The Dam Busters (12 page)

McCarthy landed back at Coningsby two days later, walked into Humphries’ office and dumped two kitbags on the floor. “Bull and Weedon’s kit,” he said. “They’ve had it.”

“Oh God! When?”

“Last night. We did a special low-level thing, dropping arms and ammunition. They must have hit trouble.” He added disgustedly, “I didn’t even find the target area.”

He went back to Tempsford that afternoon, and he and Clayton tried again that night—successfully.

CHAPTER XI DIRECT HIT

HARRIS had been sending bombers by day to smash at the mysterious “ski sites “in the Pas de Calais, but too many German lighters swarmed up to protect them. It left him with a pretty problem… the targets were so small and well hidden that the squadrons would not be able to pin-point and bomb them accurately by night. Cochrane asked permission for 617 to try their precision bombing with P.F.F. (Pathfinder Force) to mark the pin-points with incendiaries, and Harris agreed.

Night after night 617 was briefed, but the target was smothered under low stratus cloud until, on December 16, Cheshire led nine Lancasters off. A Pathfinder “oboe” Mosquito flew with them to mark the target. “Oboe” was a new way of radar pin-pointing; two beams went out from England and crossed exactly over the target to let the pilot know when he was there. This night the “oboe” plane dropped a casket of incendiaries, and they cascaded into the wood that hid the “ski site”. At 10,000 feet 617 saw them winking among the trees like tiny glow-worms, swung in together according to the drill, nicely scattered so that the flak was ineffective, and all the 12,000-pounder “blast” bombs went down within a couple of minutes. Around the incendiaries the wood erupted in flame.

Back at Coningsby they developed the aiming-point photos (taken by photo-flash) and a groan went up. The markers had been 350 yards from the target; the bombs were all round the markers with an average error of only 94 yards, but that meant that the bombing was so good that the ski site was untouched.

It was the most accurate high-level night bombing of the war, but that made it all the more bitter.

It confirmed a suspicion both Cheshire and Cochrane had had… Pathfinders were fine for area marking but not precise enough for pin-point targets. Martin suggested they drop parachute flares over the target, lighting up the area so that a couple of aircraft could dive to low level and drop incendiary markers “spot on “the target. Cheshire agreed, but Cochrane, with the memory of the Dortmund Ems painfully fresh in his mind, would not hear of more low-level work.

Cheshire and Martin went off quietly and tried low-level marking on the ranges in the hope that they could get Cochrane to change his mind. They dropped practice bombs from about 200 feet using the low-level bomb sight and were only mildly satisfied with the results. They found they could land a bomb accurately but the trajectory was so flat that the bomb tended to bounce and skid 200 yards beyond the target. And at nighttime they found in the Lancasters that they were shooting past the range target before they saw it.

On December 20 they tried P.F.F. “oboe” marking again on an armament factory near Liege but found the town hopelessly cloaked under low cloud. On the way back (with their bombs) Martin saw a Lancaster going down in flames with one of the gunners still firing at the fighter. Back at Coningsby they waited up, more out of conscience than hope, but Geoff Rice one of the five survivors of the original squadron, did not return.

The weather closed in until the night of December 30, when they went with an “oboe” plane to another ski site. Three bombs were direct hits on the “oboe” markers, but the markers were again a couple of hundred yards off the target and the ski site escaped.

Chesire pleaded with Cochrane for permission to mark at low level. His idea was that P.F.F. should drop flares by “oboe” to illuminate the area, and he and Martin should fly low enough to put a marker right on the spot.

Cochrane replied with a flat ‘ ‘No “, and added, “Try and find another way. Try marking with the S.A.B.S. from about five thousand feet. If you can light the area enough with flares to get a sight, you ought to be able to do it accurately.”

Cheshire suggested in that case that 617 might as well carry their own flares and dispense with the Pathfinders. Cochrane agreed and on January 4 they flew back to the Pas de Calais without the “oboe” plane. From 12,000 feet the squadron dropped floating flares, but cloud foiled Cheshire and Martin at 5,000 feet, so they both dived to 400 feet (pre-arranged and strictly off the record) and skimmed over the dim clearing from different directions. The markers landed in the clearing but both sets bounced and skidded 100 yards into the woods, so that the clearing was straddled by them.

The squadron managed to put most of their bombs between the markers, badly damaging the ski site; Cheshire thought it was fairly successful but was not exactly delighted… skidding markers were too uncertain to rely on. In the next few days he, Martin and “Talking Bomb” kept experimenting to find a permissible way of marking.

Between 3,000 and 6,000 feet on a clear aiming point by day they found they could put down a marker within 40 yards of a target—near enough for Cochrane—but could not do it on a hazy target, and there was little chance of getting a clear enough aiming point at night. Moonlight and flares would help, but any important target was going to be camouflaged.

That: was the week the squadron moved from Coningsby to Woodhall Spa, about ten miles away. Woodhall was a one-squadrori station and that was the reason for the move. As a “special duties” squadron on new and rather hush-hush projects, Cochrane wanted them to go on working in somewhat exclusive isolation.

Cheshire and Martin kept experimenting to find a way of marking, and one day, flying back from the range, Martin saw a patch of seaweed in the water that took his fancy. Always ready to spice his flying with a little variety he peeled off in one of his usual spectacular turns, dived steeply and dropped a bomb. It was a direct hit.

When he landed he jumped out of “P Popsie” quivering with excitement. “That’s it, sir,” he said jauntily to Cheshire. “We’ve got it. I didn’t use the bomb-sight when I dropped that thing over the seaweed and it was a piece of cake. If we can dive-bomb markers point-blank over a target we can put ‘em right on the button without the bomb sight and they won’t skid off. What’s more, we could see the target much better from above than coming up to it down low.”

Cheshire went out and tried it that afternoon and it worked like a charm, almost without practice.

Next night they went back to the Pas de Calais. Munro dropped flares and Martin, turning a blandly blind eye to orders, tried his new method, peeling off, sticking his nose steeply down and aiming his whole aircraft at the ski site. He found that dive-bombing low at night in a four-engined plane was a slightly hair-raising business but dropped his markers in the dive and pulled out at about 400 feet. They were a new type of marker, red and green flares known as “spot fires”, and as he pulled up and levelled off Martin saw the two lights like red and green eyes winking in the middle of the clearing. It was a clear night; from 12,000 feet they were plainly visible, and the rest of the squadron plastered the rocket site out of existence.

A couple of nights later they went to another flying-bomb site; Martin dived low again, laid his spot fires accurately and a few minutes later the target was littered about a few smoking craters.

Cheshire went to Cochrane and told him of the new method (that is, told him of the seaweed and the trials over the range, not of Martin’s actual dives over the targets). Knowing that Cochrane approved of low-level marking on every count except the risk, Cheshire assured him that the diving attack, straight down, up and away, with only a few fleeting seconds near the ground, was reasonably safe. He added earnestly:

“Sir, if’ we’re going to mark accurately we
must
be low enough to see exactly what we’re doing, and I’m sure that Martin is right when he says that right low down we’re actually safer. I can’t find any way of marking accurately from medium level. Will you let us try this new way on some lightly defended target?”

Cochrane considered for a moment, looked up and said, “All right, we’ll give it a trial.”

The target he chose was the Gnome-Rhone aero-engine factory at Limoges, 200 miles south-west of Paris. The Germans had taken it over but there was hardly any flak for miles.

There was an immediate complication. War Cabinet vetoed the target because the Germans had 300 French girls working in the factory on night shift and there were French homes near-by. Churchill would not have French people killed if he could possibly avoid it, particularly as this was not a vital target.

Cheshire replied that as far as the homes were concerned he would guarantee they would put all bombs on the target itself. To protect the girls in the factory he offered to make several dummy runs over the factory to give everyone plenty of time to get clear. Cochrane backed him up and, after a silence from Whitehall, permission came through for the raid, on the understanding that if one Frenchman was killed there would be no more.

Twelve aircraft took off into bright moonlight and reached Limoges just before midnight. The town was evidently not expecting bombs because the blackout was bad. Lights showed all over the place and in the factory itself all the workshop lights were on and it was obvious that the Germans had them working hard.

Cheshire dived low and hurtled over the factory at a hundred feet, and as he climbed and turned he saw all the lights vanish. He dived back over it again, and Astbury, his bomb aimer, could see people running below and throwing themselves flat. A third time he dived in warning, and on his fourth run held her down to 50 feet till he was practically scraping the workshop roofs. Astbury called “Bombs gone!” and a cluster of brilliantly glowing incendiaries cascaded into the exact centre of the workshops. In the Lancaster the cameraman filmed it.

Martin dived in the same way and two red spot fires joined the incendiaries. Cheshire called, “Markers dead centre. Bomb as ordered.”

At “Zero plus 1” (one minute past midnight) Shannon dropped the first 12,000-pounder from 10,000 feet. It exploded in the middle of the incendiaries and blew them to smithereens but started a big fire that was just as good. In the next eight minutes nine more bombs fell right on the factory, and one fell just outside in the river. The last man, Nicky Ross, had a “hang-up”; his bomb did not release, so he went away and came in on another run. At “Zero plus 18” his 12,000-pounder lobbed in the crater that Shannon’s bomb had made.

Cheshire cruised overhead for a while, but there was nothing to see but flames and smoke and soon he turned for home. Apart from two machine guns there was no opposition and none of the Lancasters was holed, not even Cheshire’s.

In the morning a recce aircraft brought back pictures which showed that of the factory’s forty-eight bays half were scars on the ground and the rest were only shells. A target had never been more completely expunged, and Cheshire knew that, on undefended targets at least, he had proved his point. Coch-rane was delighted.

A message reached England from Limoges not long after. The girls of the Gnome-Rhone factory wished to thank the R.A.F. for their considerate warning and would be pleased to welcome the people concerned after the war.

CHAPTER XII GALLANT FAILURE

IN Italy the Allies were preparing to break out from Anzio and the Germans were preparing to stop them. Trains carrying 15,000 tons of supplies a day were passing over the Antheor Viaduct, and for the third time 617 was ordered to smash it.

Cochrane thought a 12,000-lb. “blockbuster” within 10 yards of the viaduct might knock a span down but this time he warned Cheshire that he must not try “deck-level” marking unless it were absolutely necessary. There were twelve heavy guns and several lighter guns around the viaduct, plus searchlights.

They found the bay at midnight but it was so dark they could not see the viaduct from above 3,000 feet, and as soon as Cheshire and Martin slipped down to that height the flak opened up terrifyingly, nearly twenty guns predicting and concentrating on the two of them. Cheshire made a run to drop his markers, but the searchlights caught him long before he was in position and shells were bursting all round him, so that he had to turn away. Martin tried a run but the same thing happened. Cheshire came in again and jagged lumps of flak ripped holes in his wings and fuselage. He slid out to sea and swung in again, but as he straightened up for the run Martin’s voice sounded in his earphones : “Hold off a minute. Leader. I think I’m in position for a low run. I can see everything.”

He had dived over the hills inland, was hugging the ridges so that the flak could not see him against the dark mass, and turning down the long ravine that cut down to the viaduct across the bay. When they had looked at the maps at briefing it did not seem possible that an aircraft could get down that way but Martin, who could land a Lancaster out of a steep turn, had his nose dipping into the ravine and could see the viaduct dead ahead, limned against the phosphorescence of the surf on the beach.

Cheshire called back, “O.K. Mick, go ahead.”

“Try and draw the flak as long as you can,” Martin said. He was deep into the ravine; the viaduct was about a mile in front and some 1,500 feet lower; he throttled his engines back to keep the sound from the guns and at 230 m.p.h. opened his bomb doors and knew he was making the best bombing run he ever had. The guns down by the viaduct were all firing, but their target was Cheshire weaving in towards them from the other side at 4,000 feet.

In the nose of “P Popsie” Bob Hay said over the intercom., “Target markers selected and fused.”

“Right,” said Martin. “I’m going to level out in the last second.”

“O.K.” The bomb sight was no use in a dive. Hay relied on Martin for the signal.

The ravine ridges were towering on each side and the viaduct was rushing at them, growing hugely. One gun on the eastern end suddenly swung and out of its muzzle-flashes a chain of shells was swirling at them. Hay called, “Now?” and Martin yelled, “No ! No ! “He eased the nose up, a second dragged into eternity, he shouted, “Now! “And as he shouted a shell smashed through the nose and exploded in the ammunition trays under the front turret. The aircraft rocked in the crashing din and jagged steel and exploding bullets shot back into the fuselage, hitting flesh and ploughing through hydraulic and pneumatic pipes, control rods and fuse boxes.

Hay must have pressed the button as the bomb release contacts parted, and then they shot a bare couple of feet over the viaduct and dipped towards the water as half a dozen more guns swivelled and spat at them. Foxlee was still alive; for the first time in months he was in the mid-upper turret instead of the nose, and now he was cursing and shooting back, and so was Simpson in the rear. Martin pulled the nose off the water and Whittaker rammed the throttles forward but there was almost no response from the engines.

“P Popsie” was bathed in glare but Simpson and Foxlee put three of the searchlights out with long bursts. They were practically in the water now, and in the glow of the last light Simpson saw the spray hissing up from the prop-wash and thought for a moment it was smoke from a burning engine. Then they were out of range and Martin lifted “P Popsie” a few feet off the water, praying with thankfulness as he found she still had flying speed.

Whittaker leaned over and yelled in his ear, “Port inner and starb’d outer throttles gone and pitch controls for the other two gone.” That meant two engines would stay throttled back as they had been for the run down the ravine, and the other two, in fully fine pitch, were straining themselves at maximum revs, on extreme power to keep the aircraft flying.

Martin had felt a sting in his leg as the shell went off and knew he had been hit. He ignored it and began calling the roll round his crew. The tough little Foxlee was all right. Bob Hay did not answer. Whittaker gave him a twisted grin, swearing and hunched, holding his legs. The rest were all right. He called Hay twice more but there was only silence, so he said, “Toby, see if Bob’s all right. His intercom, must be busted.” Foxlee swung out of his turret and wormed down towards the nose. He lifted his head towards Martin. “He’s lying on the floor. Not moving.”

Over the viaduct Cheshire was trying to drop his markers but again was coned by searchlights and hit by flak, so he had to stand the Lancaster on a wing-tip and pull her round. He came in. again about 3,000 but again he was battered and had to pull away. He climbed to 5,000 but the flak caught him once more.

On Ms sixth run he dived to upset the predicted flak and was able to drop flares that lit the viaduct. He turned back for another run and this time the searchlights did not find him. The guns predicted on him but he threaded through them and soon his markers sprang to glowing life as they hit; he saw in the light of the flares that they were on the beach about a hundred yards from the viaduct.

He swung in again with his last two markers, but four seconds short of release point two shells hit “Q Queenie” and she almost stood on her head in the blast. It threw Astbury off his bombing aim, but Cheshire got her back under control and found she would still fly and there was no fire.

The squadron headed in, unable at 10,000 feet to pick up the viaduct from the flares but trying to allow for the error of the markers. One 12,000-pounder went off brilliantly 15 yards from the side of the viaduct, but that was 5 yards too far and the viaduct shook but was not damaged beyond chipping from fragments. Six more exploded a few yards further on and pitted the great stone piers a little more. It was good bombing, but not quite good enough.

Whittaker had taken his tie off and wrapped it round his thigh as a tourniquet. There were a dozen pieces of flak in his legs but the pain was passing into numbness now. He grabbed one of the roof longerons, pulled himself up and found he could stand. Foxlee stuck his head up from the nose and said, “Bob’s unconcious. Get a first-aid kit, will you ? “Whittaker pulled one of the little canvas bags out of its stowage and eased himself down into the nose. Hay was lying on his side, his head pillowed on the perspex right up in the nose. “Give him some morphia,” Foxlee shouted, and Whittaker nodded, undipped the canvas pack and took out one of the tiny morphia hypodermic tubes. Foxlee unzipped Hay’s Irvin jacket sleeve and rolled the battledress sleeve up till Whittaker could see the soft flesh of the forearm, pale in the gloom. He felt the flesh was still warm, jabbed in the needle and squeezed till the tube was empty.

“Let’s get him over and see where he’s hit,” he shouted. Together in the cramped space they edged him over on to his back and Whittaker crawled up and gently turned the head over. He saw the great hole in the side of the head and felt the stickiness in the same moment. He said, “Oh, my God!” and felt he was going to be sick, looked up at Foxlee, but Foxlee was looking down. He had lifted his hand off Hay’s chest and the blood showed darkly on his fingers. “He’s got it in the chest,” he said, and Whittaker said, “Yes, the poor devil’s had it.”

He crawled back up into the cockpit to his seat beside Martin, leaned over and said, “Bob’s dead.” Martin looked at him a moment, then looked ahead again and gave a little nod.

Whittaker noticed Kenny Stott, the new navigator, standing by Martin’s seat. “Where’re we going?” Whittaker said, and Martin gave him a wry little grin. “Somewhere friendly, I hope,” he said. “Just been talking it over with Kenny. Got any ideas?”

“Whatever’s nearest. How ‘bout Gib? Or Sicily? Or North Africa?”

Scott said, “What about Sardinia? Or Corsica? Aren’t they closer?”

“Is Corsica ours?” Martin asked, and Whittaker cut in, not sensing then the unconscious humour of it: “Yeah. I saw we got Corsica in the
News of the World
last Sunday.”

“O.K. Fair enough. Kenny, give me a course for North Corsica.”

Stott went back to his charts and Whittaker said he would try and assess the damage. Martin found “Popsie” had just enough, power to claim a little more height, very slowly, so he edged the nose up a little, and soggily, not far from stalling speed, the Lancaster started climbing laboriously. In the darkness she was full of noise, the high-pitched screaming of the two good engines battering at the ears in waves because they would not synchronise properly.

He felt his right foot in the flying boot was wet and remembered he had been hit in the calf. He had enough sense not to strip his leg to investigate because the trouser leg and high flying boot would help staunch the blood. The trouble was, if he lost too much blood, he would pass out and they would all die because no one else could fly “Popsie”, particularly the way she was. Against the ragged thrust of the engines the trim would not hold her either straight or level and he was working all the time to keep her flying. With one hand he pulled his tie loose and wrapped it round the calf over the spot where the shrapnel had hit him, knotting it tightly so that it would press the trouser leg against the wound with the eifect of half bandage, half tourniquet.

Whittaker came back. “Not too good,” he said. “The floor’s all smothered in grease. It’s from the hydraulics, so you can count them out. Air pressure’s gone too.”

“I know,” Martin said. “I can’t get the bomb doors up.”

“The CO
₂
bottle seems all right,” Whittaker said, “so you’ll probably be able to get your undercart and flaps down but you won’t have any brakes to pull up with.”

“Oh!”

“I’ve kept the best bit to the last,” Whittaker said morbidly. “The bomb release fuses have gone for a Burton and we’ve still got the bombs on board.”

“I thought so. That’s why she’s flying like a brick.”

Stott came up with a course for Corsica, and Martin swung on to the new heading. They were about 2,000 feet now.

“We’ll have to get rid of the bombs,” Stott said. “The fusing circuit’s bashed in too, so they must still be fused. We can’t unfuse ‘em. If you can get high enough I might be able to prod the grips through the floor with a ruler and trip them.”

Martin was trying to coax more height out of the stricken plane. He had a 4,000-pounder and several 1,000-pounders in the bomb bays, and the minimum safety height for dropping a 4,000-pounder was 4,000 feet.

Curtis was tapping out a “Mayday” (S.O.S.) and excitedly reported, after a while, he had made contact with Ajaccio in Corsica. An advanced R.A.F. fighter unit had just moved in there and the airfield and flarepath were serviceable.

Foxlee came up from the nose and said in a puzzled voice, “Bob’s still warm. His body’s quite warm. I think he might be alive.” Whittaker went down to investigate and came back up again, a little excited. “He
is
warm,” he said. “He
must
be alive still.” Martin told Curtis to warn Ajaccio to have a doctor meet them. Curtis made contact again and came back to the cockpit. “They say they haven’t got a doctor with any facilities to look after a bad head wound. They say if the kite’ll hold together we ought to make for Cagliari. That’s in South Sardinia. There’s an American bomber base at Elmas Field there, and they’ve got everything, but it’s another hundred and fifty miles.”

Martin said feelingly, “What a party ! Give me a new course, Kenny.” The aircraft was still full of numbing noise; a gale was howling through the shell-hole in the nose and the two good engines still screamed in high pitch. Whittaker was watching his gauges nervously, waiting for the engines to crack under the strain.

They were about 2,700 feet when the stars blotted out and they were in heavy rain, followed soon after by hail. Water was sweeping in through the nose, and then darkness swallowed them as they ran into heavy cloud. It was ice cloud. Martin saw supercooled water droplets filming over the leading edge of the wings, forming the dangerous glazed ice that altered the aerodynamic shape and robbed the wings of lift. He had no spare speed to give him lift, and then the propeller of one of the two good engines slipped right back into coarse pitch and could not be budged out of it. The revs, dropped down to about 1,800; the engine was still giving power but the propeller could not use it all. Martin felt the controls getting soggy; he held on to her, correcting the waffling with great coarse movements, trying to coax her to stay up because Stott was shoving a ruler down through the floor into the bomb bay against the bomb grips. He got a 1,000-pounder away and then the aircraft stalled. Martin couldn’t hold her; the nose fell, she squashed down and the starboard wing-tip dropped and they were diving and turning, on the verge of a spin. He had hard left rudder on and the rudder caught her, the spin checked and she was diving, picking up speed. He eased her out but they were down to 1,800 feet. That was clear of the cloud, and soon the thin ice cracked and flicked off the wings. He started climbing again. They still needed 4,000 feet to drop the 4,000-pounder.

It took a long time. At 2,500 feet they were in the ice-cloud again, but Stott prodded two more 1,000-pounders free before the ice started to make “Popsie” soggy again, and this time Martin eased her down out of the cloud before she stalled. He started climbing again and found they were running clear of the worst of the cloud. It was still there, but higher and thinner, and only the barest film of ice seemed to be shining on the wings. “Popsie” slowly gained height, passed the 3,000 mark, but then progress was terribly slow and when at last they reached 3,200 she could not drag herself any higher. She was still at the climbing angle but moving no higher, like an old man trying to climb a fence and not being able to pull himself up.