Story of the Month

 

The Time Just Before by Peter Deacon (an extract)

The Lancasters moved around the perimeter slowly like a procession of black beetles, all heading towards the runway. George joined the queue and crept forward, alternately scanning dials and looking towards the start of the runway where the squadron leader’s Lancaster waited at the head of the queue. Suddenly the lead bomber began to move, slowly at first and then quickly gathering speed as the tail came up. Straight away, the next aircraft came to the start line, and as the squadron leader lifted into the air and banked to the right, the second was already rolling down the runway, and a third moving to the start. This movement rippled down the line, and George nudged M-Mother forward gently, careful not to foul her engine plugs.

Chalky read out the final checks. ‘Elevator trim, two divisions.’

‘Check.’

‘Propellers set to max rpm.’

‘Check.’

‘Flaps, twenty degrees down.’

‘Check.’

‘Superchargers in medium gear.’

‘Check.’ They finished with just one aircraft in front, and with a massive roar, it wound up its engines and began rolling. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. His whole body felt light, insubstantial, as if this was happening to someone else. Was it just him that felt afraid? He glanced at Chalky, but Chalky was staring at the controller’s caravan, watching for the green light, his face hidden.

‘Take off positions, everyone,’ George said and placed his right hand on the throttles. Then the green light flashed. This was it.

‘Green light,’ Chalky confirmed, and George pushed the throttles forward, waiting a few seconds for the power to build before releasing the brakes. Winding up the engines against the brakes broke the rules, but it was the best way to gain every inch of the runway with a heavy load. Another trick Smith had taught him.

‘Here we go!’ George called and released the brakes. M-Mother jumped forward, straining under the weight like a horse pulling a heavy load. They were laden with fuel and bombs, and now he had to get her off the ground.

Over a mile of runway stretched into the distance like a thick pencil line. On either side, flare path lights flickered as the speed built. To the right, a group of WAAFs and ground crews waved to them. Further back on the control tower balcony, he could see the CO and his senior staff officers watching.

Despite the load, M-Mother’s tail soon came up, but George decided to keep her on the runway until they reached over one hundred and ten miles per hour. He took his hand from the throttles and left Chalky to tighten the friction screws. With both hands on the yoke and his eyes set firmly on the runway, he listened to Chalky read the speed.

‘Eighty-five… ninety… ninety-five… one hundred…’

They had travelled three-quarters of the runway. Too late to abort if something went wrong. At one hundred and ten miles per hour, George pulled back on the column, and M-Mother climbed solidly into the air.

‘Undercarriage and flaps up, please, Chalky,’ George asked, and he felt the speed increase without their combined drag.

Pulling Mother into a climbing right turn, he could see aircraft above them spiralling towards the clouds and their grouping point ten thousand feet over the aerodrome. Now that they were committed, most of what happened next would depend on their ability. Smith was right, they were a good crew, and this was a fine aircraft; he must cling to that.

The setting sun shone warm and red as they emerged above the clouds, coating the cockpit in a golden glow. He watched in fascination as Lancaster after Lancaster appeared through the white haze below, rising upwards like birds leaving a misty lake. Grouping in loose vics of three, the training squadron turned northeast towards Southwold and began a gentle climb to fifteen thousand feet. There they would meet the rest of the attacking force, arriving from bases across eastern England, before they all turned southeast and headed for Holland.

‘Oxygen on, please, Chalky.’ George fastened his mask across his face and breathed in puffs of rubbery-tasting air. ‘Make sure you’re getting a supply, everyone. I don’t want anyone passing out.’

‘We’ve got company,’ Dick Scrivener said. He was in the front, spotting ground features for Dingo. ‘Wellingtons at ten o’clock and five thousand feet below.’

George banked the aircraft to get a better view and saw a gaggle of Wimpeys in front and to the left on a parallel heading. Although strongly built and resilient, the twin-engine Wellington was slower than the Lancaster and could not climb as high. Consequently, it was more vulnerable and a more tempting target for night fighters. Perversely, a part of him was grateful for this, although he felt guilty for thinking it. Within fifteen minutes, the sun had set, and a half-moon shone its weak light on the cumulus below them, turning it silvery white. Aircraft stood out quite distinctly against the clouds, but there was still some refracted sunlight leaking around the earth’s curvature. The sky would darken fully as the sun moved further away. He hoped so; they would be sitting ducks over Holland otherwise.

‘Southwold should be coming up.’ Dingo said.

‘Thanks, Nav. Eyes peeled, everyone.’ George said. ‘This is going to get crowded, and I want to know if we’re close to other aircraft.’

‘Coastline ahead,’ Dick said, his voice uncharacteristically excited.

Through broken clouds, George could see the grey English coast and, beyond that, the dark surface of the Channel sparkling with cresting waves. Directly ahead, there was just enough light to make out the bomber stream gathering. It was an impressive sight. A horde of bombers spread across the sky. Wellingtons, Lancasters, Halifax and Stirlings, even a few venerable Hampden’s and Whitley’s. Dozens and dozens of aircraft converged on Southwold before turning southeast towards Holland. Unbidden, a memory of the Blitz came back, the day he had watched the Luftwaffe swarm head towards London. Butch Harris is right about one thing; he told himself Germany is reaping the whirlwind.

‘Ned, Dingo. Come up to the front and see this.’ Seconds later, the two stood behind him and Chalky.

‘Jesus,’ Dingo said. ‘Dusseldorf is in for one hell of a pasting tonight.’

‘I thought you should see it while you can. In fifteen minutes, it will be fully dark.’ George dimmed the instrument lights until he could hardly read the dials. ‘You’d better give me the course changes early so I can mark the compass.’

‘Will do, skipper.’ Dingo said, and he and Ned went back to their positions. The light faded quickly, and the cloud colour changed from white to dark grey. There were so many bombers in the sky that collision was now a real danger. Aircraft that had been discernible just a few minutes before disappeared entirely.

‘We turn onto our new heading in five minutes, skipper.’ Dingo said.

‘Thanks, Dingo. Jim, can you see the rest of the squadron?’ The upper turret gave a good three-sixty-degree view above the aircraft, though very little directly below. There was a moment’s silence.

‘Negative skipper. I get glimpses of P-Peter to our right occasionally, but apart from that, just the odd shape.’

‘Nothing from the rear either,’ Max added.

The Lancaster suddenly bounced and jarred in another aircraft’s slipstream. It must be just a few hundred feet in front, although George could see nothing. He felt the hairs on his neck tingle. There were so many aircraft surrounding them that when they made the next turn, he might fly into one. George took Mother up a hundred feet until they were out of the slipstream, but then a Halifax crossed right in front of them, a looming back shape just a dozen yards away and so close that George could see its tail gunner staring at him.

‘My God,’ Dick called from the front turret. ‘Any closer, and we could have shaken hands.’

‘Change course to one hundred and twenty degrees, now skipper,’ Dingo called.

‘Thanks, Nav. Going right and climbing, I’m taking us up and out of this. More revs, please, Chalky.’ The Lancaster could fly higher than other bombers, even a Halifax, and he decided to climb and find some space. ‘Keep your eyes peeled, everyone.’ He pulled back on the column and turned onto the next heading. In front, the horizon’s dim outline tilted and dropped down the cockpit glass. They were now flying towards Holland and beyond that to the heart of Germany. M-Mother climbed sluggishly to twenty thousand feet, far less responsive with the weight of fuel and bombs.

‘I’m worried about the fuel consumption, skipper,’ Chalky said. He was looking at the engineer’s panel and making calculations on a clipboard. ‘I’d like to pull back the revs as soon as possible.’

‘Bit early to worry about fuel, isn’t it?’ George asked, although he knew Lancaster engineers strived for the golden one point one miles-per-gallon and fretted like misers about reserves.

‘It always pays to have something in your back pocket,’ Chalky replied primly. ‘You never know what’s in front.’

‘How are we doing for time, nav?’

‘Pretty much bang on, skipper. The next turn is in fifteen minutes, new heading fifty-four degrees. Airspeed should be one-eighty to avoid creeping up on the blokes in front.’

‘OK, bring back the throttle for one hundred and eighty miles per hour, Chalky.’

There was little to see outside now, just blackness punctuated by a scattering of stars. Even the weak glow of the moon seemed to have abandoned them. Each second took M-Mother closer to danger, and only the thought that they were part of an armada gave him any comfort. The Luftwaffe’s radars would be tracking them and bringing night fighters to readiness or already have them prowling the skies. Ground defenders would be fetching ammunition, cranking their gun barrels upwards and waiting to fire thousands of shells at the attackers. George fiddled with the trim wheel. He longed for the next turn. The sooner they made landfall, the sooner it would begin and the sooner it would be over.

‘Searchlights coming on to port,’ Dick said. He now sounded dispassionate; they all seemed to have calmed down since the mission started. George looked sideways and saw half a dozen beams probing to their left. Then others flicked on either side of these, around twenty altogether.

‘Where is that?’ George asked no one in particular.

‘Must be Rotterdam,’ Dick replied. ‘I guess the pathfinders are already skirting the city.’

‘Next turn in five minutes.’ Dingo said.

‘How long after that till we cross the coast?’

Dingo was silent for a few seconds, and then he said, ‘It’s difficult to be exact as we may come up one of the estuaries, but after we turn, I’d say five to ten minutes to reach Schouwen. Then another twenty minutes to the final turning point at Hertogenbosch.‘

‘Thanks, Nav. Fighters will be about, from now on, gunners. We’re relying on you.’

‘You’re in safe hands with me, skipper,’ Max replied. ‘Jim’s a complete no-hoper, though.’

‘You cockney half-pint.’ Jim Ambiolo’s Norfolk accent was emphasised by the intercom. ‘You can hardly see over the gun mounts.’

‘Quiet, you two or Goering’s boys will have the last laugh.’

‘Turn now, skipper. New heading of ninety-four degrees.’

George pulled M-Mother to the left and watched the compass rotate. ‘We’re on course, Nav. Let me know five minutes before the next turn.’ He tried to sound calm, but he felt too anxious. This was it; they were now heading straight for the enemy. The Merlins roared, and the Lancaster trembled with power. George gripped the yoke tighter and wondered what the next hours would bring. More than anything, he wondered whether he would be good enough. Despite the CO’s words, he did not feel confident. A scan of the dials again, and he paused. Was it his eyes, or was the port inner hotter now, the needle marginally higher? Chalky noticed it, too and tapped the glass. The needle dropped, aligning with the other three.

Their course lay directly towards the string of searchlights. Some beams wandered across the sky, searching for intruders, while others remained vertical, creating a barrier. It was like staring at the bars of a prison cell. There were so many beams it seemed impossible to slip through undetected. George squinted because he noticed something else in front; bursts of colour that appeared and quickly faded. Then he realised it was flak. A deep layer of orange flashes that left small clouds of black smoke in their wake. Below the flak, dotted lines of coloured tracer arched up, but these faded at around twelve thousand feet, well below the height of the bombers. The Germans were certainly putting on a show, searchlights, heavy calibre flak and medium calibre tracer below that. It was like watching a firework display, mesmerising and deadly. M-Mother inched towards it, the blackness hiding all sense of speed. It felt that they were travelling at little more than a walking pace, and involuntarily, he began to reach for the throttles but then stopped. Chalky was right. They might be short of fuel later.

‘Someone’s coned,’ Chalky said.

Away to the right, three searchlights had come together, joining at the top to illuminate a bomber. In the distance, the aircraft was just a white speck, a moth caught in the torchlight. Suddenly flak peppered the sky nearby, black smudges with angry orange cores. George gripped the yoke harder. Move you, idiot. Dive. Get away, he urged. Then the spec sprouted flames, small at first but growing quickly until it looked like the tip of a struck match. Within seconds, the aircraft was a comet falling through the night sky. George was stunned. Seven lives gone in seconds. That could be us, he thought.

‘My God!’ Dick’s voice was shocked, horrified. ‘The poor bastards didn’t stand a chance.’

‘What’s happened, skipper?’ Dingo asked. He could see nothing outside his curtained area.

‘A kite to starboard took a direct hit. It looked like flak exploded the bomb load,’ George decided.

‘Hell. At least it would have been quick.’

Flak filled the sky around them as they crossed the shoreline. Immediately Mother bucked and wallowed through the broken air as if she was driving along a deeply rutted road. George thought of the burning aircraft and the thousands of pounds of explosives beneath his feet. It took just one red-hot splinter to slice into the Cookie. There was no defence other than changing height every minute or so, and he was not convinced that particularly helped. Many of the flak guns fired in a barrage, their shells exploding randomly, and so one piece of sky was no safer than any other. The distance between searchlights grew as they flew closer, and he banked left towards one of the wider gaps, hoping to slip through unnoticed. Then he saw a far beam swing towards them. It looked different to the others, silvery-blue rather than yellow and with a sinking feeling, realised it was the radar-controlled master light. It was startling how quickly it flicked across the sky, like watching a snake’s springing attack. Now flying straight would definitely kill them, just like the other bomber. He had to evade.

‘Hold on, everyone!’ he shouted and pushed the column and throttles forward. M-Mother leapt downhill, increasing speed as she dropped. The dive was so steep that he became weightless. Across his left shoulder, the beam sliced nearer.

‘Two-ten… Two-twenty…’ Chalky called out the airspeed.

‘Two-forty… Two-sixty…’ Was it his imagination, or was the blue beam heading astern of them?

‘Two-eighty… Three hundred…’

The searchlight’s edge grazed M-Mother just for a second and passed on. Its sweep had missed. Now George had to decide whether to continue the dive, in case it swung back, or start climbing and hope the radar targeted someone else.  He decided to climb; chasing a fleeing target was more difficult than one coming towards you, and aircraft filled the skies. Pulling back on the throttles, he tugged the column, and slowly Mother’s nose came up. It was hard work; the Lancaster was heavy to manoeuvre at high speed.

A massive blast exploded below and in front, peppering them with shrapnel and pushing Mother’s nose higher. Immediately the engines struggled against the steep angle, and speed bled away. George instinctively pushed both the column and throttles forward before the Lancaster stalled. Smoke wafted into the cockpit, filling it with the acrid tang of cordite.

‘Everyone OK?’ George asked, feeling badly shaken. That had been close, too close. The crew checked in, and miraculously no one was injured. ‘What’s the damage?’

‘There’s a couple of holes in the nose, but nothing serious.’ Dick said.

‘I think the starboard wing tank is holed,’ Chalky said as he clambered up in the cockpit to get a better view. ‘There’s a stream of vapour. Wait, it’s stopping. I guess the self-sealing works.’

‘Sounded like a hail storm on a dunny roof back here.’ Dingo sounded indignant. ‘But nothing came through.’

Had he not pulled up, they would have flown straight into the shell. Don’t think about it now. It’s a distraction. He breathed deeply before continuing. ‘Well done, everyone. We’re through the first flak belt. The big danger is from fighters, so eyes peeled gunners. How long is it until we turn nav?’

‘Ten minutes, skipper. Then right, onto one hundred and fourteen degrees magnetic.’

‘Firing to starboard,’ Jim shouted. George looked across Chalky in time to see a horizontal stream of tracers rip through the air in the distance.

‘Must be a fighter after one of the boys,’ Max said. ‘Jim, you keep watching that side. I’ll scan to port.’

George could see nothing of the two aircraft, and there was no more tracer, so maybe the bomber got away. Out in the darkness, two aircraft were playing a deadly game of cat and mouse. He pushed the column down and wallowed back up, hoping this would make them a more difficult target. Simultaneously, he banked steeply to port and then to starboard, giving both gunners a better view below. The thought that a fighter could be creeping up behind them made him shiver. It was like walking down a dark alley with a crazed knifeman on the loose.

‘Turn in two minutes, skipper,’ Dingo said.

‘Thanks, Nav.’ George noticed Chalky examining his engineer’s panel. ‘What’s the fuel state, Engineer?’

‘We lost a hundred gallons or so before the hole sealed itself. There’s a quarter of the reserve left, plenty to get us home as long as we don’t go wild.’

‘Turn to a new heading of one hundred and fourteen degrees,’ Dingo called.

George banked to the right in a slow turn and watched the compass revolve. ‘One hundred and fourteen it is Nav. How long until we reach Dusseldorf?’

‘Sixty miles until the start of the bomb run, so with this tail-wind, say about twenty minutes.’

George blanched. It was a long time to sit and wonder if the Luftwaffe was about to blow you out of the sky. Almost as bad as knowing they could easily drift into one of the five hundred bombers surrounding them.

M-Mother seemed to crawl over the black landscape, rocking occasionally as flak shells exploded nearby. No one spoke. Apart from the constant background noise of the Merlin engines, the silence became oppressive. Everyone seemed tense, readying for the bomb run. He was tempted to ask Dingo again how much longer but worried that would make him sound windy. Suddenly, a burst of firing ripped through the black sky, half a mile away and five thousand feet lower. This time the victim did not escape. A line of silver dashes created a trickle of flames on the target, which grew rapidly into a tongue of fire. The light from the flames showed the victim to be a Wellington. The aircraft flew straight and level, and he guessed the pilot was holding her steady while his crew jumped. Then the fuel tanks ruptured, and the entire wing blazed brightly. Jump. Get out, George urged. As he watched, the wing snapped back against the aircraft’s body, and the Wellington rolled onto its side and tumbled like a slowly turning Catherine wheel. The crew talked at once.

‘Christ, did you see that?’

‘See what?’ Dingo asked.

‘A kite’s bloody wing burned off.’

‘Poor bastards.’

‘Quiet everyone and keep watching,’ George snapped. ‘There are more fighters out there.’ He dipped the aircraft more vigorously this time, and as M-Mother climbed back up, he saw a glimmer in the distance.

‘Nav and Bomb Aimer. I can see a red glow. I think the first wave has gone in. Dusseldorf’s burning.’

Dingo came back immediately. ‘Good one. I make it ten minutes until we start the bomb run. Can you see anything below us, Dick?’ Dingo asked, and George saw the bomb aimer wriggle forward into the Perspex bubble.

‘Something’s reflecting in front of us. Could be a river?’

‘That’ll be the Meuse. We’re bang-on then, skipper. Aim for the fires. You don’t need me again until we’ve dropped.’

‘You’d better arm the bombs, Dick,’ George told him. ‘I want to go straight in and out.’

‘Wait, skipper, we’ve got company,’ Max interrupted. ‘Jim, look behind, about five o’clock and a bit below. Got it?’

Silence and then, ‘Got it.’

‘What is it, Max?’ George asked.

‘There’s a Messerschmitt 109 climbing up behind us, trying to get on our tail. Don’t do anything yet, skipper. Wait until I say, then drop straight down and corkscrew right. When he comes in, me and Jim’ll give him a squirt.’

George shivered. This was it, the moment he feared, the moment a night fighter found them, but at least they had seen it first. Should he start the corkscrew now? Did he trust Max? Could he trust him? All their lives depended on the next few moments. Mother’s fuel tanks were awash with hundred-octane petrol and underneath hung a four thousand pound bomb cased in only a thin metal tube. One well-aimed cannon shell could blow them to pieces, and the 109 fired ten each second. George forced himself to think rationally. The 109 was an aircraft, not a demon. Although the pilot flew a nimble fighter, the Lancaster was a great kite, and he felt confident that he was a good pilot and had a good crew. He trusted them.

‘OK, Max, it’s your call. Tell me what’s happening?’ George said, and he pressed Millie’s Star of David for luck.

‘He’s still climbing. Just wait for a second, skipper.’ Max sounded strangely calm, and George pictured him crouching behind his four machine guns, watching the dim shape as it drew nearer. ‘Still got him, Jim?’

‘Aye, I’m tracking the bastard.’

‘Any second now, skipper.’ Max drew out the words as if he was performing a delicate operation. ‘Here he comes! Corkscrew right!’

George threw the column forward and yanked the yoke to the right before pulling back the throttles to slow the bomber and make the Messerschmitt overshoot. Mother dropped sickeningly as if she was tumbling down a cliff. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a hail of cannon shells scream across the left wing and past the cockpit. Instinctively he flinched and leaned away.

‘Three hundred… Three-ten…’ Chalky called the speeds, but George hardly heard him. Although forward momentum was reduced, the steep dive angle was causing speed to build. Then, Mother vibrated as both Max and Jim fired their guns. Still looking left, he pulled the throttles back further to begin a slow climbing turn just as the 109 hurtled past yards away, trailing smoke. It pitched nose up, rolled over and spun downwards. George stared in shock, frozen until Chalky banged his arm. With a start, he adjusted the throttles and tugged the column with all his strength. It barely moved. Mother did not respond.