He moved back to the cockpit and seated himself at the controls again. He plugged in to the intercom. “Captain to rear and front gunners. We’re just crossing the coast now. Test guns as soon as you can see the sea.”
Presently the twin guns ahead of him stuttered, and he saw the bright tracer flying out ahead; behind him, through the structure, he felt the vibration of the rear guns firing. Over the intercom he heard Cobbett say: “Front gunner, sir. Front guns functioning correctly.” He replied: “Okay, front gunner. Stay where you are.” He heard: “Rear-gunner reporting guns okay, Cap.” The pilot said: “Okay, rear-gunner.”
He sat quiet at the controls as they moved out over the dark sea, flying in automatic, watching the instruments from time to time to check their course, watchfully peering from side to side. Gunnar Franck came up beside him and let down the second pilot’s seat and sat by him watching to starboard; they flew on in silence into the starry night.
They were not alone in the air; there were other aircraft all around them. Flying at their set height and with all aircraft winging out to the same target, the danger of collision was small. At that time the Wellington was growing obsolete for operations, being superseded by the larger and more powerful Lancasters and Halifaxes; for this reason they had started ahead of the faster bombers, though they were scheduled to arrive at Hamburg when the defences were already heavily engaged. The big machines were overtaking them; from time to time Phillips would report: “Rear-gunner here, Cap. Aircraft coming up on us, same course, port quarter, above.” Pause. “It’s a Lane, Cap.” “Okay, rear-gunner.” Presently the big machine would draw in sight above them and become foreshortened as it vanished into the black sky ahead.
Marshall sat at the controls at peace. He loved the sense of these great starry, quiet nights, when flying was easy and the world serene. On cloudy nights, or on nights of bright moonlight, or on nights when there was icing of the wings—on ninety-five per cent of the nights, that is to say—he suffered from anxiety or fear; he could not tell the difference. You were unhappy on those nights; you reached the target drawn and with a sense of strain. Usually he was able to relax on the way home however bad the weather might be, when the end meant cocoa and buns and bed with a hot-water bottle. It was the outward journey that he usually found most difficult.
On these serene nights, winging steadily under the bright stars, it did not seem that anything could ever happen that would bring you ill. Sitting there at the controls or in the gunner’s cupola a man was forced to contemplation, to the study of beauty for a quiet hour. The knights of the Arthurian legend before battle spent a night of vigil at the altar; it was hardly different in the Wellington on nights like these. You reached the target in a calm serenity, ready for anything that might befall.
At half-past eleven Gunnar left the cockpit and went back to the navigator’s table; he appeared a minute later, sextant in hand, and nodded to Marshall. The pilot took the controls from automatic, fixed his gaze upon the stars ahead, and concentrated upon keeping the machine steady. Standing in the astrodrome the Dane brought Procyon to the bubble, averaged quickly, and noted time and altitude. He swung round and worked upon Arcturus; then he dropped down to the table and began computing the position. In the cockpit Marshall put the automatic in again, and they went on in the still, starry night.
At half-past twelve they saw flak rising up ahead of them, thrown from a coast they could not see. Marshall called Cobbett back from the front cockpit to check the petrol in the tanks, and sent him back again to man the front guns. They crossed the coast, weaving a little to defeat the flak, and then altered course towards the south. Already they had seen a glow of fires at the horizon, fifty miles away; the fires were in two groups, one spreading and extensive, and one, over to the west of the other, mere pin-points of light. As they flew on, the little set of fires grew in magnitude, dwarfing the one that had seemed larger at the first. The Germans had not got away with their decoy.
Now they could see the searchlights, hundreds of them, grouped in six or seven cones around the burning city, with flak bursting in great clusters of bright stars at the apex of each cone. Marshall sat studying the searchlights and the flak as they drew near; by his side the Dane was standing, peering forward at the target through the windscreen. “Putting up a lot of barrage to-night,” said the pilot. “See it all coming up in bursts? You’d think they’d run out of ammo, going on like that.”
The Dane studied the situation. “I think it is at two heights, Cap, the barrage. See—that I think is higher than us; perhaps it is twelve thousand. And that one to the left is lower, and the searchlights are lower also. I think the fuses are set for the barrage at about twelve thousand feet and at about seven thousand. It may not be easy that they change them quick.”
“Go in about nine thousand?”
The navigator nodded.
“I think so, too.” The pilot raised his voice. “Captain to crew. We’re going in at about nine thousand, chaps. I’m going to stooge around a little longer and work round it to the south. Looks as if there’s a bit of a gap down there. I shall be turning in about five minutes from now; if we can spot the target we’ll only do the one run. Got that, rear-gunner?”
“Rear-gunner here. Okay, Cap.”
“Rear and front gunners, keep on your toes for fighters. There must be a lot of them up to-night.”
“All I seen is Lanes and Halifaxes so far.”
“You won’t see fighters over the target. Watch out as we’re going away.”
They were still ten miles from the city, but the glow of fires lit up the machine; accustomed as their eyes were to the darkness, the faint yellow light seemed bright to them. They were in the region of the outer defences; a few searchlights waved about their path questing for them or other aircraft near them; a little burst of flak showed up near some machine ahead. Marshall put the nose down, throttling a trifle, and increased his speed; he began weaving rhythmically from side to side of his mean path.
Beside him and below, Gunnar Franck was kneeling at the bomb-sight setting the height and speed and course and wind upon the bars. They went on for a little longer, till the pilot said:
“Turning in now, chaps. Bomb-aimer, height nine thousand two hundred. Bomb doors open.”
“Height nine thousand two hundred. Halifax just below us and to starboard.”
“Okay. I see him. Can you see the target yet?”
“Not yet. I have seen the river. Five degrees to port, Cap, but keep weaving.”
“Okay.”
This was the tense moment of the flight. Beneath them the shocking furnace stood revealed. Great columns of black smoke were eddying up to their height, shrouding the leaping fires; between the smoke and fires they could see the streets. Suddenly they became caught and held in a white, blinding light; other beams swept and focused on them; they were held fast in the cone.
Marshall said: “How much longer, bomb-aimer?”
“Two minutes, Cap.”
“Okay.”
There was nothing to be done about the searchlights but to keep slipping and weaving, and to hope that down below the gunners would have trouble with the fuses. Over the intercom Sergeant Cobbett said: “Front gunner, Cap. What’s happened to all the flak?”
His eyes fixed on the gyro to maintain his mean course while he weaved, Marshall had had no time to study what was happening outside. He raised his eyes and glanced round quickly, and saw nothing bursting in the sky. “Christ!” he said. “Front and rear gunners, keep a damn good look-out now. They’ve probably got fighters up.”
The intercom said: “Wireless operator to Captain. A lot of German going on the R/T, Cap. Strong, too—about Force 9.”
“Okay, wireless operator. Keep your eyes skinned, gunners. Bomb-aimer, how do we go?”
“Okay, Cap—I can see the target. Stop weaving now. Now left a little, left. Steady.”
The white, brilliant lighting was intolerable; they were held pinned upon the blackbo
ard of the night, and yet no flak came to them. With a dry mouth Marshall said:
“How long to go?”
“Thirty seconds. Right a little. Steady.”
They sat tense, strained, hardly breathing. Exposed as they were, it seemed impossible that they could escape the enemy.
It was impossible. Over the intercom a shout came: “Rear-gunner, Cap! Fighters coming down on us, one each side. I’ll take the starboard. Try and get the port one, Cob!”
The pilot heaved upon the wheel and put his whole weight on the pedal, throwing the big machine around to port to bring the forward guns to bear. He felt a jolt in the structure and heard Gunnar Franck say: “Bombs away.” He dropped his hand to close the bomb doors and gain speed, and as he did so he felt through the fuselage the stammer of the four rear guns. A stream of tracer, pure bright yellow in the white light of the outer world, shot over him from behind and dropped towards the cockpit. There was a hammer blow upon the armour plate behind his head and two more at his back; ahead of him the windscreen starred and the double revolution counter sprang from the instrument board and disintegrated.
The twin front guns began stuttering ahead of him, firing out to port against an assailant that he could not see. A stream of tracer came from the port side, but that was now above the pilot’s head because he had the aircraft on one wing-tip in a tight turn to port. It ceased suddenly, and Marshall flung his weight back on the wheel to right the aircraft and come back on a straight course. It was imperative, he felt, to fly straight, at whatever risk, to get away from the target, to escape this blinding light that showed up every movement that they made. To keep on turning in the searchlight cone meant certain death.
Over the intercom there was a sobbing, and then: “Rear-gunner, Cap. The sod’s got me in the legs.” By his side Gunnar was struggling to regain his feet; as the acceleration eased he stood up. Marshall said: “Bomb-aimer, get back to the rear-gunner and take his place.”
“Rear-gunner, Cap. The sods are coming down on us again. I’ll take the starboard one again, but the mucking turret’s leaking.”
He flung the machine round in another violent turn to port. Behind he felt the clamour of the guns again, and then: “I got him, Cap!” He raised his head with difficulty in the violence of his turn and looked up and to port, and a great mass swept into his view at the wing-tip. It hit their wing and the wheel was snatched from his hands and spun round madly, and the Wellington flicked to a steeper bank, throwing him down to port. A bullet shattered the perspex above his head.
In that instant the pilot saw a dreadful sight. A great part of his port wing was wrecked and locked with it was what had been a single-engined fighter, Me.109. It was on fire on his wing-tip; fire was spurting up from the torn engine cowl and glowing in the cockpit. The pilot, a young man with a fat, white face, had both hands up above his head, struggling to undo the sliding cockpit cover, which seemed to have jammed. His starboard wing was tight locked with their own port wing, and they were falling locked together in a violent side-slip, turning to a dive. Already fire was streaming up the ruins of the wing from the wrecked fighter.
Marshall said: “Okay, chaps, we’ll shake this mugger off,” and flung himself on the controls. He was now lying on his side upon the arm-rest of his seat; the wind noise at the cockpit rose to a shrill scream. He heaved the wheel to him with all his strength and thrust it from him violently in fierce, rhythmic time, and he said: “Bomb-aimer. Come and help me shake this mugger free.”
Over the intercom he heard: “Christ, Cap—you’ll have the bloody tail off!” and he said fiercely: “If we don’t shift this mugger we won’t need a bloody tail.”
He could not do it. He stopped heaving on the stick and trod hard on bottom rudder, and pressed forward on the stick, and thrust both throttles forward through to the full boost. The Me. had hit them from behind; if they dived hard enough he might come free. The scream of air rose to a shriller note, the brilliance of the light grew less intense, more rose-coloured from the flames of the burning town below. He dared dive no longer; he must try and pull out now or dive into the ground. He pulled the wheel to him with all his strength against top rudder and top aileron.
There was a great, rending crack from the port wing. He flashed a glance back and along it; the Me. was no longer there, but his wing ended now in jagged wreckage ten or twelve feet out from the port engine. He eased the pressure on the stick and worked with his wrists to bring the port wing up; the aileron control was inoperative and locked. He jerked it violently; it moved, grated, and came free, and the machine came level. He found himself in a straight dive at about forty-five degrees and very low.
He eased the stick back gently and glanced at the altimeter. They were at fifteen hundred feet, still diving hard. Ahead of him a stream of yellow tracer shot up at them from the ground. At anything below six thousand feet they were a sitting target for the ground defences; he could not hope to climb to a safe height over the guns of Hamburg. But there was light to help them, searchlights blazing out in half a dozen cones above their heads. He cried: “Captain to crew. We’re all right now, chaps. I’m going down to zero altitude, and we’ll hedge-hop out of this.”
He shot a glance at the gyro; it showed 140; they were heading south-east into Germany. He said: “Navigator, course is one four oh. Give me the height of ground.”
“Just a minute, Cap.”
There was a factory ahead of him, a tall building in square blocks; from the roof guns were firing at him, missing behind. He swept low over it, and there were railway lines and a canal and little houses; then he was down to roof-top height, his Wimpey travelling as she had never gone before. He said: “Front gunner, get aft and see what’s happened to Phillips. Relieve him if he’s wounded and man the rear turret yourself Wireless operator, get aft and help get Phillips out of the turret.”
Over the intercom he heard: “I got both legs broken, Cap, I think. The sod’s put a cannon-shell in here with me.” The voice was trembling and hysterical.
“Get you fixed up in a minute now,” the pilot said. There was a church ahead, sticking up above the roofs and streets; he lifted the machine up over it and down again. Trees now, they were getting out to the country, and the white light reflected from the sky was growing faint. He shot across a water-works and got an ineffective burst of tracer from it; he was too close and too fast for the guns to follow him. Over a river bend and a railway; then there were fields ahead, dotted with tall trees.
“Wireless operator here, sir. I won’t be half a minute, just while I do my hand.” The voice was trembling and shaken. “I think the receiver is U/S—it’s got some bullets through it. Shall I try if I can send ‘Mission completed’?”
“No—don’t send anything. We’re getting too far off the target—they’ll D.F. us.” Another fighter directed on to them by radio from the ground would find them easy meat. “What is the matter with your hand?”
“I got something right through the middle of it.” There was a high, hysterical laugh. “It don’t half look a mess. But I can fix it.”
“Sergeant Cobbett’s coming aft. Get him to help you, and then see if you can help Phillips.” He could still see the trees. He swept across the fields no more than thirty feet up, pulling up as he came to obstacles and putting down again. The machine was flying heavily port wing low; it needed all the power of his wrists to hold her level. But the engines were apparently untouched and pulling loyally; they could still fly fast and climb. It did not occur to him just then that there might be some difficulty in flying low.
“Navigator to Captain. The height of the ground level is two hundred feet, just below. That is the highest round about.”
In the strain and pressure of events, with eyes glued to dim grey fields and woods racing upon him, he could not calculate. “What height should the Kollsman show to clear trees a hundred feet up, Gunnar?” It would soon be too dim to see anything, but he must, must keep low.
“One hundred and fo
rty feet, Cap.”
“Okay.” He snatched a glance at it; that seemed about right. “Have a look at the tanks, Gunnar, and start pumping. I want all fuel in the starboard wing. Tell me how much we’ve got left.”
A little hill with a church on it leaped out at him, right in his path. With aching wrists he lifted the machine over it, and down again into darkness among dim forms of trees. It was crazy going on like this with practically no light at nearly two hundred and fifty miles an hour, but it would be crazier to go higher till they could climb up to a decent altitude. He had told Gervase once that the boys didn’t care for flying through the woods at night; this time they would take it and like it. He must find the sea; over the sea he could climb up to quiet and starlit flight in safety. Course about 330, he thought, should take him to the coast. He began edging round to north as opportunity offered.
“Sergeant Cobbett here, sir, at the wireless. You want to take it easy, Cap. There’s a lot of damage back here.”
“What?”
“You know about the port wing, sir? It sort of comes to an end about half-way out, just where the aileron should be.”
“You’re telling me!”
“We’ve had several hits in the rear fuselage—quite big holes, Cap—holes you could climb out through. I wouldn’t chuck her about too much—some of it looks pretty weak to me.”
“Okay.” The structure would have to take its chance, but he would bear it in his mind—one factor in the many dangers that he had to weigh. “Is Forbes bad?”
“Not bad, Cap. He put a dressing on his hand himself, and it seems to have stopped bleeding. He’s got the set in pieces now, but it’s U/S.”
“Get on aft and see what you can do for Phillips, Cobbett. I’ll send Gunnar Franck to help immediately I can spare him. Get the turret manned soon as you can.”