Читать книгу The Red Line: The Gripping Story of the RAF’s Bloodiest Raid on Hitler’s Germany - John Nichol - Страница 10

Ron Auckland

The average member of a Bomber Command crew had a 30 per cent chance of being killed before they completed their first 30-op tour. Of a total of 125,000 aircrew, 55,573 were killed: an overall death rate of 44.4 per cent; another 8,400 were wounded and some 10,000 taken prisoner. In no other branch of the armed forces were the chances of dying so high, or the combatants called into action night after gruelling night. Yet every one of the 125,000 recruits who took to the skies to wage war by night was a volunteer.

There were those whose fathers had fought in the First World War and who wanted to avoid the gruesome grind of trench warfare. There were others who were seduced by the glamorous modern image portrayed by the RAF, given added lustre by the glorious victory of ‘The Few’ in the Battle of Britain. For many, such as Ron Auckland from Portsmouth, who had experienced the damage wreaked by the Luftwaffe earlier in the war, there was an element of revenge.

Ron had witnessed the first German raid on the docks of his home town, where he worked as a civil servant. On duty as a fire officer, he had carried out the dead and rescued the injured after an enemy bomb fell down the air vent of a crowded air-raid shelter. During another, he and his family were bombed out of their home. That was enough; he signed up. ‘I’d seen a lot and knew just what the Germans could do. I was in a reserved occupation but I still wanted to join up. I wanted to be part of the war effort.’¹⁶

George Prince grew up in New Malden, Surrey, the son of a garage owner. He left school at 14 to work for his father as a mechanic, a job in which he learned many skills that would prove useful when he became a flight engineer. He coveted a green, four-seat 1934 MG PA in his father’s showroom and was mortified when a German bomb shattered the windows and riddled the car body with shrapnel. George was only 15, but his father told him that if he repaired the MG he could have it.

‘I mended the bodywork lovingly, and filled the holes in the radiator with putty. I couldn’t drive it, but it became my pride and joy.’¹⁷ George, like his near neighbour Cyril Barton, dreamed of being a pilot, but when he signed up his superiors decided that his experience in his father’s garage was too valuable to sacrifice, so he became a flight engineer. The MG would come into use later, when he was operational and old enough to drive it. ‘The whole crew would get in: two in the front, and the rest would squeeze in the back and hang out over the side.’

As a 16-year-old Londoner, Harry Evans had watched in awe as the night sky above his home city glowed red during the Blitz. That image and the sound of the Heinkel 111s were imprinted on his soul. One day a German bomb landed on his street. ‘It demolished the house just to our right. The whole house shook like there had been an earthquake; all the windows were blown out and the ceilings came down. Some of the neighbours were killed. Once you’ve experienced something like that you never forget it. Shortly after my 18th birthday I volunteered for the RAF. My father had been in the Navy on submarines in the First World War and it didn’t sound very appealing to me. I wanted to be one of the Brylcreem Boys!’

Bomber Command recruits also came from far-flung corners of the Empire. Ron Butcher grew up in Middle Sackville, a village near New Brunswick in Canada. He joined the RAF because all of his friends were doing it, even though there was no pressure for them to volunteer; just a sense of duty towards their ancestral home and ally. Britain needed their help against the Nazi terror, and to stand idly by seemed like an act of cowardice.

Andy Wejcman did not come from any corner of the Empire. He was born in Berlin in January 1923. When Hitler and the Nazis gained power in 1933 and revealed their virulent brand of anti-Semitism, his father, a politically active lawyer and intellectual Polish Jew, moved the family to Poland. In 1939, just before the German invasion, Andy was sent to England to learn the language. Despite having an American mother, the only English phrase he knew was ‘Stick ’em up!’ – from watching a cowboy film. Ironically, she insisted that he travel by train and boat because she believed flying to be too dangerous. On the day he left, his entire family came to wave him off at the station. It was the last time he saw his father.

Andy learned English at a school in Hampshire and proved to be such a good student that he was offered a place at Oxford University. He turned it down, even though he knew his mother would be appalled. ‘I decided I would join the Air Force, and if you’re going to join the Air Force you might as well fly. I knew what the war meant; I heard the bombs and I’d seen the results of bombing and the destroyed buildings. I certainly wanted to help overthrow Hitler. I felt it was my moral and physical duty to do so.’¹⁸

Being a member of Bomber Command had benefits the Army and Navy couldn’t offer. Even though most nights were spent dodging fighters and flak, the crews slept in a bed on British soil. It was a shorter journey home on leave. They could also enjoy their familiar comforts: pubs, dances, the cinema, and, for those who were single, local girls whose eye might be caught by a young man in uniform.

Once they signed up, the mundaneness of day-to-day training dispelled any notions that RAF life might be any more glamorous. Harry Evans joined in the summer of 1941, at the Yorkshire Grey pub in Eltham, where the ballroom had been converted into a recruiting centre. It was the end of the year before he was summoned to the Air Crew Selection Centre on the Euston Road, where he was tested, interviewed and given a thorough medical. Eventually he was accepted and kitted out as an Aircraftman 2nd Class, the lowest rank in the entire Air Force. When he was sent to digs near Regent’s Park his spirits lifted; the airmen were billeted in luxury flats overlooking the park, where businessmen, bankers and diplomats once lived before the Blitz. Once inside, it became clear that this was just an accident of geography; it was the middle of winter, there was no heating, the interior doors had been removed and, despite the expensive tiles and fittings, nothing worked. The flats had become filthy and neglected, and the meals served to the airmen were in keeping with their surroundings.

A few days later, Harry was asked to report to another prestigious address. The Pavilion at Lord’s Cricket Ground had been turned into a reception centre where new recruits were issued with uniform and equipment. There was one other test, of which few were aware. In the hallowed Long Room, with the great ghosts of the summer game looking on, each man was ordered to drop his trousers to be inspected for venereal disease by a medical officer. This was not the sort of thing Harry had in mind when he signed up to be one of the Brylcreem Boys.

The wait between signing on, being processed and starting training was interminable. Sam Harris,¹⁹ a young Scotsman, had signed on in January 1941 at the age of 17, but his training in London did not start until November. He wanted to be a pilot, but his scores in the maths test were so good that he was earmarked as a navigator. Later that month he was sent to Babbacombe in Devon with 47 other trainees.

The life of a new recruit was no more exciting in the West Country than it had been in London. He shared a room with three others in a small boarding house with only enough hot water for a bath once a week. Every morning they paraded outside in their PT kit, ‘gargled with some bluish purple mixture’, and then went for a 30-minute run, followed by a splash of cold water, a change into uniform, and another parade before breakfast.

Their lectures were held in the windowless basement of what used to be a garage. ‘There we wrestled with the mysteries of air navigation, including the triangle of velocities and the fact that straight lines on a Mercator navigation chart are not straight lines on the earth. In another building we learned to tap out Morse code and to send and receive messages by Aldis lamp. There were drill periods, a sports afternoon – which meant a long march to playing fields where we played football – and a long march back. We certainly became fit.’²⁰

The recruits were free to spend Saturday nights as they pleased, as long as they were back at their digs by 10 p.m. Sam and his friends used to visit a pub in St Mary’s, drink a few half-pints, go to the town hall dance and sprint back to their digs to beat the curfew. ‘There were other perks – a bath on Sunday morning, Church Parade, and an afternoon walk to Cockington, followed by a free tea at a church in Torquay. Well, not quite free; we had to listen to a bit of a religious service first. Such was the glamorous life of the navigator under training …’

Harry Evans was fortunate enough to be stationed at Ponca City, Oklahoma – a world away from what he had left behind. ‘We were all volunteers and keen to learn to fly and there were no disciplinary problems – it was the life of Riley. Instead of a mess there was a cafeteria where we all queued to be served and rank was of no importance. The food was exceedingly good, especially compared to wartime Britain, and we tried such strange and exotic delights as peanut butter, sweetcorn and unusual mixtures such as bacon, griddle cakes and maple syrup.’ But an ill-advised low-flying stunt over the local swimming pool to impress his fellow trainees and some local girls landed him in trouble. He and two other airmen were thrown off the course and sent to Canada to remuster. Harry chose to be a navigator.

After 28 weeks abroad – and a year since they had volunteered – the recruits were sent back to the Advanced Flying Unit in the UK, where they were taught to fly at night, and then to Operational Training Units, where they finally became part of Bomber Command.

Few of these young men – the average age in Bomber Command was 22 – would get near the aircraft they would eventually fly in combat until they graduated to a Heavy Conversion Unit. Even when the production lines were running at full capacity, the Lancasters were all needed for the main offensive. Raw, inexperienced crews were forced to learn on the older Stirling, Halifax and Wellington bombers, and even the lucky ones were only introduced to the Lancaster in the final moments before they became operational.

Harry Evans recalls acting as a pall-bearer at the funerals of fellow trainees three Mondays running. ‘The crash rate was high, but this was bound to happen when you were training on old aircraft under operational conditions. I remember one of the most spectacular: a Canadian pilot flying a Wellington hit the runway hard, the aircraft bounced, he lost control and went straight into the side of the control tower, about 15 feet above the ground. It was still stuck there the next day. Four of the crew and three flying control personnel were killed, including two WAAFs. Only the rear gunner survived.’

The members of a crew risked their lives together, slept together, ate together and socialised together. The ones that gelled quickly were the lucky ones, and forged friendships that would last a lifetime. Those who failed to get along, or whose camaraderie faltered under the strain, often met with fatal consequences. Arguments or disagreements put the aircraft at risk. Total discipline was required on board; it was a fundamental rule of survival, and yet the process of ‘crewing up’ was surprisingly haphazard.

In July 1943 Sam Harris was nursing a pint with Sandy Clarkson, an Edinburgh-born fellow navigator, at The Golden Fleece in Loughborough. It was like the first day of school, but instead of making friends they and their fellow recruits were forming crews. As the afternoon wore on the number of unattached airmen grew fewer; it was time for Sandy and Sam to make a decision.

‘What do you think?’ Sandy asked.

Sam shrugged. ‘Only two pilots left. It’s a toss-up.’

Whilst Sandy’s clannish instincts led him to opt for the Glaswegian of the pair, Sam and a bomb aimer who seemed to be at a loose end approached the remaining pilot, Ken Murray. Ken said that he had a wireless operator ‘around here somewhere’, and had spotted a couple of spare gunners lurking in a corner. A few minutes later the six of them stood at the bar, mugs of beer in their hands, toasting their new partnership.

Both crews were sent to Castle Donington. On 28 July, an eye-popping summer’s day, Sam climbed aboard a Wellington, S-Sugar, a real bomber, for the first time. They were only practising circuits and landings, but Ken proved so capable that when they landed their instructor told him he could fly solo.

Sam sat behind his curtain, working on his charts, listening to Ken going through the checks and drills before they took off once more. Then he heard Ken’s voice on the radio. ‘This is S for Sugar. Aircraft in front has just gone in. Taking off …’ Sam wondered what the hell he meant. He got up from his navigator’s desk as they rumbled into the air and looked over the flight engineer’s shoulder. The Wellington ahead of them had buried its nose in a tree. It looked like a nasty one.

As he watched, there was a vast explosion. The stricken bomber was engulfed in flame and choking black smoke billowed into the sky around them. Sam knew immediately that Sandy – his best friend for the past two years – and everyone else on board were dead. No one spoke. Air Traffic Control gave the order for Ken to land, and he circled the airfield, passing on the details of what he could see to the ground. The shattered bomber was still burning fiercely. Sam turned away.

Rusty Waughman’s crew came together in a similarly haphazard fashion.

Idris ‘Taffy’ Arndell, a wireless operator, and his friend, Colin ‘Ginger’ Farrant, had fixed to meet two local girls in Loughborough the night they were supposed to find a crew. Knowing they would be expected to have a drink or two with their new mates, they decided to hide in the pub toilets until the selection process was over; they didn’t want to miss their double date. Making for the exit as soon as they thought they were in the clear, they bumped into two pilots, one of whom was Rusty Waughman.

‘Are you two crewed up?’ Rusty’s companion asked.

‘Yes,’ they lied.

‘We don’t believe you, and we’re both short of a wireless operator. We’ll toss for it.’

Rusty lost, and the other pilot chose Ginger; he appeared the more intelligent and dependable of the two, or as intelligent and dependable as you can appear when you’ve been caught hiding in a pub toilet. They were posted shortly after to XII Squadron at Wickenby and went missing on their first operation – a long haul to Stettin on the night of 5 January. It later emerged that Ginger had lied about his age; he was only 17 when he joined up.

Of the 55,573 men of Bomber Command who died during the Second World War, 5,723 were killed in training, and a further 3,113 were seriously injured. Like much bad news, these losses were downplayed at the time, in line with Charles Portal’s decree that ‘Statistical information regarding the chances of survival of aircrew should be confined to the smallest number of people; this information could be distorted and dangerous to morale.’²¹

The casualties also included men who had completed the full 30 mission tours and were then posted for six months as OTU instructors. It was often as hazardous to sit beside a nervous young pilot in a bomber he had never flown before as it was to be at the controls of a Lancaster in the night skies above Berlin.

Roger Coverley was a pilot with 76 Squadron at Holme-on-Spalding-Moor in March 1944, after completing 30 ops with 78 Squadron. He had been a pilot instructor on Halifaxes in the interim. ‘I didn’t enjoy it. It was boring and much too dangerous because you’re teaching young kids how to fly. I was sitting in the right-hand seat, unable to get at the controls if anything went wrong. I had some very close shaves. I couldn’t wait to get back on operations.’²²