Читать книгу Combined Operations - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 5

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Twice the leading bombers circled over the aerodrome until the remaining ones had taken off and were gaining the prescribed altitude.

In the half light of dawn the aerodrome was almost invisible even from two thousand feet. So well camouflaged were the hangars and administrative and repair buildings that they seemed to merge into the flat countryside. Had the sun been above the hangar the effect would have been different, for in spite of the camouflager’s art, it is the shadows that give the show away to lone German reconnaissance machines. Underground hangars and workshops and the building of decoy aerodromes help to solve the problem of how to gain comparative security from hostile air attack—methods that have been tried out both by the Axis and the United Nations.

“From Squadron-commander, sir!” announced O’Hara. “ ‘Set course for target, alt. 25,000.’ ”

“Right,” replied Derek. “Acknowledge!”

In perfect formation the heavily laden bombers began their long and fairly gradual climb. At sixteen thousand feet they passed over the English coast. Away to the left other formations could just be discerned. More had preceded them; others, to give the necessary time interval, were yet to take off from their respective aerodromes.

Already “Sylvia’s” three air-gunners were feeling the effect of the cold in spite of the wind-proof transparent covers for the gun-positions and of the fact that they were wearing electrically heated suits. Ice was forming on the leading edges of the wings and tending to cloud the protection to the gun-turrets. Yet the while all three men were keenly on the alert, though perhaps they wouldn’t have the chance to let off even half a dozen rounds, unless they were attacked by fighters or the captain gave the order to them to shoot up likely targets on the ground.

Over the English Channel patches of low clouds, looking snow-white as seen from above, obscured the French coast until the bombers were almost over it. Anti-aircraft batteries were in action, not against the Halifaxes, but against medium bombers flying at low altitudes and delivering a diversionary raid on the advanced aerodrome in the Normandy area.

By this time the crew had put on their oxygen masks. The temperature inside the fuselage, in spite of the heating apparatus worked by the exhausts, had dropped to minus five degrees Fahrenheit.

So far there was no fighter opposition. Possibly this was employed elsewhere, or it might be that the German radiolocation stations had been the objective of the diversionary raids, so that they failed to give warning of the Halifaxes flying above the clouds and at such a height that they were both invisible and inaudible from the ground.

An hour passed. It seemed longer than that. Price, making an effort to heave himself out of his far from comfortable seat, thought to himself that this looked like being a very tame business. Hedge-hopping was what appealed to him; then one did get a thrill or two. He was wondering also why Jerry hadn’t put up strong fighter opposition. Surely, with Hermann Goering due to spout in another ninety minutes’ time, he would have concentrated every available aircraft that the Luftwaffe could release from other duties so that the British bombers could be intercepted long before they arrived over the German capital.

Actually the enemy air defence had been neatly tricked. Instead of making for Berlin by the shortest route, the detour they were taking was bringing them well clear of the German fighters. Perhaps it would be a different tale on the return flight.

He tried to read a book to while away the time. It wasn’t a success. He couldn’t keep his mind on it. Perhaps this was one of the effects of oxygen. Again and again he glanced at one of the synchronized clocks, frequently to imagine that the hands had become stationary as the result of the intense cold.

A voice boomed into the earpiece of his headphones; it was the skipper speaking.

“ ’Bout time you went to your padded cell, old son! We’re gliding down in five minutes.”

The oxygen apparatuses had already been discarded. The bomber had lost height and was gliding towards the target, now only some twenty miles off.

Wriggling into his cramped quarters, the bomb-aimer settled himself into as comfortable a position as conditions allowed. He looked out. The clouds had been left behind. Berlin and the surrounding district lay bathed in bright sunshine.

So far as David Price could make out there was as yet no anti-aircraft gunfire. The sky was amazingly clear of those balls of white and black smoke that almost invariably greet the day-bombers. On the other hand—for the distance between “Sylvia” and the objective was rapidly diminishing—mushroom-shaped clouds of black smoke cutting across the centre of Berlin indicated that the first wave of British aircraft was already making it most difficult for Field-Marshal Hermann Goering, both in a physical and a moral sense, to deliver his address to the German nation.

“Bomb doors open!”

“J for Jane” and “T for Trixie” were dropping their lethal cargoes. “S for Sylvia” had not as yet brought her immediate target into her bomb-sight.

Cool as the proverbial cucumber, David waited until the right moment. Provided the instrument had been set correctly the first four-thousand-pound bomb would fall exactly where it was meant to drop—not on a children’s school but on an important and imposing building on the Unter der Linden. There could be no mistaking the place. Even the most elaborate camouflage of which the resourceful Huns were capable couldn’t render it safe. The chain of lakes linked up by the River Spree served as a bearing and a landmark that no pilot could miss.

Suddenly the Halifax shuddered. She dipped slightly and recovered herself. The A.A. guns had opened up, and one shell exploding close under the bomber had ripped about four feet off the leading edge of the starboard wing. Then two sharp raps, something like those of a postman’s knock, sounded on the side of the fuselage.

“The blighters are opening up at us!” thought the bomb-aimer rather indignantly.

That was all the attention he gave to it. His whole being was held by the work on hand—his own particular job. What he didn’t know was that there were two jagged holes through the side, one of them just above the wireless operator’s seat, and that O’Hara, wounded in his left shoulder and right wrist, was savagely glaring at his now useless transmitter.

“S for Sylvia” lurched under the shock of a couple of shells. Momentarily she swerved off her course, but even that didn’t upset Price’s calculations. He held on to the bomb-release gear.

“Next run over the target I’ll get it, I hope!” he reported to Derek, who had been waiting for that decidedly perceptible movement of the aircraft that happens when a heavy bomb is released.

There was no help for it. Huge bombs of the type carried by the Halifax weren’t to be dumped indiscriminately. It was a question of planting them where they would do the greatest possible damage.

Derek held on. Far below him he could see that fires started by the earlier attackers had gained a firm hold and that big areas of the city had been practically flattened out. Viewed from the air it wasn’t a spectacular scene, as in the case of night bombing, when lurid flames, dazzling beams of searchlight and the firework display of tracers gave one the impression of a Brock’s display in peace-time and without the spice of danger. All the same, the good work of carrying aerial warfare into the heart of the Third Reich was proceeding with excellent results.

Another thing that struck him as he made the run over the target was the relatively weak defence put up by the A.A. guns. Even allowing for the fact that it was broad daylight and that puffs of white and black smoke were not so impressive as the flash of exploding shells at night, the old Boche wasn’t up to his usual form. This was additionally remarkable in view of Goering’s advertised address. Derek wondered what the fat Field-Marshal was doing at that very moment. Probably he was sheltering in an exceptionally deep dugout and listening, with mixed feelings, to the terrific, nerve-racking detonations of the eight- and four-thousand-pound “beautiful” bombs as handed out by the R.A.F.

Now the Halifax was at the end of her run. Her consorts, their allotted tasks completed, had turned for home. Their respective wireless operators had called up the operations room at their bases reporting “Op. successfully completed”.

“S for Sylvia” had to go into the fray again. It was a point of honour for a bomber not to return with her bomb-racks laden. She had no means of getting into touch with her base. The first intimation of her safety would be when she touched down on British soil—unless she had met with a mishap and would never return.

Describing a “close” turn the Halifax began to retrace her course. Derek could now see the general pattern of the bombers’ attack. There were lines of fires running north and south and from west to east, with others of less magnitude running diagonally. All seemed to meet at a central point, where the principal objective was now hidden by bellowing clouds of smoke. The R.A.F. had described the pattern of a Union Jack over Berlin!

Again, and still cool and collected, Price stood by the bomb-aimer’s sights. The Halifax was flying low in order to dodge the anti-aircraft shells which, though relatively few, were concentrated upon her. Probably there was machine-gun and rifle fire from the ground; if so, they gave no trouble and were also unseen and unheard by the aircraft’s crew.

It was now or never!

Straight for the enormous cloud that overhung the centre of the target “S for Sylvia” tore. She wasn’t doing her maximum speed owing to damage already received. The wind shrieked and howled through gashes in her wings and sides, yet in spite of a tendency to swing to the right, caused by damage to the leading edge of the wing, the pilot contrived to keep her on a fairly steady course.

Now she was entering the fringe of the smoke cloud. Pilot-officer Price actuated the release gear.

“Bombs all gone, sir!” he reported.

It was a hardly necessary announcement. The characteristic tremor of the aircraft, different from that caused by a shell hit, told Derek that.

For some seconds the crew were enveloped in darkness, so thick and opaque was the pall of smoke over the centre of the city.

Then, with a quick succession of heavy reports, followed by waves of displaced air that tossed the Halifax like a celluloid ball in a shooting-gallery, the bombs exploded, their flashes rending the smoke with dull red streaks.

Lightened by the release of her heavy load the bomber banked and began to gain altitude. Derek’s object was to trick the anti-aircraft defences by altering course and climbing while still hidden by the smoke.

“S for Sylvia” had carried out the part assigned to her, although she had no means of announcing that to the control office at her base. It now remained for her to make for home and get there—if she could!