Landfall (13 page)

He did not find the work exacting. The aerodrome accommodated several squadrons of Wellington heavy bombers, faster than the machines that he was used to, and a good deal larger, but intrinsically much the same. He flew one dual with a flight-lieutenant for a couple of hours and learned to land it in the swept lanes of the aerodrome; then he flew it solo for a few hours more. Presently he was flying it confidently by night as well as by day, and was ready to go on service as a second pilot.

Towards the end of January he flew over Germany.

The flight was curious to him, because it was almost completely uneventful. It was just like any other night flight, lasting about eight hours. The squadron chose a fine, frosty, starry night for the raid, with a light northerly wind. The machines were loaded up with leaflets printed in German for distribution over enemy
territory. Each Wellington had a different course to take. The full crew of five were on board and full ammunition, but the bomb-racks were empty and the machines were loaded in the fuselage with the brick-like packets of the propaganda. Past raids of that sort had shown them that it was unlikely that they would encounter much resistance.

The pilots were amused and scornful of the job they had to do. “Hitler doesn’t give a … for the stuff,” was the general opinion. “It’s not worth his while to waste his petrol sending up his fighters.” They expressed the view that the Führer welcomed the paper for sanitary reasons.

Nevertheless, there was excitement and tension in the aeroplanes as they took off.

They left the ground at about eleven o’clock at night, taking off singly at intervals of about three minutes. Each of the big monoplanes taxied to the end of the runway in practically complete darkness, guided only by the flicker of flash-lamps. Engines were run up for a last test with the machines facing down the long swept path, the exhaust-pipes streaming long spears of blue flame in the cloudless, starry night. Then, when all was ready, the dim lights came on which showed the runway, and the machine took off; immediately it was clear of the ground the lights were extinguished till the next machine was ready.

Chambers was in the third machine to go, serving as second pilot to a flight-lieutenant called Dixon. The flight-lieutenant piloted the monoplane for the take-off: Chambers sat beside him in a little folding seat in the passage that gave access to the bomb-aimer’s position in the nose. Beside them were the wireless operator and the corporal gunner, the latter sitting on the piles of propaganda leaflets. In the gun-turret at the very tail of the machine a sergeant gunner sat alone.

They came to the end of the runway and swung round as the lights were extinguished and the second machine climbed slowly from the ground, vanishing into the starry night, its tail-light visible as a wandering star among the other stars. Dixon settled in his seat and slowly pushed one throttle forward. In the shaded orange lights over the instrument panels both pilots watched rev counter and boost gauge, the cylinder head temperatures, and the many pressure gauges. They tested the controllable propeller, and then closed down that engine and ran up the other.

In the end, Chambers raised his thumb. The pilot nodded. Chambers glanced back over his shoulder and nodded to the men behind, then flashed the signalling-lamp on the underside of the fuselage. Immediately, the lights came on, and the long runway stretched out straight ahead of them, nearly three-quarters of a mile in length.

The pilot pressed the throttles forward, and the machine began to move. She gained speed slowly for the first few seconds; then the propellers took hold of the air and they went trundling down the runway, heavy with the fuel and load on board. At five hundred yards they were doing eighty on the air-speed indicator, and the big monoplane was starting to feel light upon the ground. The snow flew past them on each side. At ninety the pilot eased the wheel towards him with a firm, slight pull; the vibration from the runway ceased and they climbed very slowly from the ground. They crossed the hedge with about ten feet to spare and flicked the undercarriage switch; the hydraulic pumps groaned and clattered as the wheels retracted. Then the lights behind them were extinguished, and they went climbing up into the blue vault of the starry night…

Chambers left his seat, and went to the navigating table, stayed there for a moment, and came back and
set the course upon the compass. Each of the machines had its own route to follow in the operations of the night, independent of the others. Chambers set a course direct for Cuxhaven.

They went climbing up into the night. Two or three minutes after they had crossed the coast they turned out the navigating lights and went on out over the sea, a dim shadow moving across the firmament. Already it was very cold in the machine. They shut up all the windows and turned on the heating full; even so the temperature in the cabin fell below freezing very soon. Chambers changed places with the flight-lieutenant and took over the piloting. At fifteen thousand feet they adjusted the oxygen-masks upon their faces and turned on the supply; immediately they felt warmer. At twenty thousand feet they levelled out, stopped climbing, and took up their normal cruising speed.

As they crossed the sea, seen dimly beneath them as a corrugated sheet, the moon came up ahead of them. Its light shone upon the cockpit and the wings and made them feel conspicuous; they would have preferred the shadow of the night. Once they saw a ship upon the water, heading roughly north-east: they had no means of telling whose it was.

They saw land ahead of them at about a quarter to one, and picked up the outline of the estuary of the Elbe at Cuxhaven. They followed the river, checking their navigation by the ground to settle the direction of the wind, until they came to Hamburg.

There was no doubt about the city. All round it the snow covered the countryside; the city appeared as an untidy, speckled blotch upon a field of white. In the bright moonlight they could see the docks and the line of the river, and they made an effort to count the ships in sight along the quays. The streets were faintly lighted. There were no searchlights visible. They strained their
eyes into the darkness for enemy fighters, but in vain. Each minute they expected gunfire, but no gunfire came.

To Chambers it was fantastic and unreal. It was incredible that that big town below him should be full of Germans, fanatically devoted to their Führer, hating England and the English with all the force of their warped, virile souls.

Dixon leaned his head towards him and moved the oxygen-mask from his mouth. “Not much wind,” he said. “Get about five miles over to the west, and we’ll drop the stuff there.”

He showed Chambers the map of the locality. The pilot nodded and swung the bomber round, staring intently at the dim ground below. Presently he found the wood that he was looking for and circled over it. He glanced over his shoulder. Dixon and the corporal were shoving the brick-like packets of leaflets down the chute. The pilot glanced over the side, but he could see nothing of the paper cloud.

The flight-lieutenant came along to him. “Berlin next stop,” he said. He set the new course on the compass for the pilot. “We’ll probably run into searchlights pretty soon. Like me to take her?”

Chambers grinned: “I’m all right. You take a spell after Berlin.”

“All right.”

Half an hour later, sure enough, the searchlights blazed out ahead of them from somewhere near Spandau. Most of them were white in colour, one or two were pale-green and one or two violet. The machine flew on steadily towards them, flying at about twenty-two thousand feet. At that height they were very largely safe from searchlights: when the beams caught them, as they did from time to time, the illumination of the machine was not very great. The young man kept a keen, incessant
look-out for enemy fighters. They saw nothing. Swiftly they passed above the line of searchlights, discovered a river and a dark, faintly-glowing mass ahead, and so came to Berlin.

They made a wide circuit of the city, tense and anxious. There were no searchlights, no gunfire, no fighters. The main streets seemed to be faintly illuminated by shaded street lamps, and away on the outskirts to the east there was a pattern of light that they took to be the landing lights laid out upon an aerodrome. They flew towards the west again, discharged their leaflets at a spot where the wind would carry them down into the city, and set a course for Leipzig, relieved and faintly disappointed.

They got to Leipzig at about three o’clock in the morning; by that time the moon was high. There they were fired upon, without searchlights. Below them they could see the flashes of the guns, the long trails of tracers from the shells, and the vivid bursts about their level. Dixon was flying the machine, and climbed and dived alternately to change the height by a few hundred feet. The others concentrated intently on the work they had to do as the machine circled the city. None of the shells came near. Chambers watched the flashes of the guns intently from the forward gun position, marking the location of each battery upon a large-scale plan of the city. They scattered their leaflets and set a course for Kassel.

Kassel was dark and silent; they circled it, dropped their leaflets and turned northwards for home. At Hanover and Bremen there were searchlights, and between Bremen and Wilhelmshaven there was an intense barrage of searchlights and of gunfire. Dixon was still at the controls and went through it in a series of dives and climbs coupled with forty-five degree turns to port and starboard, designed to confuse the sound locators and the gunners. One or two bursts came near them,
and next day they found a small gash in the fabric of the rear fuselage where a splinter had passed through, but they suffered no damage and set a course for home over the North Sea.

It was a little after five o’clock in the morning. In spite of the heated cabin they were all stiff with cold; with the relaxation from the strain of being over Germany they began to feel their fatigue. Chambers took over the controls and brought the bomber down to a more reasonable height—about ten thousand feet; they took off their oxygen-masks and breathed naturally once again. Dixon got out the thermos flasks and passed round mugs of coffee and a tin of boiled sweets; the drink refreshed them.

Presently, as they flew, a faint tinge of grey came into the sky behind them and the stars grew paler in the east.

They approached the coast of Yorkshire in a long descent, with navigation lights alight and with their Very pistol charged with a flare cartridge showing the colour of the day. They made their landfalls at the mouth of the Humber and flew north a little up the coast before turning inland towards Market Stanton. In the grey light of a frosty dawn they came to the aerodrome and circled round it at a thousand feet. Dixon was at the controls: he brought the big monoplane in low over the hedge and put her down upon the runway.

They taxied into the hangar and cut the engines. The duty-officer came out to meet them, muffled to the ears in greatcoat and muffler. He asked: “What was it like over there?”

Dixon said: “Bloody cold.”

They handed over their notes and wrote a short report. Then they went back to their respective messes. Chambers was cold and sleepy; about them the camp was coming to life. He went to the breakfast-table in the mess and had a cup of coffee and a plate of very
sweet porridge. Then he went over to his bedroom, undressed and tumbled into bed, and slept till lunch.

There followed ten days of stagnation, of routine duties and short test flights, of reading the papers and waiting for orders. In this time Chambers made a start upon his caravel, decarbonised his little car, and brooded restlessly about the mess. It ended in a summons to the group-captain’s office.

Two other pilots came with him: none of them knew what it was about. They stood in a row before the C.O.’s desk, a middle-aged officer, rather portly and going a little bald.

He said: “Good morning, gentlemen. I sent for you because I’ve been asked to supply a volunteer for special duties. I don’t know what the work is, except that it’s some sort of testing to be carried out on Wellingtons.”

He paused and smiled a little. “I want a volunteer,” he said, “because I understand that it’s not quite so safe as—as flying over Germany, shall we say. I sent for you three because you all have the basic qualifications for the work, because you’re none of you married so far as I know. It’s the sort of job that might lead to something. On the other hand, it may go flat after a week or two.”

One of the flying-officers said: “Can we have some idea what sort of work it is, sir?”

“Not much. It’s out over the sea, and that’s about all I know. I picked you three because you’ve all had a good bit of experience over water, and because you’re all adequate pilots on the Wellington.”

Chambers said: “Can you tell us what the establishment is?” It was important for a regular officer to know that, to avoid stagnation in promotion.

“I don’t think there is any establishment. The pilot who gets this job will be the first. He should be quite all right in that way.”

One of them said: “Unless he falls in the drink.”

The group-captain said: “Unless he falls in the drink.” He eyed them for a minute. “I want a volunteer for this,” he said, “because I understand that it’s a tricky sort of business. You’d better go away and let me know this afternoon if any of you want it. If more than one of you are keen to have it I shall have to choose somebody; I’ll have to choose somebody if I don’t get any volunteers.” He paused. “That’s all for the present.”

They filed out of the office and walked over to the mess. Chambers said: “Well, what does anyone make of that?”

The other two were lukewarm. One of them said: “I put in a month ago for posting to a fighter squadron. I was put down for fighters at the F.T.S., and then they sent me here. I’m not so stuck on going on on Wellingtons, myself.”

The other was silent. His home was in York, and Market Stanton was near enough to York for him to get home at week-ends and on half-days of leave, especially when the days got longer and one could motor later before black-out. He said presently: “I’d rather go on here.”