‘No, the last lot buggered off,’ I said. I could see the smaller fighters now, flying fast and low from the south, catching up with the 110. Apart from the different direction from which they appeared, it was an almost exact replay of what we had seen a few moments before. I saw the fighters go into a diving turn, accelerating towards the larger aircraft. Cannon fire glinted on their wings. Tracer curled across the short gap between them.
But once again our track was taking us over the dogfight.
‘We’re losing sight of them, Kris! Can you see what’s going on?’
‘Rear gunner has best seat. Yeah! They go for him!’
I moved back from the cockpit and found Lofty pressing his face against the thick perspex of the port-side nav window. I crammed up against him, trying to see.
‘They miss!’ It was Kris again, from the rear turret. ‘He’s OK!’
‘They’ll go round again, won’t they?’
‘I lost them. Wait!’
JL came on. ‘Don’t forget, if any of those crates see us we’re in trouble. No one relax!’
‘Yes skip.’
‘Sam, can you get a fix for us? I need to know where we are, how far from the coast.’
‘OK, JL. Give me a few minutes.’
From the rear, Kris said, ‘I can’t see them no more. The 110 was OK. I saw him fly on.’
‘Which direction was he going in?’
‘Due north.’
‘What about the Me-109s?’
‘Like you say, they bugger off.’
We remained fully alert, knowing for certain that there were German fighters in the vicinity, knowledge no bomber crew liked to have. A strange sense of purpose settled on us. With remarkable efficiency the gunners reported at regular intervals on what they could see in the skies around us and I completed the fix I had been taking.
When I had worked out our position, I reported the information over the intercom to JL.
‘How far does that put us from the German coast?’ he said.
‘A couple of hundred miles,’ I replied. About two hundred and sixty from the Danish coast, though.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because that was the direction the first lot were coming from. That would place their airfield somewhere on the Danish mainland.’
‘They might have come from Germany’
‘It looked to me as if the second lot did. Either way, the Me-109s would have been close to the limit of their range.’
‘Presumably that’s why they buzzed off as soon as they could.’
‘Right. So what were they up to, trying to shoot down their own?’
‘Beats me.’
We were closing on the German coast and we said nothing more about the strange incident. Other business was more pressing. By this time it was completely dark outside the aircraft and I needed to take another positional fix to be certain of where we would be crossing the coast. I worked it out and reported it to JL: our landfall would be a few miles to the west of Cuxhaven.
Not long after, Ted Burrage reported flak coming up from below and the familiar sick feeling of fear rose in me. While we were under attack from anti-aircraft fire, or while we were on a bombing run, I had to sit tight inside my little cubicle, unable to see what was happening outside. All I had to go on was the movement of the aircraft, the change in the pitch of the engines, the explosions of the flak and the often incoherent shouts from the rest of the crew coming through the intercom. On those flights in which we penetrated deep into German or occupied territory the racket could continue for several hours.
That night, though, our target was Hamburg, a port about fifty miles inland from the coast on the long estuary of the River Elbe, so we wouldn’t have to be over enemy territory for long. I plotted the route from the coast to our turning point and reported the bearing to JL. After that I worked out the course that would take us directly over the Hamburg docks, the intended drop-zone for bombing. After the plane had manoeuvred round to the new course I heard the voices of the rest of the crew changing when they reported in. As we neared the target everyone spoke more quickly. Their breath rasped noisily in my headset and sentences were left unfinished. They all seemed to be on the point of shouting.
While we were still on the way to the bombing zone I began to work out the best course for home: the shortest route back to the German coastline, a dog-leg to take us around the known positions of certain German flak ships moored offshore, then, once we were safely out to sea, swinging round to take us by a direct westerly route towards the beacon on the Lincolnshire coast and after that to our airfield. All the time the aircraft was shifting attitude and position and bucking violently whenever a flak shell burst close to us, but from the sound of Ted Burrage’s voice, and from JL’s responses, I gained the impression that things were going as smoothly as could be expected. Those last moments before the drop were the worst for most of the crew, but it was a time of great concentration for the bomb aimer and pilot.
I forced myself to be calm, staring down at my maps and charts and trying to calculate angles and distances, but in reality what I was waiting for was the blessed moment when we felt the bombs being released from the bomb-bay.
‘Let’s go home!’ someone shouted as soon as the aircraft gave its familiar judder of relief. The plane was rising, free of the weight of the bomb load.
‘Keep your eyes peeled!’JL said brusquely. ‘There’s a long way to go yet.’
‘Can’t we lift above this lot?’
‘Bomb aimer, get back to your turret.’
‘Yes, skip.’
‘Christ! That one was close!’
‘Everyone all right?’
‘Yes, skip.’
‘Both engines normal.’
‘Anyone behind us?’
‘Another couple of Wellingtons.’
‘OK, hold on. We can’t turn yet. Searchlights ahead. Some poor devil has been coned.’
‘Can’t we go round them?’
‘They’re on all sides.’
Releasing the bombs had that effect. For a few minutes everyone was talking at once, the held-back fears and excitement rushing out of us. I waited for the others to quieten a little, then I read out our new course to JL. He repeated it back to me.
‘Turning now,’ JL said. I felt the plane moving to port, the engines’ note changing as they took up the temporary strain of the turn. It was all right, it was going to be all right. It felt all right after you dropped the bombs: illogically because the plane was lighter and you were heading for home, you believed the gunners on the ground couldn’t see you. If there were any fighters up they wouldn’t be looking for you anymore. The worst was over.
6
Except that on that night the worst was yet to come.
Something struck us explosively at the front of the plane. I felt the shock of the impact, was thrown against the wall of the aircraft by the blast and scorched by the sudden glare of white flame as it ballooned briefly down the fuselage. I fell to the floor as the plane tipped over.
‘That’s it! Bail out, everyone!’
I heard JL’s desperate words through the intercom, but they were followed by a dead silence on the earphones. The intercom lead had jerked out of its socket as I fell. I think I blacked out for a few seconds. Then I was back, in an agony of pain. Blood was running down over my eyes, gluing my eyelids. Something must have hit me in the leg, high up, close to the hip. When I put my hand down to see what damage there was, I could feel more blood all over my trousers and tunic. Freezing cold air was jetting in through a large hole in the floor, below and slightly to the side of my desk. All the lights were out. The engines were screaming and the angle of the plane’s dive was rolling me towards the front. My injured leg banged against something jagged that was sticking out from the floor and I yelled with pain.