After a decent take-off he took the Blenheim to cruising height. ‘Exactly where are we going, Bobby?’
‘Across the North Sea, skipper, almost to Denmark. The warships are supposed to be in the Elbe estuary somewhere.’
‘The weather’s bloody terrible, I’ll be surprised if any of us find the target, let alone hit it,’ Greg replied gloomily.
At some point during the flight a squadron of Wellingtons joined them, but he only had their word for it as he could see sod all. Surely with over thirty bombers on the raid some of them would be successful?
This was the first time any of them had flown a genuine sortie and after the initial chatter the kite fell silent. Well – not exactly silent as noise from the engines filled the interior. The rain hammered against the fuselage and the occasional gusts of wind made the aircraft shudder.
The radio crackled into life reminding them to stay in formation. The navigation equipment was untested under genuine battle conditions and he hadn’t the foggiest where they were. He just hoped Bobby was as good as he thought he was.
He glanced out of the cockpit window and was reassured to see Blenheims on either side of him. If he was lost, then so were they.
The flight commander’s tinny voice told them they were approaching the target. They had orders to drop their bombs at will and preferably on a German warship and not in the drink.
Bobby and Jimmy, the rear gunner, remained calm, working efficiently together. Through the murk he spotted the warships. ‘I think the battleship is the Admiral Scheer,’ Jimmy, yelled over the intercom.
Greg held the kite steady. ‘Let it go when you’re ready, Bobby.’ He waited for the lurch which would indicate the bomb had gone and instinctively corrected the kite.
Unfortunately, the Germans spotted them at the same time. Tracer fire from the fleet’s anti-aircraft guns rent the sky. The flak was concentrated and he heard shrapnel clattering along the fuselage.
He peered through the perspex blister on the starboard side of the cockpit but saw no explosions beneath him. Suddenly the Blenheim lurched sickeningly to one side and he lost control. The bloody aircraft fell into a screaming dive and he thought they’d had it.
Somehow, he managed to pull the stick back and get them level again. ‘Everyone okay?’
They responded that they were unhurt. ‘There’s a bloody great hole in the starboard wing, skipper,’ Jimmy said cheerfully.
‘Bobby, I need the course for home. We’ve done our bit so let’s get the hell out of here.’
Squadrons stayed in formation on the way to the target so the fighters could protect them more easily. However, you made your own way back once you’d dropped your bombs. He hoped some of the others had had better success than him. It looked like bloody chaos out there.
Despite the hole in the wing the aircraft continued to respond to Greg’s control almost normally. The return journey was more relaxed than the outward had been. Bobby handed him a spam sandwich whilst slurping his lukewarm tea from one of the thermos flasks.
‘Take something to Jimmy – he needs to stay alert in his turret and a hot drink will help. I don’t think we’ll meet any German fighters in this rotten weather. But he’s got to keep his eyes peeled just in case.’
He brought the crate in and touched down safely and then taxied it to the hangar. He wasn’t the first back and he waited in the hut with the other aircrew for the rest of his squadron to arrive.
‘My bomb was a dud, it hit the bloody target but didn’t explode,’ one of the pilots complained.
‘I’m not sure I was anywhere near the target – although according to the equipment I was directly overhead,’ someone else said.
‘It was a bloody shambles, if you want my opinion,’ the most recent arrival said. A chorus of agreement rippled around the already overcrowded shed.
‘Let’s get on the bloody lorry, the last bods are approaching the runway now. Let’s see what’s said in the debrief,’ Greg added as he made his way through the fog of cigarette smoke to the door. He’d given up smoking himself as Ellie didn’t like the smell of tobacco.
He squashed himself on the bench at the far end to allow room for everyone else to crowd in. The vehicle creaked and groaned as the last aircrew jumped aboard.
Bobby and Jimmy were crushed next to him. ‘Imagine doing this at night in the middle of winter. It was bad enough in daylight.’
‘I’m pretty sure I saw a Wellington crash into one of the warships, skipper. That lot have gone for a Burton,’ Jimmy said glumly.
‘It was a monumental cock-up, but at least our squadron all got back safely, if not entirely intact,’ Greg replied.
The adjutant told them to stow their kit and then get a hot meal – the debrief would be in the lecture room in an hour. The atmosphere in the canteen was jolly. Nobody talked about the poor buggers who’d lost their lives in the other squadron, they were just pleased to be alive themselves.
The general consensus of opinion was that although several of the bombs had been duds, and that the navigational equipment was pretty useless, lessons had been learned. Hopefully the next time they were sent out on a mission these things would have been rectified.
His Blenheim wouldn’t be airworthy until the hole in the wing had been repaired. Greg wasn’t sure if this meant they wouldn’t be on call or if a spare kite would be found from somewhere.
His brush with death made him think of Ellie and he joined the queue at the one telephone available so he could ring her. Hearing her voice would be enough to restore his faith in humanity. He was going to ask her to send him a
