It all begins in the morning
really. After breakfast we report to the Flights, A and B, for
nominal roll call by our Flight Commanders.Approximately eight
crews in each Flight plus the reserves. We are allotted our
aircraft for local flying or air testing. Our kite is KO A a
newly delivered machine. Later we will write her off temporarily
in a crash landing at Exeter aerodrome after having been badly
shot up by flak over Brest. That is for the future. Now we are
to take her up for air firing, George test - Automatic Pilot,
and Homing practice - GEE.
An hour later we land and taxi
to dispersal. As we pass through the Flights we see instructions
to the ground crews chalke dup on the boards. Six hundred
gallons of petrol and a "standard" high explosive bomb load for
KO A. The standard bomb load comprises six five hundred pounders
and a thousand pounder to drop in the middle of the stick. We
then know that we will be on "stand to" that night. Speculation
is rife as to the target.Had it been four hundred and fifty
gallons it could have meant either "Happy Valley", the nickname
for the heavily defended Ruhr Valley, or a cushier trip to Paris
and the Renault factory.
When lunch is over we spend
the time relaxing as far as possible and then around tea time at
briefing we learn the target is Emden.From then on I am busy
preparing my Flight Plan. At this stage of the war we
were given a certain amount of freedom in choosing our route and
the height at which we would bomb. Another tense period of
waiting in which time I collect my bag of navigational
instruments, a met. report and operational rations for the crew.
The rations are usually chocolate, oranges or raisins, chewing
gum and six Thermos flasks, two of black coffee,two of tea and
two of Bovril. Finally we are seated outside the Flights
complete with flying kit and parachutes ready for the transport
to take us to the aircraft at the dispersal point. As each crew
arrives at their dispersal we wish them luck...then we are
seated on the grass by KO A.
With Double British Summertime
in operation it is still light. We have a long wait as we are
near the end of the take off sequence.Some 24 aircraft from 218
and 115 Squadrons will be airborne before it is our turn. I look
over the hedge and see a farmer ploughing his field. It is all
so peaceful. I wish desperately that I could change places with
him. Tense and nervous we urinate against the wheels of the
aircraft for good luck. It was a standard practice among
aircrews. Later to be prohibited by Air Ministry order as the
subsequent corrosion was causing undercarriage failures.
As our take off time
approaches I climb into the aircraft and set the detonator and
diffuser on GEE and its map container.It is warm inside and
strangely quiet compared to the noise of the aircraft outside. I
am alone for a moment and I look around the observer's
compartment trying to visualise a burst of cannon fire from a
night fighter ripping through cabin. Now the rest of the crew
are climbing aboard. The pilot is starting the engines and I am
too busy with my duties to think of anything else. We taxi along
the perimeter track maintaining strict W/T silence. The aircraft
ahead of us gets the "green" from the Aldis lamp. We are
now swinging round to face the take off strip. No one speaks to
the pilot. He must not be distracted. His aircraft is heavy and
it will take all his concentration to get it off the ground. He
will do an "operational take off". The heavy tail turret
complete with gunner must be raised off the ground first. He
jams on the brakes, pushes the throttles up to the gates. The
Wellington shudders and roars. He pushes the stick forward until
it almost touches the instrument panel. Slowly the tail lifts
and when the nose is pointing slightly down he releases the
brakes. We trundle off. Momentum gathers and at 100 mph he is
holding her down, at 120 mph we lift off the ground. As I raise
my hands from the log to note the time we are airborne I see the
place where they were resting is moist with sweat. Take off with
full petrol and bomb load is extremely dangerous.
We climb on course. The next
hazard will be if we pass over a British convoy sailing
down the coast. A convoy will open fire on any aircraft passing
directly over it. We are low and vulnerable and although we know
its approximate position this can be quite in accurateas the
convoy maintains strict W/T silence whilst in these waters. Some
aircraft have been badly damaged in the past by convoys. We pass
out to sea without incident, still climbing. The gunners call up
for permission to try out their guns. The whole structure of the
aircraft shudders as the guns open up and the reek of cordite
pervades the atmosphere in the cabin. We hope that no patrolling
night fighter has spotted our one in five tracer. Approaching
the Dutch coast we unfold and lock in position the armour plate
doors. These doors are protection for the cabin and cockpit from
a rear attack. Still climbing on course, the wireless operator
in the astrodome assisting the rear gunner in his endless search
for night fighters. This is where their area begins, the Dutch
coast, the beginning of the night fighter belt. The aircraft
commences to weave gently side to side as the pilot attempts to
uncover the blind spot below us for the gunners.
Ten thousand feet, cold but
not unpleasant, we begin to use oxygen. The pilot has difficulty
in engaging the S blower (supercharger).If he fails we will have
to stay at ten thousand feet. I ask the pilot the outside
temperature but he cannot tell me as the indicator has fallen
offthe dial. He is worried that the oil temperature on the port
engine is too high. He throttles that engine back. The rear
gunner is experiencing difficulty with his turret. Will I check
the recuperator rams which indicate the hydraulic pressure. I
put my hand out and feel them, they are flat, the turret can
only be operated manually. Should we turn back? The pilot
decides to carry on. Twelve thousand feet, we can see the glow
from the target. Apart from the odd flak gun pooping off miles
out of range we have experienced little hostility. I work out
the course to bring us out of the target towards the sea.
The gunners are now calling
over the intercom warning the pilot of pockets of flak...we
start to weave violently. I move forward to the bomb aimer's
position setting the next course on the pilot's compass as I go
past. Lying prone along the bombing hatch I get a good view of
the target which is well alight. It is like a running red sore
in the blackness of the night. For a brief moment I feel sick
with horror and think of the human beings below us. Then I am
too busy to care.
Setting the rotor arm that
will space the stick of bombs. Removing the bomb release from
its holder. This automatically fuses the bombs. I line the
target up in the wires of the bomb sight. The flak is heavy and
the pilot weaves desperately. Red balls of light flak start
lazily from the ground. Gaining in impetus they appear to come
straight for my stomach. I suck my breath in, they have passed
like lightning to one side of us and are arcing above us. This
confirms what we have been told that the light flak at Emden
reaches fourteen thousand feet. We are menaced by both heavy and
light flak. I get a glimpse of the target. No time for standard
"bombing patter" now. The gunners are yelling for the bombs to
be dropped.They want to be away. All is noise, confusion, flak,
searchlights and roaring, lurching aircraft. I see the target
again. "Get over to port man, hold it,BOMBS GONE." The bomber
rises, unburdened and free. We swing round on course and I am
scrambling back to the cabin.
The target is left behind as
we start a shallow dive to increase our speed. We are away to
the comparative safety of the opensea. Everyone relaxes
slightly. We are flying parallel to the coast and danger is
remote...perhaps a patrolling JU 88 night fighter but the
chanceis slight. I am busy with my navigation. The wireless
operator pours coffee for us and takes an empty milk bottle up
to the pilot so that he can relieve himself. GEORGE, the
automatic pilot, is u/s so he cannot get back to the Elsan
toilet. The pilot is still concerned about the oil temperature.
It turned out later that the gauge was reading incorrectly. The
final stretch of sea and then the English coastline. I switch on
the IFF. We don't want to be intercepted by our own fighters and
for the same reason we stay at a predetermined height. Crossing
the coast and moving inland. Eyes peeled for Norwich and its
balloon barrage should we be off course.
We pick up the aerodrome and
start to circle. The pilot tests the under cart and the red
light stays on meaning the wheels will not lock. We call up the
ground, "Hallo Waggon Control, this is Reveille A Apple". No
reply. We repeat several times then it dawns on us that the
transmitter has packed up. The receiver is working. We hear
another aircraft calling. The aerodrome replies. It is not
Waggon Control, we are over the wrong aerodrome. Panic for a
moment until we find our bearings and arrive over Marham. We
cross the flare path at right angles and fire the distress
signal, double green. Then we fly over again flashing "A" on our
downward identity light. They are calling us from Waggon Control
and telling other aircraft to get out of the circuit. To
cheer us up they tell us that the ambulance or "blood waggon"
and the fire tender are standing by. They don't know we are
receiving them so they flash a green from the Aldis lamp. We
make a pass but the pilot overshoots. We are braced ready for a
crash landing. Second time round we make it. A perfect landing.
The under cart locking light wasn't working.
We climb out. Suddenly my
parachute harness weighs a ton. A quick debriefing with
Intelligence and then cool, smooth white sheetsand the deep
sleep of mental and physical exhaustion.
Written by Don Bruce - Observer
115 Squadron -POW Stalag VIIIB
©
Jean Darley 2013. Please respect the copyright.
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