Читать книгу Chastise - Max Hastings - Страница 16

Barnes Wallis knew nothing about the Air Staff’s exploration of targeting dams when, early in the war, he himself began studying the vulnerabilities of German power supplies, and explicitly of hydro-electric plants, during spare hours snatched from his ‘proper’ work on a projected high-altitude Wellington, and later the Windsor. He spent months considering the possibility of breaching dams with ten-ton bombs dropped by his own proposed ‘Victory’ aircraft from an altitude of forty thousand feet – three times the operating height of contemporary RAF ‘heavies’. An early enthusiast for his ideas was Gp. Capt. Fred Winterbotham, head of air intelligence at MI6, and a pre-war pioneer of the exploitation of high-altitude aerial photography. He was introduced to Wallis by a mutual friend, City banker Leo D’Erlanger, who had endeared himself to the engineer’s children by once presenting them with a pink gramophone. In February 1940 D’Erlanger brought the air intelligence officer to lunch at Effingham, thinking that Wallis and Winterbotham had common interests. Winterbotham was much taken with the cheerfully bustling Wallis household and its noisy children, the exuberant piano-playing, the obviously blissful partnership of his host and wife Molly.

Winterbotham was something of a charlatan, who played a less important role both in the Second World War and the evolution of Wallis’s schemes than he himself later professed. He was no fool, however, and like many intelligence officers was a keen networker and intriguer. He invited Wallis to lunch at the RAF Club in Piccadilly, and was persuaded by him to lobby the good and great about the Victory bomber, with a wingspan of 160 feet (against the Avro Lancaster’s eventual 102 feet) and its accompanying ‘earthquake’ bomb. Desmond Morton, Winterbotham’s old intelligence colleague, responded to this proposal from his new office in 10 Downing Street on 5 July 1940: ‘My dear Fred … The view held [here] is that such a project as you describe could not come to fruition until 1942, even if then.’ This period was, of course, Britain’s darkest of the Second World War; only by straining every sinew could the Ministry of Aircraft Production create a bare sufficiency of fighters, never mind a speculative giant bomber.

Nonetheless, through Winterbotham again, Wallis secured an audience with Lord Beaverbrook, Minister of Aircraft Production, at which he pressed his Victory project. The gnome-like tycoon seemed more interested in persuading his visitor to travel to America to explore pressurised aircraft cabins, but their meeting yielded one positive result: it enabled Wallis to secure access to the government research facility at the former Road Research Laboratory at Harmondsworth, just west of London, together with the Building Research Station near Watford in Hertfordshire.

In August 1940 Wallis began tests related to the projected deep-penetration bomb, for which he was also admitted to the wind tunnel at Teddington’s National Physical Laboratory. In retrospect it seems astonishing, and yet also a triumph of official imagination, that even while Britain faced its darkest days, and Fighter Command was challenging the Luftwaffe against odds, a ‘boffin’ was able to undertake such futuristic research almost literally on the ground beneath which the Battle of Britain was being fought. From October onwards Wallis attended a series of meetings with the Ministry of Aircraft Production’s Air Vice-Marshal Francis Linnell, Controller of Research and Development, and Dr David Pye, the MAP’s director of scientific research, together with his deputy Ben Lockspeiser. The last, especially, would play a role in the Chastise saga which continued until the day the operation was launched.

In November the BRS’s Dr Norman Davey began construction of a 1:50 scale model of the Möhne, across a small stream in secluded woodland at the Station’s headquarters in Hertfordshire. This project reflected the interest not merely of Wallis, but of the RAF’s most senior officers, who had identified the dam as a target. At the same period Wallis was granted access to the Air Ministry’s 1939 research on the Möhne, emphasising the fact that he and the uniformed planners had been thinking along parallel lines. This made Wallis all the more irritated that so many bureaucratic obstacles were placed in the way of what seemed to him an obvious war-winner. In November 1940 also, he wrote a testy note to AVM Arthur Tedder, then serving at the MAP: ‘As a result of the continuing opposition that we have met, it has been necessary to resort to these laborious and long-winded experiments, in order to prove that what I suggested last July [destroying targets with deep-penetration bombs] can in reality be done.’

Norman Davey’s team employed technical data on the Möhne dam’s construction published at the time of its opening in 1913, though the Watford modellers somewhat distorted their own outcome by treating metres as yards in the scaling exercise. Hundreds of thousands of hand-cast mortar blocks were made and laid in the freezing conditions that prevailed through that winter. The model was completed on 22 January 1941, and explosive tests began a few days later. The first results of these were felt by nearby ‘Dig for Victory’ vegetable allotment-holders, who found their plots at Garston suddenly flooded by an inexplicable onrush of water. This also bewildered the BRS testers, because while their dam was damaged by successive explosions, it was not completely breached.

In March 1941 Wallis circulated a long paper entitled ‘A Note on Methods of Attacking the Axis Powers’, in which he wrote about water and coal seams as targets. Such natural resources, he observed, had the great merit that they could not be moved or dispersed: ‘If their destruction or paralysis can be accomplished, THEY OFFER A MEANS OF RENDERING THE ENEMY UTTERLY INCAPABLE OF CONTINUING TO PROSECUTE THE WAR.’ He distributed a hundred copies of this paper, with its extravagant predictions, to his aviation contacts – several journalists received it, together with four Americans and Frederick Lindemann, soon to become Lord Cherwell. Wallis’s daughter later remarked on her father’s carelessness about security: ‘I can hear him now, describing to a friend some interesting feature of his work, laughing, “Frightfully secret, my dear fellow.”’

W/Cdr. Sydney Bufton, an officer with operational experience over Germany who had recently become deputy director of Bomber Operations at the Air Ministry, was sufficiently interested to visit Wallis in his office at Burhill Golf Club, near Weybridge, where the design team found a wartime home after the Vickers plant was bombed. A dams sub-committee was formed at the Ministry of Aircraft Production, which in the following month discussed the Möhne as an important target. Initial calculations suggested that a bomb weighing twelve tons would be required to destroy it.

On 11 April 1941, David Pye of the Road Research Laboratory convened a meeting about Wallis’s various advanced weapons concepts with the AAD – Aerial Attack on Dams – Advisory Committee, which was also attended by the great scientific civil servant Sir Henry Tizard. At this it was concluded that the science of Wallis’s ideas about destroying dams seemed sound: the intractable problem persisted, however, of devising a means of delivering to Germany a weapon such as might create the impact that he sought. This was no mere detail, but the core of the issue with which the Vickers engineer and the many technicians associated with his project would wrestle for the next two years.

Their progress was impeded, not by a mindless bureaucracy, but instead by practical difficulties which had to be addressed with severely constrained resources. Wallis scarcely helped his own case by arguing as if he, and he alone, held the key to winning the war. This was a vice to which bigger men were also prone. In September 1941 Churchill rebuked Portal, the chief of air staff, for submitting to him a paper which promised that if Britain built four thousand heavy bombers, the RAF could crush the Nazis within six months, without need for assistance from the other two services.

The prime minister responded in one of his most brilliant memoranda: ‘Everything is being done to create the bombing force on the largest possible scale … I deprecate, however, placing unbounded confidence in the means of attack, and still more expressing that confidence in terms of arithmetic … Even if all the towns of Germany were rendered largely uninhabitable, it does not follow that the military control would be weakened or even that war industry could not be carried on … The Air Staff would make a mistake to put their claim too high … It may well be that German morale will crack, and that our bombing will play a very important part in bringing the result about. But all things are always on the move simultaneously … One has to do the best one can, but he is an unwise man who thinks there is any certain method of winning this war, or indeed any other war between equals in strength. The only plan is to persevere.’

The prime minister would assuredly have said the same wise things to Barnes Wallis, had he been party to the correspondence about his putative wonder-weapons. On 21 May 1941 the engineer received a letter from Sir Henry Tizard, telling him that his ideas for both the Victory bomber and the deep-penetration bomb had been rejected by the Air Staff. Wallis was distraught. His fortunes had reached their lowest wartime ebb.

What followed, albeit painfully slowly in Wallis’s eyes, reflected an important contradiction about the conduct of the Second World War. As a fighting force, man for man, from beginning to end the Wehrmacht showed itself more professionally skilful than either the British or American armies. Yet the Western Allies nonetheless contrived to make better war than did the Axis powers. An important part of the reason for this was that they empowered many of the brightest people in their societies to deploy their talents, with an imagination which the dictatorships never matched. The codebreakers of the US Navy’s Op20G and the US Army’s Arlington Hall, together with Britain’s Bletchley Park, provided conspicuous examples of this phenomenon. So, too, did a host of projects commissioned and undertaken by scientists and engineers on both sides of the Atlantic.

Although Barnes Wallis’s Big Plane, Big Bomb proposals had been formally rejected in May 1941, he nonetheless persuaded the MAP’s David Pye that he should retain access to government facilities, to continue his experiments on the ballistics of dam-breaking. Through that autumn tests continued, to determine the necessary weight of explosives, and the conditions in which they must be detonated, to contrive breaches in huge structures.

It was an elaborately formal age. Many of the papers in what became a mountainous correspondence between Whitehall’s civilian and service departments about the engineer’s infernal machines began as did this one to an under-secretary of state: ‘Sir, I have the honour to state that consideration has again been given recently to the possibility of breaching one or more of the important canals in North West Germany.’ The engineer concerned was referred to ‘as Mr B.N. Wallis of Vickers’. The writer signed himself ‘your obedient servant’.

From the £2,000 budget then allocated to Wallis’s activities by the MAP, money was found to buy from Birmingham City Council a small dam at Nant-y-Gro in Powys, North Wales, rendered redundant by the construction of a larger replacement. A key figure in the experiments that followed was Arthur Collins, a scientific officer in Harmondsworth’s ‘Concrete Section’, who made a breakthrough. For years it had been assumed, not least by Barnes Wallis, that an enormous explosive charge would be necessary to destroy a dam such as the Möhne. Yet experiments convinced Collins, who in turn persuaded Wallis, that a relatively small charge might achieve a wholly disproportionate result if it was detonated sub-aqueously and close to the target, using a timer or a hydrostatic pistol: it could thus harness the power of the water mass to channel the force of the blast. Here was the phenomenon identified as a threat back in 1939 by the German official responsible for his country’s north-western dams. Both Collins and Wallis became increasingly fascinated by the physics of explosions, and especially by the scope for harnessing the power of water, and indeed of earth, dramatically to increase the impact of underwater or underground explosions – the ‘conservation of suspended energy’ that would eventually make possible Operation Chastise.

In the course of 1941 and 1942, Wallis pursued enquiries about Germany’s dams through patent agents in Chancery Lane, and about hydro-electric control mechanisms via an engineering firm in Kilmarnock. In April 1942 – Holy Week, as it happened – experiments assisted by his children, using marbles projected into an old galvanised washtub on the terrace outside his home at Effingham, shifted his attention from deep-penetration ‘earthquake’ charges towards the notion of much smaller spherical bombs, bowled – in cricketing parlance – or ricocheted – to use Wallis’s original choice of word – towards German dam walls. Here, he was thinking in a fashion not dissimilar from Finch-Noyes and Pemberton-Billing. He envisaged two related, but different weapons: a larger model for attacking dams, later codenamed ‘Upkeep’, as it will hereafter for convenience be called; and a smaller version, to be codenamed ‘Highball’, for use against shipping.

Sir Charles Craven, a former Royal Navy submarine officer who was now chairman of Vickers, did not explicitly bar Wallis’s spare-time work on futuristic weapons. He emphasised, however, that it must not interfere with the engineer’s day job, developing the Windsor bomber. In post-war evidence to the Royal Commission on Awards to Inventors, Wallis stated that ‘the inception of the [bouncing bomb] was the result of private experiment and work outside the scope of his normal employment and that this work was carried out against the wishes of his employers’. He subsequently expanded on this theme, saying that ‘had he not persisted in his efforts to interest the authorities in the face of continued discouragement and even contrary to the wishes of his own Directors, the attack on the dams would never have been made’. In the narrative that follows, it should not be forgotten that, until the last stage of the development of Wallis’s revolutionary weapons, his work on them represented, in the stern view of his employers, a spare-time indulgence.