The Separation (10 page)

I could hardly see because our flight was taking us beyond the battle. Lofty moved down the fuselage, went to one of the side windows.

‘I still can’t see anything, JL!’ he reported.

‘Kris?’ I shouted. ‘Are you watching back there?’

‘You bet. Rear gunner has the best seat. Germans attacking Germans. Good stuff!’

‘Did they shoot him down?’

‘Nah . . . they miss. Then they turn away. The 110 was in the cloud and I think it went on.’

Lofty returned to the cockpit and was standing behind me again, crouching forward.

‘Do you get it, skip?’ he said. ‘What were they doing?’

‘Haven’t the faintest. We were sitting ducks, but they went after one of their own. Or two of their own.’

Sam Lew came on. ‘Do you want a position fix, JL?’

‘Yeah, where are we?’

A couple of hundred miles from the German coast and about two hundred and sixty from Denmark.’

‘Why Denmark?

‘That was the direction the second lot came from.’

‘They could have come from Germany, though.’

‘Either way, they would have been at the limit of their range. That’s why they didn’t hang around out here. The 109s would be watching their fuel.’

‘OK, everyone,’ I said. ‘Keep your eyes open. We’ve got our own work to do.’

As the darkness finally deepened, the Wellington ploughed on slowly through the gentle air. An hour later we approached the German coast under a full moon, to the west of Cuxhaven. The nervous banter on the intercom died out as we crossed the coastline. Light flak surged up, a long way to the side of us. We watched the glow-worms of tracers, climbing, climbing. A solitary searchlight came on, the familiar bluish dazzle, breaking through the now intermittent clouds. It probed around for about a minute, then went off. We were flying at thirteen thousand feet, the highest altitude we could attain with the fuel-and bomb-load we were carrying.

We were now over Germany and anything could happen. I started jinking the plane, putting it into a long, steady rolling motion, side to side, tilting and swinging defensively, a corkscrew manoeuvre that would in theory prevent night fighters from getting an easy line on us. It had worked so far. The gunners reported tensely every minute or so: there was nothing going on that they could see, no planes around us, no searchlights, the cloud was light, visibility good. A bomber’s moon. The dark ground spread out below, marked in places by tightly etched lines of moonlight reflected back from canals, ponds, stretches of river. Lofty Skinner, flight engineer, took the seat beside me, keeping a watch on the engines, the coolant pressures, the hydraulics. He rarely spoke.

We were flying on dead reckoning: a series of timed course changes, calculated before departure and constantly updated by Sam Levy, navigator. He led us to a position north of the German town of Celle (fierce flak briefly came up around us), before we turned through more than a hundred degrees and took a heading on Lüneburg. I went on the intercom, warning everyone that we were a few minutes away from the target. Now we were flying almost due north, with Hamburg less than fifty miles ahead of us. We were looking for a distinctive curve in the River Elbe near Lüneburg. Ted Burrage, our bomb aimer, had left the front turret and crawled into the belly of the Wellington, lying on his stomach, watching the ground through the perspex pane behind the nose. He yelled up to me when he saw the river. It edged into sight from my blind-spot, directly in front of and below the cockpit: a silvery worm of reflected moonlight, visible for miles. We moved in on Hamburg. Soon the flak began in earnest and the searchlights came on. Tracer bullets snaked up from below, no longer drifting harmlessly away, miles to the side of us, but targeted on us. Searchlight beams crossed and re-crossed ahead, groping for bombers. As they swept around we caught glimpses of other aircraft in the stream. Every now and again one of the aircraft would be briefly lit from below, but managed to slip away without being coned.

‘I have the target in view,’ came from Ted, lying in the nose of the aircraft, his hands on the bomb release.

‘OK, bomb aimer. Let me know when we’re on the right approach.’

Then, at last, bursting in the sky ahead of us - dead ahead, not above our height or below it - a cannonade of exploding shells began, brilliant whites and yellows, like deadly fireworks. How could we ever pass through that barrage without being hit?

We flew on, we opened the bomb doors, we released the bombs.

We turned for home.

Ted Burrage must have died instantly when the shell struck the nose of the aircraft. Shards of shrapnel went through my left leg, above and below the knee. Something else hit my skull. I was thrown backwards from my seat by the explosion and I lost control. The plane immediately went into a dive, turning to the left, while freezing cold air blasted in through the shattered fuselage ahead of the cockpit. Sam Levy was struck by another piece of shrapnel. Lofty Skinner had left his seat in the cockpit during the bombing run, standing by in case there was a problem with the bomb-load hanging up when we tried to release it. His life was probably saved by not being next to me. Colin, wireless operator, and Kris, in the rear turret, were both alive and responded to my call.

I contrived somehow to get the plane back under control. We struggled on for longer than I expected, losing height only slowly. I managed to keep the plane flying for two more hours. We were picking up the radio beacon at Mablethorpe before we ditched, but we were not in verbal contact with our controllers. Sam and I were rescued from our life raft at the end of the following day: we were soaked through, freezing cold, both in agonizing pain, both probably destined to die had we been forced to spend any more time out there in the open.

Once we were ashore we were taken to separate hospitals and we lost contact with each other. So, in June 1941, a few weeks after the raid on Hamburg, I was recovering on a verandah overlooking a vegetable garden, contemplating my past.

On the morning after the navy man had told me about the fall of Crete I went for an unaccompanied walk around the hospital grounds. This was not as strenuous as it might sound, because we weren’t allowed to go far. Patients were confined to the narrow strips of lawn and the path that surrounded the vegetable patch, a tiny orchard beyond and some further paths that led around the outside of the house. However, I enjoyed the brief solitude, walking slowly through shrubbery that was still sparking with droplets after an early shower, looking back at the impressively gabled house and wondering what it had been used for before the war, what great events it might have seen.

Returning to the convalescent wing, I clambered up the steps to the verandah, squeezed past the other patients and headed for my room.

Three people were waiting for me in one of the downstairs lounges: the matron of the hospital was there with two men, one a civilian, the other an RAF Group Captain. The matron called me in as I hobbled slowly along the corridor. The moment I saw the officer I stiffened and tried to salute, an action made more clumsy by the fact that my stick was in my right hand, taking my weight. The officer responded to my salute but seemed amused by my appearance. I was wearing my hospital dressing-gown over a pair of old trousers.

‘This is Flight Lieutenant Sawyer,’ the matron said.

‘Good to meet you, Sawyer,’ the Group said. ‘148 Squadron, I believe. Wellingtons.’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Had a bit of a prang over Hamburg, I hear. Well, that can’t be helped. You seem to be walking again.’

‘It gets better every day, sir.’

‘Good. Then we would like you to come with us. No formalities are necessary’

‘Am I going back on ops, sir?’

‘Not exactly. Not straight away, at least.’

Half an hour later I was dressed and ready to leave. I found a crisp new RAF officer’s uniform hanging in my room, a perfect fit. It bore the insignia of a Group Captain. I supposed that some kind of administrative error had been made: if not, I had been kicked up three levels at once when I had no reason to expect any promotion at all. I was too bemused by the swift change in my circumstances to ask about it, knowing that the RAF would straighten everything out soon enough. When the nurse had seated me comfortably in the back of the Air Ministry staff car, we drove slowly out of the hospital grounds and turned on to the main road outside.

The civilian’s name was Gilbert Strathy, he told me, without describing his position in the Air Ministry. Strathy was a middle-aged man with a cherubic face and a shining bald head. He wore a pin-striped suit, immaculately pressed. He was extremely cordial and concerned about my well-being, but gave nothing away about why I had been collected from the hospital. The officer was Group Captain Thomas Dodman, DSO DFC, attached to Bomber Command staff, but again he passed on no more information than that.

I stared away from the two men, out through the window on my side of the car, watching the summery banks and hedgerows slipping past. The roads were deserted, of course, since petrol was more or less unobtainable for most people. The fine weather helped disguise a drabness that had settled over the whole country since the autumn of 1939. At midday the WAAF driver made a halt in Stow-on-the-Wold and we ate lunch in the hotel on the town’s main square. The bill was settled by Mr Strathy signing a chit. The hotel proprietor treated us with extraordinary civility. After lunch we continued our journey, slipping through the peaceful countryside, heading south-east in the general direction of London.

13

Looking for the British Embassy, I left the S-Bahn at Friedrichstrasse and walked along the side of the River Spree until I reached Luisenstrasse. The embassy building had been described to me as being on the intersection of this wide street with Unter den Linden. I was apprehensive, feeling that I was being pulled between the unreasonable demands of my brother and the only slightly more reasonable expectations of my country.

As I made for the main entrance of the embassy building I spotted Terry Hebbert, the captain of the athletics team, also walking pensively in the same direction as me. I caught him up and we greeted each other with some relief. He congratulated me on our bronze and told me briefly about his own hopes for the track events that were still to come. He asked where Joe was, but I merely said he was unable to be at the party. While we were talking I took my medal from my pocket and, feeling a little self-conscious, slipped it around my neck. We found the correct entrance and followed elegantly lettered signs towards the Imperial Ballroom. We were duly announced from the door.

The reception was being held in a long hall with a highly polished floor and glittering crystal chandeliers. A four-piece orchestra was playing on a dais at the far end and uniformed waiters moved deftly with trays of drinks and snacks held aloft as they wove between the large number of guests already there. The noise and heat were tremendous. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, chattering in both English and German and laughing with increasing vivacity and noise. Several high-ranking German officials were present, wearing their distinctive black or dark grey uniforms even in this unventilated and crowded room. I saw a couple of fellow athletes I recognized from Oxford, deep in conversation. Under pressure from Joe to stay at the party as short a time as possible, I resisted the temptation to go over and say hello. As we slowly worked our way across the congested floor of the ballroom, somebody in a small party wheeled round and touched Terry Hebbert’s arm and he promptly joined them. I wandered on, alone. I soon emptied my first glass of champagne, and exchanged it for a full one. The orchestra finished a piece and silence was called from the rostrum. A tall British gentleman made a short welcoming speech, alternating between English and near-perfect German. He mentioned the Olympic athletes who were competing so successfully, singling out the British, of course, but also generously praising the athletes of the host country. Germany was already so far ahead in the medals table that no other country was likely to catch up. He also paid tribute to the German government, for ensuring that the Games were being played in such a spirit of fairness and sportsmanship. He concluded with the earnest hope that the Games would be the beginning of a new and lasting spirit that would imbue the German nation with a sense of brotherhood towards the other countries of Europe. Halfway through the speech I realized that of course the speaker was the British ambassador. Behind him on the little stage I also spotted Arthur Selwyn-Thaxted. When the ambassador had finished speaking and the band struck up again, he stepped down from the dais and walked quickly through the throng towards me.

‘I’m so glad you could be here, Mr Sawyer!’ he said loudly. ‘Which of the JLs are you?’

Tm Jack, sir. Jacob Lucas.’

And is your brother here too this evening?’

‘I’m afraid not. Something came up at the last minute.’

‘That’s a tremendous shame. Well, at least you have been able to make it. There’s someone here who is anxious to meet you. Could you spare a moment to say hello to him?’

‘Of course.’

I put down my half-empty glass of champagne and followed him as he squeezed politely through the crowd. A number of long tables covered in white cloths were arranged along one side of the hall. Clustered behind, separating themselves from everyone else, were several German officials. Prominent among them was the man who had made the presentation of medals to Joe and myself. He noticed us as we walked towards him and at once came forward.

Selwyn-Thaxted said, ‘[Herr Deputy Führer Hess, I have pleasure in presenting Mr J. L. Sawyer, one of our Olympic medallists.]’

‘[Good evening, Mr Sawyer!]’ Hess said at once and made a jocular gesture towards the medal hanging on my chest. ‘[Of course I remember you. Please, you will join us for a drink.]’

The table where he had been standing was laden with a large number of tall steins and lidded tankards. Several huge glass jugs of a foaming black liquid were standing there, while two waiters stood ready to serve. Hess clicked his fingers peremptorily and one of the waiters filled a tankard.