Читать книгу Combined Operations - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 4

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“Probably most of you are aware,” proceeded the Old War Horse, “there is a grand meeting of the Nazi Party Leaders and their followers billed to take place in Berlin at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning. It is to be held under the presidency of Fatty Goering in the unavoidable absence of Adolf Hitler, supposed by the German nation to be at the Russian Front. From information received from reliable sources, the Fuehrer is at Berchtesgaden, probably trying in vain to concoct explanations to his deluded people why the Russian army, thrice annihilated by him, has most unkindly given him a terrific kick in the pants. And, failing to find an excuse, he’ll be gnawing yet another carpet. That, of course, may be one of the many war myths, but we like to think that he does indulge in that sort of amusement!

“Now it’s up to this and other squadrons, although we are not sending a large force, to upset Goering’s little lunch-party. On this occasion we are not counting so much about the military effect of the attack, but rather on the psychological. Having promised so emphatically that the air over Germany will never be polluted by British aircraft, Goering will be in a quandary, when he is about to commence his speech, when our two- and four-thousand-pound bombs begin to fall. Now we’ll see what Berlin looks like from a height of two thousand feet.”

He paused while the electric lights were switched off and a photograph was projected on the screen.

“Here’s the building where the Party rally is planned to be held,” he resumed. “It isn’t conspicuous, because of the camouflaged canopy, but you can take your bearings on that spire to the north and the chimneys of the power-station. Probably a great many civilians will get hurt, but that cannot be helped from our point of view.

“They are all potential war-workers for Nazi Germany, even as our civilian population are for the most part engaged in helping on the Allies’ war effort. It’s not a case of revenge for what the Huns have done to our cities and towns, but rather of retribution. And by hitting the old Hun hard and where it hurts him most we are definitely shortening the war. Now for details!”

Firstly the rendezvous, or linking-up area for the raiding squadrons to get in touch with one another, was given; the times, altitude and route were made known. The last was decidedly complicated. Since the attack was to be carried out in broad daylight, there was likely to be considerable A.A. and fighter opposition on the direct route, so detours had to be planned in order to “fox” the Nazi airmen.

“And you’ll probably find heavy opposition in and around Berlin,” he continued. “I don’t doubt but what our air-gunners will give a good account of themselves. Now, as to weather conditions: our meteorological experts report that there’s likely to be considerable cloud, not lower than five thousand feet, over most of the distance, but over the target there’ll be clear sky. I hope the experts are right: they generally are. Now, any questions?”

“Are we to expect fighter cover, sir?” asked one of the pilots.

“Yes and no,” was the reply. “There’ll be diversionary sweeps over Northern France and on the U-boat bases; so you are not likely to meet with fighter opposition in the first hundred miles or so of your flight. On your return journey arrangements have been made for squadrons of our two-seater bombers to escort you for the last two hundred miles; otherwise you’ll have to rely upon your defensive armament and your ability to take evasive action in cloud formation. Meanwhile, a cautiously worded hint that the target is Northern Italy won’t do you any harm. It might do you some good.... Any more questions? ... No.... Then that’s all, I think. The very best of luck! Most of us who are left behind will be tuning-in to Deutschlandsender at 1100 to-morrow!”

A long evening followed. There wasn’t much hilarity in the mess, in fact there was hardly any. Those detailed for the attack knew that they were up against what promised to be a very tough proposition. Groups of twos and threes discussed the subject, but for the most part those about to participate in the operations were strangely quiet. Quite a few had certain preparations to make—to commit various thoughts and messages to paper—just in case they didn’t come back.

Derek turned in early. It was to be his twenty-first operational flight over Germany, but even he found it difficult to compose himself to sleep. Usually he did, since he was not given to worrying over such matters. After the first half a dozen flights over enemy territory, he took these operations more or less as a matter of course. It was his job and one that he was paid to do. More than that, it was his duty, and thus he threw his whole mind into it.

But, somehow, the daylight raid upon the capital of the Reich affected him differently. How or why he couldn’t think. He’d been over Brest, Lorient and Wilhelmshaven in daylight, and he knew only too well what their A.A. defences were like. His luck had been in to a certain extent. On several occasions he’d been attacked by hostile fighter-planes. Always his crew had beaten them off but—and here was the disappointing factor—never had they as yet succeeded in definitely “downing” a Boche aircraft. When such successes were achieved and duly confirmed, the victors painted a small swastika on the tail member of their machine. Some fighters showed more than a score; bombers, with fewer opportunities, since they had to beat off rather than to make an aerial attack against hostile fighters, rarely displayed more than half a dozen miniature “Crooked Crosses”.

“S for Sylvia”—the name given to his Halifax, and all the bombers of the squadron bore feminine names—hadn’t a single swastika as a record of her prowess. Yes, so far, in that direction, his luck was dead out.

Derek was still thinking on these things when he fell asleep. It was a sound, dreamless slumber, but it seemed to him that he had only just dosed off when his batman entered with the customary shaving water and cup of tea.

“What’s it like, Dawson?” he asked.

“Pretty nippy, sir; no rain and the stars are out. Forecast is good, so it looks as if you’ll have a fine trip, sir.”

The flight-lieutenant thanked the man for the information, and heaved himself rather reluctantly from his bed. The clock showed that it was five minutes to five.

Noises along the corridor—the banging of doors, sounds of voices and of someone making a half-hearted attempt to whistle—were borne to Derek’s ears as he began to prepare for the day’s work. Ugh! How he loathed these early morning starts. There was one thing at least in favour of night operations: if you were lucky you were home, you’d been briefed, you’d fed and were snug in bed long before this hour.

He dressed without undue haste, then emptied his pockets of money and other articles. It was considered unlucky to go on an op. flight carrying currency, while it was against regulations to have anything in one’s possession likely to give information to the enemy in the unfortunate event of having to bale out and become a prisoner of war. Identity discs—sometimes facetiously referred to as “Tail Wagger Club Medallions”—didn’t come into this category.

There was plenty of time before breakfast, so Derek strolled out into the darkness and on to the taking-off ground. Dim lights were flickering here and there as the ground staff went about their varied though highly important tasks, upon the efficiency of which depended the lives of the men who flew.

Half a dozen huge Halifaxes were already lined up, their outlines just visible against the loom of the starlit sky. Others, drawn by small but powerful tractors, driven for the most part by W.A.A.F.s, were emerging from their hangars. More tractors, towing squat trailers, were bringing bomb-loads to the waiting aircraft—bombs of the latest type, weighing four thousand pounds and resembling a naval torpedo more than those of the smaller sort.

Derek had little difficulty in finding “S for Sylvia”. The bomber, held by chocks, was the third in the line. Mechanics were busy, by the aid of electric lamps with wandering leads, overhauling and testing the hydraulic and electrical gear and giving final adjustments to the four engines.

Underneath, a tractor had been drawn up and the bombs were being loaded into the bomb-racks. In the still air the reek of Castrol and aviation spirit was decidedly noticeable.

“Everything O.K., Smith?” he inquired of the leading hand of the ground staff.

“All O.K., sir!” was the confident reply. “She won’t let you down. Let’s hope you’ll have a swastika or two to shove up after this ‘do’.”

“Thanks, I hope so,” rejoined Derek heartily. “But why swastika?”

By the gleam of the lamp he noticed a grin on the man’s face.

“ ’Cause it’s Berlin, not Turin, this trip, sir!” he replied.

“I wonder how he came to know that?” thought Derek. “Well, another two and a half hours and we’ll be up.”

A few yards away a couple of dim shapes, whom he identified as Price and Holt, came up.

“Mornin’, you fellows,” Derek greeted them. “Another brace of birds with uneasy consciences?”

“Sort of,” admitted the bomb aimer guardedly. “But we’ll all be merry and bright when the show starts going. But if that starboard bomb-door jams, as it did on the Frankfort stunt, there’ll be——”

“No, it won’t,” declared Derek confidently. “It’s just been tested and everything’s O.K. Isn’t it, Smith?”

“I’ll bet my life it is, sir,” replied the N.C.O. emphatically—and he meant it!

The three officers remained talking on various matters until from the portico of the mess-room a gong gave out its sharp though welcome announcement that breakfast was ready.

It was a generous, hot repast. Knowing that air-crews must be well and amply fed before proceeding on offensive operations, those in charge of the messing arrangements saw to it that there was wholesome food in abundance. As the crews fed the M.O. unobtrusively watched them, and anyone with a bad appetite or who refused his meal was as likely as not to be “stood down”, since it was taken for granted that there was something wrong with his nerves.

This morning there were no such “suspects”. The fellows tackled their breakfasts with avidity. There was very little conversation; no one seemed inclined for that, and even the licensed wit of the mess was silent.

Then half an hour’s stand-easy gave the crews time to shift into flying kit. Then there was a babel of more or less inconsequent conversation—the topic of the forthcoming raid was studiously avoided—and pipes and cigarettes were lit.

At length came the order for the air-crews to man their respective aircraft, and across the tarmac surged what would appear to an outsider to be a disorderly mob.

Looking, in the dim light of dawn, like a cross between the principal character in Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress and an Arctic explorer, for each man was in flying kit and encumbered by his “Mae West” and his packed parachute, they doubled to their respective bombers, now drawn up ready for the take-off.

“S for Sylvia”—a veteran of three months’ service though bearing no signs of the scars she had received in previous operations—was typical of the squadron of Halifaxes now almost ready to become airborne.

Derek Dundas, the “skipper” and pilot, wormed his way into his seat and crouched over the multitudinous array of “gadgets” on his instrument panel. Brains, hands and feet would all have to be brought into play in co-ordinated activity. He was apt to declare that after the war he’d be able to qualify for the post of cinema organist, since working stops, manuals and pedals would be child’s play after piloting an aircraft. From his perch he had an uninterrupted view through three hundred degrees horizontally, and also a wide expanse of the sky above. Only from underneath—the bomber’s vulnerable spot—was his range of vision drastically obstructed.

The three air-gunners climbed into their tight quarters of the mechanically operated turrets. They had to be there from the time of taking off until the bomber touched down on her return. It was not at all an uncommon occurrence for the gun to be in action within ten minutes of the take-off, especially if Nazi fighters were up over the North Sea and English Channel.

Pilot-officer David Price had not to go to his post until they were actually approaching the target; so instead of taking up a recumbent position and lying on his stomach in his “padded cell”, otherwise a low compartment right in the nose of the bomber and immediately under the front twin gun-turret, he seated himself on the lowermost step leading to the navigator’s cabin.

Here Flying-officer Nigel Holt was sitting at the chart table. He, too, was one of those who serve while they only stand and wait, although in his case he wasn’t on his feet. Unless “S for Sylvia” became separated from the other Halifaxes there wouldn’t be much for him to do, since “J for Jane”, the squadron-leader’s bus, would take the lead. But if circumstances led him to find himself alone, it would be Holt’s task to set a course either for the objective or else for home, as the case might be.

Another temporarily inactive member of the crew was the wireless operator, Sergeant O’Hara. Until the bomber became airborne his post was almost a sinecure, except for preliminary adjustments to the “set”. But once the fight was fairly under way, he’d be kept busy with radio contact with base, intercommunication between the raiding aircraft and passing on the reports to those members of the crew who were concerned.

Yet another man whose activities lasted from start to finish was Holroyd, the engineer. From his post, immediately behind but on a higher level than the pilot, he had a dual duty to perform; he had to control the four powerful engines, increasing or diminishing their “revs” as the occasion demanded, and also to keep a look-out through the astral-dome for enemy fighters approaching on a bearing “blind” to the pilot. Also, as a side line, he was expected to carry out minor repairs and adjustments to the engines, should through any cause they give trouble. And sometimes these “minor” repairs were actually major ones, and then the Yorkshireman would have to worm his way along the inside of one of the wings to coax a stalled mass of machinery into action again. Quite possibly, if he failed to accomplish this job, the crew would either have to bale out or run the risk of a crash landing.

Engines roared into activity. Ground men, pulling chocks clear, stood back as the ungainly monsters—ungainly only when not airborne—waddled over the tarmac.

“S for Sylvia” was the fourth to take off. Derek received the signal to start taxi-ing. Now he was all alert and very different from the slow, easy-going youth of the previous night.

More throttle! The bomber increased speed but showed no signs of parting company with Mother Earth. “P for Peggy”, the one immediately ahead, lifts herself from the runway. Dick gives his aircraft still more throttle; a slight pull on the joy-stick and “S for Sylvia” is airborne.