I Flew With Braddock E-Book

Gilbert Lawford Dawson

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Braddock Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 323

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Matt Braddock was his name, and he was one of Britain’s greatest pilots of the Second World War.

Braddock flew everything from the clumsy Hampdens and Whitleys to the sleek Mosquitos and powerful Lancaster bombers, and was a master of them all.

His war exploits thrilled Britain and won him the Victoria Cross and Bar, and many other medals and honours. But Sergeant Matt Braddock was not interested in honours, all he wanted to do was to get on with the war and finish off the enemy.

On the ground, he fell afoul of many Brass Hats, with their red tape and pompous discipline, but even they had to admit that, in the air, Braddock had no equal… This is the story of when I flew with Braddock.

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I FLEW WITH BRADDOCK

THE BRADDOCK SERIES

AUTHOR: GILBERT LAWFORD DALTON

I Flew With Braddock Chapters

The Name Is Braddock

Target For Tonight

Braddock’s Ironsides

The Lone Raider

Flames In The Sky

Target Trouble

Thousand-Bomber Raid

The Phantom Flyer

Return Of The Raiders 

No Medal For Jerry 

Over The Alps

The Power Of Mandeville

The Blockbuster

“Mr Braddock Will Drop The Bomb!”

Daylight Disaster

“Arrest Sergeant Braddock!”

“Bomb Doors Open!”

The Name Is Braddock

MY name is Bourne, Sergeant George Bourne — and I flew with Braddock!

Sergeant-Pilot Matt Braddock, V.C. and bar, was one of the greatest airmen of the Second World War.

Many people disliked him, and some even hated him for the ruthless way in which he swept aside anything he regarded as red tape or useless discipline, but even his bitterest critics had to admit that, in the air, Braddock had no equal.

Those of you who have read my stories of Braddock’s earlier wartime exploits will know how I first met him.

For the benefit of those who haven’t, I shall tell again briefly the story of my first encounter with this remarkable man.

I had just finished my training course in navigation, wireless and bomb-aiming when, on May 25, 1940, I was posted to 18B Squadron at Rampton in South-East England. The squadron flew Blenheim bombers.

When I got to Liverpool Street Station in London to catch the train to Rampton, I found myself in the crush behind a burly fellow.

He had the stripes of a sergeant on his R.A.F. tunic. His pilot’s wings hung by a few threads. He carried a kitbag but wasn’t wearing a cap.

This fact was immediately noted by the two R.A.F. police on duty by the gate and they pounced on him.

“You’re improperly dressed!” snapped the sergeant policeman. “Where’s your cap?”

“Where you ought to be, over in Belgium!” said the offender gruffly. “I’ve just come from Dunkirk. Maybe you’ve heard there’s been quite a battle there against the enemy!”

He didn’t keep his voice down and there were murmurs of agreement from the servicemen in the crowd.

“Where are your papers?” the sergeant policeman demanded.

“With my hat,” growled the sergeant-pilot. “I’ve only got a railway ticket.”

The sergeant took out his notebook.

“Name?” he demanded.

“Braddock,” drawled the pilot.

“Number?” snapped the sergeant.

“How should I know?” muttered Braddock. “Do you think I’ve nothing else to do but remember the answers to silly questions asked by Air Force cops?”

The policeman thrust his notebook back into his pocket.

“Fall in,” he barked. “You’re under arrest.”

Braddock uttered a scoffing laugh.

“Come on,” snarled the sergeant. “Quick march!”

Braddock slung his kitbag onto his shoulder. It could have been accidental, but he caught the sergeant a resounding thump on the side of the head and knocked his cap off.

The policeman looked as if he were going to explode from the violence of his emotions as he picked up his cap. He closed in on Braddock with his comrade. Braddock turned and winked at the onlookers. He made no attempt to keep in step as they marched him away.

“He’s for it,” remarked a corporal. “They’ll have that poor mug for every crime in the book!”

The gates rattled open and there was a rush for the train. I was out of luck. The train was so crowded that the best I could do was stand in the corridor of a first-class coach, mostly occupied by officers.

I was leaning out of the window and watching the platform scene when a running figure burst through the gateway. It was the sergeant policeman. He legged it wildly towards the guard, who was getting ready to wave his flag.

He reached the guard and pointed back agitatedly towards the entrance.

I thought that at least an air marshal was on his way, but it was Braddock who ambled onto the platform. His hands were in his pockets. Behind him came the other policeman carrying the kitbag.

While the guard and platform inspector were blowing their whistles, Braddock sauntered along the train. He stopped opposite me.

It was the first time I’d really seen him face to face and it was at that moment I became aware of his amazing eyes. I suppose you would have called them blue, but it was almost as if a light were shining through them, for they were astonishingly luminous. His chin was strong. His mouth was big and full-lipped. The nose had a distinct twist across the bridge from an old fracture.

I opened the door for him. He took his kitbag from the policeman.

“So long, suckers!” he said. “You should find a way of getting into the war, instead of annoying fighting men who are in it!”

He got into the corridor, and I pulled the door shut. The train immediately began to move. He peered into a compartment in which there were two R.A.F. group captains, an army colonel, a major and two vacant seats.

He pulled the corridor door open, entered the compartment, dumped his kitbag on the rack and sat down. Then he gestured me in.

“Take the weight off your feet,” he growled.

I’d come down from Scotland and was train weary. I went in and sat down. The major glared at us.

“This is a first-class compartment!” he exclaimed.

Braddock yawned.

“I can read,” he said.

The major went red with indignation.

“I’m ordering you to get out!” he snapped.

Braddock stretched his legs.

“When did you buy the railway?” he inquired.

The major shot an infuriated glance at him. The group captains shifted uncomfortably.

“I shall report you to your commanding officer for disobeying an order and for insolence,” the major rasped.

“What’s your name?”

“Rhymes with haddock — Braddock!”

The Air Force officers both gave a start. They looked at each other and then at Braddock.

As the train roared under a bridge, one of them spoke to the major. I could not catch what he said, but the major didn’t have another word to say. In evident confusion, he opened a newspaper and hid himself behind it.

Braddock winked at me and then put his head back and closed his eyes.

The train put down most of its passengers at Colchester. Braddock and I were left with the compartment to ourselves.

“Going to Rampton?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “18B Squadron.”

“Me, too!” he growled. “Rampton’s a bit of a dump but not as bad as it used to be. At one time, it was full of these spit-and-polish wallahs, the sort of twirps who thought you couldn’t fly a plane unless you’d had a haircut and polished your buttons. They’re out now, though. Even the brass hats are beginning to realise there’s a war on!”

Braddock and I hit it off right from the start and, at Rampton, we crewed up together.

With scores of successful operations behind him, that Braddock should choose a rookie like me to be his navigator was an honour.

I found him a hard taskmaster. He insisted on accuracy at all times and his flying discipline was the strictest in the Air Force. Still, he was always fair, and we settled down into a team, Braddock flying like the master pilot he was and me guiding him to the target and navigating us safely home.

In Blenheim and Hampden bombers, we took part in many raids on the barges the Germans were assembling in 1940 for the invasion of Britain — the invasion that never came off.

Then, when the German raids against Britain were at their height, we switched to Beaufighters and stalked and destroyed many enemy bombers by night.

After this, we flew one of the first Mosquito fighters and started lone-wolf flights deep into the heart of Germany. Even the German skies were no longer safe for their aircraft once the Mosquitos were on the prowl.

We were the first to fly Mosquitos armed with rockets, and these gave the plane a tremendous punch.

Our last flight with a Mosquito showed Braddock’s uncanny ability for finding a target.

We were in our hut at Wanborough Aerodrome that afternoon. The door flew open and an aircraftman dashed in.

“Could you get over to Flying Control?” he panted. “I don’t know what’s happened, but there’s a big flap on. The armourers are rushing rockets over to your plane.”

Braddock fetched his flying coat off the peg and picked up his helmet.

“We’ll go and see what the excitement’s about, George,” he said.

Twenty minutes later we were airborne and headed seawards in search of a German submarine U-boat that was known to be limping on the surface towards the port of Brest after a bombing attack on it by a Sunderland flying boat.

We knew the position in which the U-boat had been attacked by the Sunderland, and it was estimated that its speed after that was ten knots.

The clouds were low. We flew through rain which cut down visibility to less than a mile. It was a day when sensible birds would have walked. Even as low as a thousand feet, we flew in and out of dirty clouds.

Braddock asked for our position, and I gave him my estimate. For a moment he considered it.

“No, you’re a bit out, George,” he said. “You haven’t allowed enough drift. The wind’s stronger than you think.”

I added a few knots to the estimated speed of the wind and gave my correction.

“That’s more like it,” grunted Braddock. “We shan’t be far out.”

“I don’t fancy our chances of finding the submarine,” I said, as we were struck by a squall.

We roared on. It was blind flying most of the time. I stared into the haze and reckoned we might as well have stayed at home.

Braddock’s voice crackled in the inter-communication set.

“Arm the rockets, George,” he said. “I reckon we’re getting warm.”

Braddock tipped the Mosquito over in a tight turn. In the gloom, there were sudden flickers and flashes.

Braddock chuckled grimly.

“Somebody is shooting at us, George. They’ve heard us coming.”

Ahead of us, I saw the shape of a trawler, and beyond it the slate-coloured U-boat.

There were flashes both from the trawler and the conning tower of the submarine. We whirled away, turned, climbed a few hundred feet, and then dived.

Braddock pressed the button and I saw the salvo of rockets, leaving fleecy trails of smoke, striking the U-boat.

Eight sixty-pound warheads punctured the skin on the submarine and exploded inside its vitals. We saw a terrific sheet of flame shoot up from the conning tower of the doomed U-boat as we turned away.

Braddock broke radio silence and called base.

"Found it, sunk it," he reported. "Our time of arrival is seventeen-thirty hours. Put the kettle on."

At half-past five in the afternoon—or seventeen-thirty to the tick — we pancaked at Wanborough. Five minutes later, when we were having a drink of tea, Braddock received a message that he was wanted on the phone. He gulped down the rest of his tea and went to take the call.

I went over to our hut. An envelope was waiting. It contained a pass to allow me to go on leave.

Braddock came striding back.

"I've just heard on the phone that I've to go to London, George," he said.

"We can go together then!" I exclaimed. "I've got leave!"

Braddock nodded.

We travelled to London together and I walked with him to the Air Ministry.

Braddock grinned at me.

"This is where we say cheerio for now, George," he said. "I'll go and see what the chap wants. It'll be about some flying job for me, but whatever happens, I'll be wanting you to be in it as my navigator."

Braddock went up the steps, and it suddenly struck me that few sergeants would enter the Air Ministry with a tunic unbuttoned and a cap stuck under the shoulder strap. Braddock was always a chap who gave no thought to the petty rules and regulations.

No sooner did he get his nose inside the door than he was pounced on by a glittering flight sergeant with a waxed moustache.

"Where have you come from, the nearest gutter?" the flight sergeant snarled. "What's your name?"

"Braddock!"

A flight lieutenant hurried across the vestibule.

"Come with me, Sergeant Braddock!' he exclaimed and whisked Braddock out of the clutches of the startled flight sergeant who had never seen a mere sergeant treated so politely before.

A minute afterwards, Braddock was ushered into the presence of the Commander-in-Chief of Bomber Command.

The air marshal stood and held out his hand.

"We've got you back into the bomber fold at last," he said. "Do you know why?"

"I suppose you want me to do some bombing, sir," answered Braddock.

The air marshal smiled grimly.

"Fifty men can win the war, Braddock, and you're one of them," he said. "At last we're starting to get the bombing craft with which we can hit the enemy hard — but we shall never knock him out unless we hit him in the right place. Sit down! There's a lot to talk about."

The Commander-in-Chief and Braddock were together, so I heard later, for four hours. That was the kind of flyer Braddock was. Although only a sergeant — because he had always refused to become an officer — he was the kind of pilot whom the big bosses themselves discussed plans with.

I had my leave and was then ordered to take a course at the Advanced Navigation School, at Malwick, in the Midlands.

There, I was shown for the first time a new instrument called Gee. It had been made to help bombers in finding their target at night.

With the German defences increasing in strength, a plane could not stooge about searching for landmarks as we'd done in the earlier days. Even when you could spend time looking, it was very difficult to find the target.

The idea behind this new instrument called Gee was that the navigator could fix his exact position by means of radio impulse signals coming to him from headquarters through the instrument.

The commanding officer at the school was Wing Commander Raught. He was a ruthless, cold-blooded man and kept us hard at it. There were long lectures every morning and afternoon and work to be done in the evenings. He allowed no leave into the town.

One warm afternoon Wing Commander Raught had all the classes assembled in the hall. He then brought in a civilian, a young man with an earnest face, spectacles, a dark suit and odd socks which became visible when he sat on his chair on the dais. One was blue and the other green, I remember.

"Help, it's that Boffin again," muttered one sergeant-navigator, who had been put back to take the course again, having failed in the examination. " He's non-stop once he

starts nattering." The word " Boffin " was R.A.F. slang for a civilian scientific specialist.

Wing Commander Raught demanded silence. He then introduced Dr Stanhope Studley, and the Boffin stood, took a sip from the glass of water on the table, and began his address.

"I am here this afternoon to talk about Gee, an instrument which you will shortly be using," he said. "Our aim has been to provide you with the means of bombing accurately even when the ground is hidden by cloud."

He stood with his hands behind his back and I wondered if he'd ever flown in an aircraft through cloud, rain and fog.

"With the aid of Gee, we shall be able to attack seven times more often than before," he stated. "In other words, that means we'll be virtually multiplying the strength of our bomber force by seven."

After this, Dr Studley became deadly dull. He droned on and on.

The room was stuffy and I just could not keep my eyes open. The next thing that happened so far as I was concerned was a hard prod from my neighbour.

"You're booked for going to sleep," he whispered, and I became conscious of the wing commander's angry stare at me. "He's taken your name."

After another half-hour of dreary talk, Dr Studley reached the end of his lecture. He then asked for questions.

I thought I could perhaps get away with the explanation that my eyes had been merely closed if I asked an intelligent question.

"What's the range of Gee, sir?" I queried.

Dr Studley gave me a cold look.

"I dealt with that in the course of my talk," he snapped.

"I will, for your benefit, repeat that Gee has an extreme range of four hundred miles. A range of three hundred and fifty miles will be enough to make sure of accurate bombing of the industrial area of the Ruhr, in West Germany."

Within five minutes of the end of the lecture, I was standing on the mat in the commanding officer's office.

I had a row of medal ribbons including those of the Distinguished Flying Medal and the Distinguished Service Medal, the latter awarded by the recommendation of the Navy for assisting Braddock in bringing a shattered motor launch back from Norway.

"The trouble with people like you, Bourne, is that you get false ideas of your own importance," snarled Raught. "You have shown little interest in the course so far and you crown everything by going to sleep during Dr Studley's important lecture. You will be put back to start the course again next Monday. Weekend leave which was to have been granted you will be cancelled. Dismiss!"

I marched out of the office feeling wild. To restart the course was a waste of time. To be deprived of leave was sheer, petty spite.

On the following morning, there was a class on astronavigation, navigation by the stars. It was taken by Flying Officer Taft, who never used two words when he could find ten to say the same thing.

He was nattering away when a motorcycle came roaring up the drive of the large house where the school was held. The motorbike stopped and its hooter screeched.

I looked through the window. The rider, still astride, pulled his goggles down and I saw the rugged face of Braddock. He gave the hooter another squeeze. He was in R.A.F. uniform, without a cap.

"I know him, sir!" I exclaimed. "He's Sergeant Braddock."

"Then go and tell him to report to the flight sergeant that he has interrupted classes," snapped Taft.

I hurried out. Braddock grinned.

"Hurry up and get your things, George," he said. "I don't want to hang about here." I looked at him in surprise.

"I have to stay here for at least another three weeks!" I exclaimed. "My posting hasn't come through yet. In fact, I've fallen out with the wingco and he's sent me back to begin the course again."

There was the sound of clattering footsteps. Out of the house hurried Flight Sergeant Prattley and just astern of him the wing commander.

Braddock revved up the motor.

"Stop that din!" snarled Prattley.

"Return to your class, Bourne!" barked the wingco.

Braddock pulled the motorbike around.

"Hop on, George!" he said.

I swung astride the pillion and Braddock paddled away.

The engine roared. We accelerated like a Mosquito.

"Where are we going, Brad?" I shouted.

"Craxby," he answered over his shoulder. "Headquarters of 5A Bomber Group."

"Bombers again!" I exclaimed.

"The Heavy Brigade," Braddock called out.

We threaded our way through the narrow streets of Malwick.

"They won't catch us now, George," he shouted.

I got a glimpse of the speedometer and, as we were doing ninety, no doubt he was right.

In 1942, the build-up of Bomber Command was slowly developing. It had had to wait for aircraft and crews.

In 1940, when invasion threatened, it had been necessary to turn out fighter aircraft and pilots fast for defence against the German raiders.

The only way we could turn from defence to attack was by bombing. The Germans had conquered nearly all of Europe. We hadn't a foothold on the Continent. The attack had to come from the air. We had to get at the war industries of the enemy.

Up to 1942, we had been able to do very little damage to German war factories. We just didn't have the planes.

When Braddock fetched me away from Malwick in the early autumn, the position was improving. The out-of-date twin-engined Whitleys and Hampdens, which had done such a good job, were being withdrawn. The four-engined Halifax and the Wellington formed the bulk of the bomber force. The Lancasters were just beginning to arrive in useful numbers.

That day, Braddock and I had been on the road for a couple of hours and were speeding down a long, straight road in Sussex when Braddock closed the throttle and braked.

I heard the roar of engines. We gazed up at a big black bomber that was flying at no more than a thousand feet.

"There you are, George!" exclaimed Braddock. "There's a Lancaster. It's a real aeroplane. It's a treat to handle."

"So you've been flying Lancs," I said.

"I've done a short course in 'em," Braddock replied.

"After it finished, I received my posting to Craxby.”

He pushed off again. We sped along for another half-hour. Despite there being no signposts, I noticed that Braddock made his turns at the crossroads without any uncertainty.

"You've been here before!" I exclaimed.

"No," said Braddock. "I had a look at the road map before I started."

That was typical of Braddock. He possessed what I can best describe as a photographic mind. Once he'd looked at a map, its details were fixed in his head. On our many flights together, I’d never known him to be wrong. He had a sense of direction like a racing pigeon.

The roof of a big house was just visible among trees at the side of the road. As we passed the end of the drive, I saw a couple of R.A.F. sentries.

"We're nearly at the drome!" Braddock exclaimed.

"That house will be Group Headquarters."

"Who's the commanding officer, Brad?" I asked.

"A bloke called Air Vice-Marshal Pringell," Braddock responded. "He has a good reputation."

We saw hangars ahead. We ran alongside the barbed wire fence at the side of the drome. A Halifax was taxiing along the perimeter track. I saw a Lancaster on the ground.

Braddock turned into the gateway and stopped opposite the guardroom. A corporal came up to us.

"We're joining the Lancaster squadron," Braddock reported.

"I'll have to see your papers," replied the corporal.

"You can see mine, but George's posting hasn't caught up with him yet," said Braddock. "It'll be all right. We'll go and see the adjutant."

"I'll have to escort you," rapped out the corporal, and eyed me suspiciously.

Braddock parked his bike and the corporal marched with us to the administration block, a long brick building well away from the hangars.

There was a lot of activity. A fuel bowser rumbled past us.

A yellow tractor hauled a string of trailers for transporting bombs to the planes. The Halifax we had seen on the perimeter track reached the runway and picked up speed for the take-off.

We were taken into an anteroom. The corporal went on into the office of the adjutant, Flight Lieutenant Parr. Then we were called in.

It was a very tidy office. Everything was in its place. Parr looked very neat and tidy himself. His complexion was pale and he wore spectacles.

"Which of you is Braddock?" he snapped.

"Me," said Braddock.

"I've brought George Bourne along because I want him as my navigator."

"This is all wrong," barked Parr. "I've had no posting for Bourne. I've never even heard of him."

Another door opened. A squadron leader looked in. He looked young to have that high rank, but the ribbons on his breast showed he had been awarded the Distinguished Service Order and the Distinguished Flying Cross. This was Squadron Leader Devenish, commanding 57A Squadron, which was composed of Lancasters.

"Ah, Braddock, I remember you from the days we flew Blenheims," he said, sticking out his hand. "It gave me a big kick when I heard you were joining us —" He fixed his gaze on Braddock's shabby tunic. " Where's your V.C. ribbon?"

Braddock shrugged.

"I haven't got round to stitching it on yet," he said.

"Three months is a long time to get round to it!" exclaimed Devenish.

"Braddock's brought his own navigator without any official permission, sir," Parr blurted out.

"Whew, you can't do things like that," gasped Devenish.

"I've done it," said Braddock. "George Bourne has flown with me on over a hundred sorties and he's the chap I want."

Devenish glanced through the window. Group Captain Larke, a tall, erect man with a sharp-pointed chin, was walking briskly towards the administration block.

"There's the Stationmaster!" Devenish exclaimed. "I'll ask him about it."

Squadron Leader Devenish dashed out, intercepted the group captain and entered into a conversation with him. It concluded when Group Captain Larke shook his head decisively and stamped away.

Devenish came back in.

"He can’t help” he stated. “Postings have to go through.”

Braddock moved to the desk.

"Can I borrow your phone?" he asked and picked up the receiver.

"Put me through to Group," he said.

The operator at Group Headquarters answered.

"I want to speak to the air officer commanding!" Braddock exclaimed.

A horrified gasp broke from Parr.

"You can't speak to Air Vice-Marshal Pringell," he said hoarsely.

The telephone operator was protesting.

"My name's Braddock," roared my pilot. "Tell him!"

There was a slight pause and he was through.

"What do you want, Braddock?" we heard Air Vice-Marshal Pringell ask.

"There's a bit of bother because I've brought Sergeant George Bourne along as my navigator and he hasn't been officially posted here," said Braddock.

"All right," replied the air vice-marshal. "If he's the navigator you want you can have him. Is there anything else you want?"

The door opened. A corporal burst in.

"There's a sergeant-pilot here named Hancox!" he exclaimed. "He has had a postcard from Sergeant Braddock telling him to come along. He has no other papers about coming to this station, just the postcard from Sergeant Braddock."

Parr looked utterly flabbergasted at this, but Devenish was smiling.

Braddock carried on his conversation with Air Vice-Marshal Pringell.

"There are two other chaps I've asked along," he said. “I'd like Sergeant Ham Hancox to be my second pilot and flight engineer, and Sergeant Tom Tanner to be the bomb-aimer."

"That's all right," answered the air vice-marshal. "I'll see to it that their postings go through regular channels. If there is anything else you require, just let me know."

Braddock had picked the crew he wanted to fly with him, and he was only a sergeant! But what a sergeant!

Target For Tonight

A KEEN east wind blew across the drome when we descended from our Lancaster F Fox, after a test flight two mornings later.

The Lancaster loomed vast over our heads as we started to walk away. It had a wingspan of 102 feet and the bomb doors had a length of 33 feet.

The bomb bay could carry a load of 20,000 lb. and the four engines had the power to fly high at a speed of nearly 300 miles per hour.

Braddock was pleased with his new plane.

“She’s a beauty,” he remarked. “Mark my words. That’s the plane to win the war!”

As we made for the canteen, we formed a straggling procession. Our crew numbered seven. The radio operator was Nicker Brown, whose home was in Northampton, and the two gunners, Hoppy Robinson and Les Howe, both belonged to

London. Their age was twenty.

We were all sergeants in F Fox, but in bombers, you could have all ranks mixed in the aircraft. The Lancaster K King had a sergeant as pilot and a flight lieutenant as rear-gunner. Rank didn’t count in an aircrew — the pilot was always the captain.

We were drinking tea and eating wads — Ham complained that the currants in his bun were made of black lead when the loudspeaker of the Tannoy was switched on. The Tannoy was used for announcements to be made all over the drome.

The order was for the pilots and navigators of the Lancaster squadron to go at once to the briefing room.

The first person we saw when we entered the room was the Air Officer Commanding, Air Vice-Marshal Pringell.

He had the reputation of being a fighting airman and he was notorious for his bad temper. He had a determined mouth and a brusque manner.

The second person I saw took me back to my days at the navigation school. Dr Stanhope Studley was with us. The stationmaster and the squadron commanders were, of course, in the room.

The moment the door was shut the A.O.C. spoke.

“Your target will be Essen,” he rapped out.

He let the name of the famous German industrial town sink in.

“The great Krupp’s factory is in the middle of Essen!” he growled. “So far, we haven’t hit it.” He paused again.

“Essen is a large town, but a difficult target,” he said. “Visibility is always bad because of the smoke from factory stacks. It’s strongly defended. Just the same, we’re going to hit it and hit it hard. The Lancasters, which are equipped with Gee, are going to lead the way in tonight.”

There was tension in the air. We were going raiding over dangerous ground. The Germans had built up very formidable defences. They had an early warning system along the coast of Europe.

They had put in numerous ground control stations, each station controlling one fighter plane. A continuous searchlight belt covered the Ruhr district, where Essen was.

“This is the plan,” the A.O.C. stated. “The Lancasters will be loaded with flares. You will use your Gee instruments to locate the city and drop the flares. You will be followed in by a wave of Wellingtons with incendiary bombs. These should start fires to guide in the main force of Halifaxes with the big bombs. Your flares will go down at midnight.”

Dr Studley coughed drily.

“You may place full reliance on your Gee apparatus,” he said, complacently. “The Gee fixes will guide you to the centre of Essen.”

“That’s what you hope,” said Braddock.

Dr Studley frowned.

"In recent tests, the apparatus has worked perfectly," he retorted.

"No doubt," said Braddock. "But in your tests, the aircraft would be flying straight with no night fighters, searchlights or flak around. It's one thing to use your fancy instruments on a nice smooth trip. It's another to get your fixes when the plane is being chucked about all over the sky. Still, we'll see."

After a last-minute briefing from Braddock, we took up our positions. We were ready for our first operational flight.

I heard Braddock say, "Get ready to start up."

"Okay," Ham answered. "Ready to start up."

"Contact starboard outer!" Braddock snapped.

As Ham pressed the starter buttons in turn, the engines crackled, spat and thundered. I looked down through my window. Twenty feet below, men of the ground crew pulled on the long ropes to move the wheelchocks. I heard the hiss of air as Braddock released the brakes. Swaying and rumbling, our thirty-ton bomber headed for the runway.

Ham called the control tower.

"Hullo, Control. F Fox calling. May we take off, please? Over!"

"Okay! Take off!" came the order from Flying Control.

The roar increased.

Braddock released the brakes and there was such tremendous acceleration that I nearly went through the back of the seat.

We went thumping along till, with the airspeed indicator showing 210 miles an hour, the motion became steady. We were airborne and on our way to Essen.

Braddock and Ham exchanged the routine jargon: "Climbing power, wheels up, flaps up, cruising power."

The airspeed settled down at 210 miles an hour. I came into the picture when I gave Braddock the course.

"Ten minutes to the coast," I said.

It was a dark night, clear over England but with a forecast of clouds over the Continent.

Between the two front windows was the large repeating compass. I noticed how Braddock's eyes were never still. He looked at the compass and then at the airspeed indicator.

Always on the alert, he continually scanned the instruments.

We were climbing as we passed over the coast. Somewhere in the darkness were the nine other Lancasters whose job it was to plant the flares in the middle of Essen.

The Wellingtons and the Halifaxes would also be airborne now, coming from various aerodromes. It was going to take some skilful staff work to bring them over the target at the right times.

I returned to my cabin. In front of me on the table was the chart prepared for use with the Gee instrument. This instrument was really a special radio set which received

impulses from three transmitting stations. By noting the differences in the timing of these impulses, I could fix the position of our Lanc.

Braddock's voice came through on the intercommunication phones.

"How are you getting on with Gee?" he asked.

"Fine," I said. "It makes my job easy."

Just so they wouldn't feel lonely in their gun turrets, he called Hoppy and Les.

“Are you all right?" Braddock demanded when Hoppy didn't reply right away.

"Sorry, I had my mouth full," said Hoppy, and judging by his splutter, a crumb had gone the wrong way.

"You've started your supper early," chuckled Braddock.

I took another Gee fix.

"Enemy coast ahead!" I rapped.

Half an hour later, we were flying over broken clouds.

Through every gap glared the searchlights. They were dazzling.

There had been one or two salvoes of anti-aircraft gunfire, but the heavily defended areas were still fifteen minutes' flying distance away.

I took another Gee fix. I plotted our position and compared it with the course I had set.

"We're a bit off course, Brad," I called. "We're three miles to starboard of where we should be."

"Okay," grunted Braddock. "Drift, I guess."

He turned us back on to course. The wail of the slipstream mingled with the roar of the motors. I sat and sweated in my little metal cabin. I was using oxygen, of course, as we were flying at over 20,000 feet. The heaters were working fine. I hoped Les was keeping his eyes skinned for fighters as he sat in the rear turret. Braddock would see anything in front.

I thought Gee was a good thing. That last fix had proved it. The wind had put us off course. Gee had brought us back.

The clouds opened. The searchlights blazed through. I saw flashes flicking across the sky. The ominous red winks got nearer. Braddock started to weave.

I watched the movements of the compass and the airspeed indicator. We were lit up in the glare. There was no evading it. We just had to go through it.

Braddock's voice ripped over the intercom.

"Fighter two o'clock and above," he snarled. "Hold your hats on!"

I was crushed by the pressure of centrifugal force as our Lancaster made a quick turn. The note of the slipstream screeched shrilly. Pressure increased and I saw things blurred by the red veil over my eyes.

The pressure eased off. I shoved my oxygen mask, which had dragged down, back over my face and gulped to fill my lungs.

"The German fighter has lost us! He went the other way," Braddock said. "Where are we, George?"

I tried to get it from Gee, but the signal was weak and confused.

"Come on," growled Braddock. "What's happened to Gee?"

"The signal's weak and wonky," I said. "By my own reckoning, we're ten miles southwest of Essen."

Over the air, with his voice crackling through the howls and screeches of the static, Devenish called us.

"Things are a bit mixed up," he said. "The Gee doesn't seem to be working. Don't drop the flares, repeat, don't drop the flares unless you're sure you can place them on the target."

"Hullo, this is F Fox," Braddock answered. "Look for my flares and then drop yours on the same place."

"Okay, but make sure of your target," Devenish answered.

"I'll find it," retorted Braddock.

Almost as he spoke, he put the great bomber into a dive.

We tore down through the clouds and into a haze of smoke turned into a dazzle by the searchlights.

At no more than three thousand feet, we came out of the dive. I saw the ground with pencils of light rising in clusters, but nothing to indicate if we were over Essen. I was sticky with sweat, but it was a cold perspiration.

Braddock called, "Bomb doors open!" Tanner answered, "Can't see a thing!"

"I'll tell you when, Tom," Braddock answered. He stood the Lanc on a wingtip, brought us round and levelled out.

"Now!" he exclaimed.

"Flares gone," yelled Tanner.

We turned and, on the ground, the flares blazed. In their light, I saw the dim shapes of buildings.

"Hullo, Leader," Braddock called. "We've dropped our fireworks slap across Krupp's factory."

Through that crazy pattern of searchlights, smoke and flak, we weaved away. As we climbed, our flares started to fade out, but then others sprang up in vivid reds and yellows to show that Squadron Leader Devenish and the other crews were dropping their loads on the target.

Even through the glare and smoke, we could see the flares. They cast a garish glow on the clouds.

I got a faint Gee fix which was going to be a help when Braddock asked for the course home. It seemed to show that Gee was good, up to a point. It had been an efficient aid for much of the flight, though it was certainly not the spot-on device that Dr Studley had claimed it to be.

As we swung round to the north, a fierce shout broke from Braddock.

"Where the blazes are the Wellingtons?" he snarled. "If they don't get here quick, the flares will have burned out."

"We dropped our flares right on time!" I exclaimed. "It was midnight exactly when we lit up the target."

"I know it was," Braddock snorted. "But where are the Wellingtons with the incendiary bombs?"