others had survived the Flak and fighters.

  *

  The dinghy’s equipment comprised a small compass. Wheldon, thorough and cautious, had always carried a pocket compass when he flew, whether over land or water, even in peacetime. There would be no problems about setting course for the nearest part of the east coast. There were two canvas paddles. The dinghy rations consisted of chocolate, boiled sweets, chewing gum and two rubber bottles of water. From the aircraft they had rescued malted milk tablets, pemmican and a Thermos flask nearly full of coffee.