Mosquito Squadron (10 page)

The Thunderbolts and Spitfires, sweeping round behind the straggling squadrons of Fortresses, appeared to be doing a good job of driving off the remaining enemy fighters, so Yeoman ordered his Mosquitos to take up station on the flanks of the American formation, cautioning the pilots to keep well out of range of the B-17s’ guns.

They could see, now, that almost all the Fortresses had sustained battle damage. Yeoman edged in carefully towards one bomber which seemed to be losing height steadily; it was in a pitiful state, its wings and fuselage blackened by smoke, punctured by shells and bullets, and as Yeoman watched he saw that the crew were throwing loose objects through the escape hatches in a desperate attempt to lighten the aircraft. But one engine had already gone and smoke was trickling from another, and Yeoman knew deep inside him that it was no use, that the Fortress would not make it back across the Channel.

Certain now that the Mosquito had been identified, he closed right in until he was flying wingtip to wingtip with the crippled bomber, as though the presence of a friendly fighter so close to hand might give the American crew hope and encouragement, the extra reserves of strength that would enable them to keep the Fortress flying by sheer willpower. The Belgian coast was almost under their noses now, and although the Fortress was now losing height so quickly that a ditching in the English Channel was inevitable, its pilot might at least be able to set it down close to home.

Flak bayed at them as they crossed the coast near De Panne, but only the last burst came anywhere near them and they were soon clear, heading due west. Away to the left lay Dunkirk, the scene of battles of earlier days, and dead ahead of them, hazy under the falling sun and tantalizingly close, was the coast of Kent.

‘He’s had it, skipper,’ Hardy said quietly. The navigator was right; the Fortress was going down quickly now, with only one engine turning, and that too stopped as the American pilot levelled out a few feet above the waves. An instant later the big bomber was down, slewing across the water in gouts of foam.

Yeoman brought the Mosquito round in a climbing turn and put out a distress call, looking down as he did so. The B-17’s nose section was awash, and although the bomber was floating it would not remain buoyant for long, as water was pouring into it through the open escape hatches.

They seem to be getting out all right,’ the pilot commented. He could see tiny figures on top of the B-17’s fuselage. ‘There are the dinghies. Yes, they seem to be okay; they’re getting into the dinghies now.’

Slowly, the sea closed over the top of the Fortress until only pan of the rear fuselage, surmounted by the big tailfin, was left above the surface. Then that too was gone, leaving a swirl of eddying water on which the two orange dinghies bobbed.

Yeoman swept low over them while Hardy counted the heads of the occupants. There were only six of them, and a B-17 carried a crew of ten. Four men, probably dead already, had gone to their last resting place on the sea bed in the metal coffin of their aircraft.

The Mosquito continued to circle the dinghies until a pair of Thunderbolts arrived to take over; an air-sea rescue launch would be on its way before long. The valiant air-sea rescue boys, Yeoman thought as he set course for home, must have been badly overworked today, with Fortresses ditching all over the place.

The full extent of the tragedy of 17 August would not be known for some time, until the losses of the Regensburg force, its surviving bombers now safe on their North African airfields, filtered through to vm Bomber Command Headquarters. The total cost to the Americans was sixty Flying Fortresses, with a further hundred damaged by flak or fighters. Some of the bomber groups, particularly those involved in the Schweinfurt attack, had lost ten or eleven aircraft out of twenty-one.

It had, as Hardy remarked as he and Yeoman walked away from their Mosquito at Burningham, been a hell of a day, and a costly one for 380 Squadron too, with one crew dead and another missing. He told Hardy to ask the mess stewards to put some food aside for him and went straight to his office; there were reports and letters to be written, the letters most painful of all, for it was impossible to dispose of human lives and to comfort grieving relatives with a few short words.

He sat down behind his desk and pulled a sheet of paper towards him. He let his chin rest on his hands and stared down at the blank page for a long time. Suddenly, he felt unutterably lonely.

Chapter Six

Flight lieutenant Freddie Barnes adjusted his glasses and settled down to re-read the last few pages of the Squadron Diary, the day-to-day life of RAF Burningham chronicled in his own neat copperplate handwriting. The entry for 18 August, the day after the Regensburg and Schweinfurt disasters, gave him immense satisfaction. The entry began, in capital letters:

‘
GOOD NEWS! Flight Lieutenant Sloane and his navigator, Pilot Officer Wedge wood, are safe, having been brought in by Air-Sea Rescue after an uncomfortable day and night in their dinghy. It seems that as Sloane was crossing the Dutch coast on his way home something, presumably flak, hit his aircraft in the port engine. No gun flashes were seen, and it would appear that this was one lucky burst. A small fire broke out and was soon extinguished, but then the oil pressure in the starboard engine began to rise and there was a considerable loss of airspeed.

‘
After about five minutes on 272 degrees magnetic at sea level, however, the starboard engine became considerably steadier and the Mosquito, which had so far persistently refused to climb above four hundred feet, now began to gain altitude at a steady 150 knots Indicated Air Speed until it reached 5,000 feet some thirty miles off the Dutch coast. Sloane then contacted Burningham Control, saying that he was in distress and would probably have to ditch. Soon afterwards, oil began to pour from the starboard engine, accompanied by rough running.

‘
Sloane decided to try and get as close to the English coast as possible, but after five more minutes the starboard engine packed in altogether. He followed the recommended ditching drill, jettisoning the roof panel and lowering flaps 25 degrees. The Mosquito touched down at about 80 knots, the rear fuselage underside striking the water first. The landing was trouble-free and the aircraft subsequently remained afloat for approximately fifteen seconds. The navigator made his exit first and Sloane made to follow, but he had some difficulty in unfastening his harness and the cockpit was underwater by the time he succeeded. Holding his breath, he pushed himself clear of the roof hatch with both hands and, since he was not a strong swimmer, immediately inflated his Mae West. Pilot Officer Wedgewood had already inflated the L-type dinghy and both men climbed into it after expending a fair amount of energy, for a considerable swell was running.
’

The two men had seen several aircraft in the course of the day, but although they had tried to attract their attention, none had come near. It was not until the following morning that they had been picked up by a Westland Walrus amphibian of the Air-Sea Rescue Service, whose crew, out searching for survivors of a downed Lancaster, had come upon them purely by chance.

During the night, Sloane and Wedgewood, both wet and miserably seasick, had heard what sounded like hundreds of heavy bombers passing overhead in the darkness, returning a few hours later. The following morning, they learned that six hundred aircraft of Bomber Command had raided Peenemünde, on the Baltic coast of Germany, where the enemy had some sort of secret establishment. The attack had apparently been a complete success, although forty bombers had failed to return.

In view of the events of 17 August, Barnes wondered if No. 380 Squadron’s Mosquitos might have been more usefully employed as night intruders in support of the RAF raid, rather than the American daylight attacks. They could certainly have remained in the vicinity of the German fighter bases for much longer under cover of darkness; operating singly, they could have covered a dozen airfields in northern Germany, sowing confusion at a time when the bombers were approaching the target area. Still, he thought resignedly, it was not his place to question the wisdom of the planners at Group HQ and higher.

Barnes took a sip from the mug of tea at his elbow and read on, picking extracts at random. Generally speaking, the squadron’s operations during the last two weeks of August had been pretty routine.

‘
21.8.43. Total of eight sorties: shipping recce and cannon tests. The reconnaissance was carried out by Saint, O’Grady, Reed and Olafsson, who sighted a large convoy off Texel consisting of about twenty ships steaming in two lines ahead, some ships carrying balloons. A strike was immediately laid on by Coastal Command, but we have no information on the outcome.

‘
23.8.43. Total of twenty-two sorties. In the morning there was drogue towing, air-to-air and air-to-sea firing, camera gun practice and camera tests, and in the afternoon there was a sweep over Ijmuiden. There was a most unfortunate accident in the morning when a visiting Martinet, which was here for drogue towing, apparently took off in coarse pitch and crashed into a tree. The pilot was injured, though not seriously, but his passenger was killed. A Court of Inquiry is pending.

‘
In the afternoon the squadron made rendezvous with twelve Lockheed Venturas over North Walsham and the formation flew at sea level to within a few miles of the Dutch coast, climbing to 9,000 feet over Ijmuiden. As we crossed the coast four FW 190s were seen breaking cloud below at 2,000 feet. Our allotted task was to give top cover to the bombers which, instead of bombing immediately, went inland for ten minutes then turned round and bombed from east to west on an outward heading. Squadron Leader Yeoman decided not to go down for the 190s until the bombers had carried out their task, or while they were still in danger of being attacked. While the bombers and escorts were making their incursion the 190s climbed up and were joined by others, but before they could attack the bombers they were engaged by 380 Squadron. In the resulting dogfight, of which no-one seemed to have a very clear picture, Sergeant Keen destroyed an FW 190 which he followed down to sea level and set on fire; it was eventually seen to crash into the sea by Flight Sergeant Miller.

‘
Miller himself was attacked and his aircraft hit, and he in turn claimed a FW 190 damaged. Squadron Leader Yeoman, who engaged the leading FW 190, also claimed one damaged, the enemy aircraft breaking away after being hit by cannon fire and going down followed by Pilot Officer Saint, who lost sight of it. Saint was attacked head-on by two FW 190s, but was not hit. All our aircraft returned with the exception of one Ventura, which was hit by flak over the target.

‘
25.8.43. Bad weather, so no flying apart from a few circuits carried out by Flying Officer O’Grady, carrying out a weather check. Flight Lieutenant McManners went off on a long overdue week’s leave, catching the milk lorry in Downham Market at 0700. This certainly is a foul place to get away from when going on leave, and even harder to get back to. We feel that if the general public realized how badly the Services are treated in matters of this sort, they would be more than surprised; it is a very serious problem that needs to be looked into by the authorities. Most of us live a long way from here. We are not allowed Service transport to take us to a convenient railway station, and the only convenient station in the whole of East Anglia is Norwich. Everywhere else, the train services are hopeless. It is particularly hard for family men, who have such matters as children’s schooling to see to. A 48-hour leave is spent almost entirely on the train by most of us.
’

Barnes scanned the lines again, surprised by his own vehemence. Yet it was true; servicemen going on leave had a rotten deal, at any rate in the British forces. The Americans were far better organized, with transport laid on. After all, the whole idea of going on leave was to return to operations refreshed, not exhausted as the result of long, sweaty hours packed like sardines on a dirty train.

Neither were the frustrations confined on going to leave. In other areas, too, niggling organizational problems tended to assume an importance out of all proportion. The diary continued:

‘
There was a dance at a place called Camp O in the evening. Having been promised a bus after much wrangling, which we were to share with some Air-Sea Rescue blokes, and after having dined early and been all set for the party, some idiot in ops rang us at the mess and told us that we had to call at an Army camp up the road and get a whole band on too. This was too much for Terry Saint and Yves Romilly, who decided not to go at the last moment. Terry became most awkward, and hid himself in the billiard room. Using his well-known tact, the writer managed to coax him out again, only to find that the bus had gone without us. We therefore had a game of billiards, drank several beers, and then decided to go boldly forth into the night to look for Camp O in my car. We motored all over the countryside, but never found the wretched place. We heard afterwards that it was a rotten dance, so we didn’t miss much
.’

The next entry recorded that on 26 August, a fresh crew had arrived to replace Telfer and his navigator. The new pilot was a big, broad-shouldered Canadian Warrant Officer named Arthur Laurie who, to nobody’s surprise, turned out to have been a lumberjack before joining the RCAF. His navigator, Sergeant John Trevarrow, was a soft-spoken Cornishman. As a team they had already flown a tour on Mosquito light bombers and were highly experienced.

‘
28.8.43. Total of nineteen sorties: camera gun and low flying practice, and an extremely shaky sweep to Utrecht in foul weather. Rendezvous with fifteen Venturas was made over Yarmouth and course set for Utrecht, but on reaching the Dutch coast the weather had deteriorated to such an extent that the bomber leader decided to return, the target being obscured. We were flying top cover and a squadron of Spitfires close escort. Something went wrong with the bomber leader’s navigation on the way back, and he followed a course of 310 degrees magnetic, which would have brought the formation back over the English coast much too far north, somewhere near Hull. When we were forty miles from the English coast Squadron Leader Yeoman dived in front of the Venturas, waggling his wings since there was no radio contact, but the bombers and the Spits held their course so the CO brought 380 Squadron on to a westerly heading and eventually crossed the coast near Cromer, returning to base at low level under the cloud base. The Venturas and their Spitfire escort apparently landed all over the place.

‘
30.8.43. An unusually cold morning, with a scramble by two Mosquitos at 0800. The pilots involved were Keen and Lorrimer, who went off to chase a suspected Hun raider off the Norfolk coast. The Hun turned out to be a Heinkel 111, engaged in mine-laying operations; our chaps made short work of it and claimed half a kill each.

‘
Squadron Leader Yeoman has been in unusually high spirits for several days now. We think he has had some good news, but despite all our efforts he will not say what it is. He goes off on seventy-two hours’ leave tomorrow, so maybe that has something to do with it.
’

Yeoman turned off the main road and relaxed behind the wheel of his little Morgan sports car, sweeping her effortlessly round comers and revelling in the evening sunshine. The road was just as he remembered it, flanked by harvest fields, with the land rising gently to the west to meet the foothills of the Pennines. He pressed his foot on the accelerator and whistled softly through his teeth. The air, battering around the sides of the windscreen, was soft and cleansing on his face. Nineteen hundred years earlier, Roman legions had tramped along this stretch of road on their way to the chain of fortlets that linked York with the west coast.

His companion snuggled close to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

‘You sound happy,’ she murmured.

‘I am happy,’ he smiled. ‘I still can’t believe that you’re here with me. After all this time. I’d given you up, especially when there was no word from you.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t, though. And I did write, as I told you. I don’t know what can have happened to the letters.’

He gave her a swift sidelong glance. She was smiling quietly to herself, her red hair flowing out in the slipstream. She wore a light green uniform, with the silver bars of a lieutenant, US Army, on the lapels and shoulder flashes that proclaimed her trade of war correspondent.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘About the letters, I mean. All that matters is that you’re safe, and that we’re together again, if only for the time being.’

‘Don’t say that.’ She turned her green eyes towards him, and he melted. ‘Don’t say that, George. We’re not going to lose each other again. I’m in England now, for the duration. We’ll be able to see each other as often as we can.’

He made no reply. So much time had elapsed since he had last seen her; there had been so much heartache in the beginning, followed by a long grey time when he had cared about nothing other than survival; then there had been Malta, and solace for a few short moments with someone else, oases of peace amid the frightful strain of constant air combat. What he felt now, towards Julia Connors, was difficult to analyse. He needed time to sort out his scrambled emotions; they both did.

All they knew, for the moment, was that they were happy. He, for his part, had no wish to make promises he might not be able to keep.

They came to a village, with grey-walled cottages nestling around the perimeter of the traditional village green. On the far side, its whitewashed walls standing out conspicuously in the evening sunlight, was an inn. Yeoman glanced quickly at his watch; their destination was only half an hour away, the evening was still young, and nothing would be lost if they stopped for a while.

‘Let’s have a beer or two,’ he said, pulling the Morgan off the road and switching off the ignition. He climbed out, stretching his legs gratefully, and went round the car to open the other door for Julia. They paused for a moment together, looking into the rippling waters of a small stream that wound its way past the green and disappeared behind the inn. Clouds of midges danced over the surface and swallows darted through them, flicking this way and that with incredible manoeuvrability, beaks agape as they gorged themselves. Soon the swallows would be gone, thought Yeoman, and once again England would be the poorer for their passing. Of all birds, he loved them the most.