╨╧рб▒с>■  Y[■   X                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                ье┴s ┐▀<jbjb└ └ %~кkкk▀8      ]ЦЦЦЦЦЦЦ "нъBBBBBBBBjllllll,ЧЇЛ╕ШЦBBBBBШ╨ЦЦBBB╨╨╨BLЦBЦBjк6р6ЦЦЦЦBj╨Ъ╨jЦЦj6 l╗ОBj Chapter VII - Flight to Hamburg in 1941 As related by S.D. 'Darkie' Simpson, A/G "We were blessed (?) with a full moon period; a beautiful moon, full and glowing in a starlit sky with not a cloud to help us evade the Hun fighters or searchlights, or cover up our target area in Hamburg. The Germans were pounding London and we were pounding Hamburg. Briefing was over and we wended our way to the crew room where, with much joking and mock seriousness, we prepared ourselves for the trip with heavy sweaters and socks, electrically heated suits, fur-lined boots, scarves, silk gloves, and huge gauntlets. As each crew went out to the transport, its men appeared unreal, resembling shapeless figures from another dark and distant world. "We reached the aircraft and were soon settling down to our various jobs: checking guns, sights and ammunition, listening to the radio, spreading navigation charts on the table, checking fuel and oil. Finally, with a splutter which gradually ascended into a rhythmic roar, our engines burst into life. First the starboard was run to its full power, the Skipper noting revs and oil pressure, and then the port engine was treated with the same loving care. With a jolt forward the brakes were off and twenty tons of machine, high explosives, and humanity, moved cautiously to the runway. A swerve to port and we were all lined up for take-off.The green light flashed from the black and white checkered control tower, the Skipper issued his traditional, 'Here we go chaps'. "With a rolling movement gradually increasing into a lumbering forward surge, we were off! As we left the ground there came the old feeling in the pit of the stomach; a cold chilling sickness which persisted in its intensity until we were finally on course. Why this feeling was to last until we were on course, I was never able to fathom. "Then started the long, dreary, monotonous climb to reach maximum height. We usually tried to reach 14 to 16 thousand feet but occasionally, on a night like this, the atmosphere was against us and we had to be content to reach ten to twelve thousand. Tonight, however, we were lucky and J Johnny was climbing to its higher ceiling. At last our climb came to an end and we steadied down on the first long sea-leg, from point A in the North Sea to point B just off the long peninsula of Kiel. "The full, glowing orb that was the moon was to our front, silhouetting the aircraft in its ethereal light. To starboard and high above us were a few condensation trails, marking the passage of some patrolling night fighter. The port side was dark, and this was the likeliest quarter for an enemy attack, but, so far, our rabbit's feet, little dogs and woollen mascots, were on our side. We progressed on our heavy, laborious way, free from interference of any kind. "Occasionally, far below, a flame float would twinkle as some navigator checked wind and course. On the starboard would appear bursts of light and medium flak, for all the world like stars losing their grip on the heavens and exploding into infinity. "We reached point B and swung over to starboard to begin the short but deadly run to the target; a run that caused even the more intrepid of us to pray and wish away time, as a person does a bad pain. The searchlights were up, groping about like the ghostly tentacles of a huge octopus. Sometimes they would fasten on some unfortunate crew and then, from their satellite guns, would pour a deadly fire of death. Looking below, we saw a silvered ribbon which was the river Elbe. Following it on its winding way, we dodged a searchlight here, a black angry mushroom of flak there, sometimes so close the aircraft bucketed its way through a turbulent current of sulphur-filled air. "Five long drawn-out seconds to go. Every second seemed a lifetime and the target was ahead. Flak was bursting round us now and it seemed as if we alone were the target for every gun in Germany. All we could do was keep on; no turning away now. On and on. Now the bomb doors were open. In a second a lethal load of death would be dropping from our Wellington's yawning body. The navigator had sighted the aiming point and pressed the bomb tit. "Away they went, dark ugly cannisters of destruction, whistling through the disrupted heavens. We turned away, the target behind us. Here our mascots deserted us. As we dived into a barrage of flak there was a thunderous crack, a smell of cordite, and we knew we were badly hit. Down, down we went, a deathly silence permeating the once roaring hell of the skies. "A death-defying struggle was taking place in the cockpit with both skipper and co-pilot hauling on the stick of the stricken aircraft. Where a few moments before I'd been sweating, now the icy cold fingers of death seemed to reach out at me, to converge and press me to her welcoming bosom. Finally, with a nose-lifting surge, the efforts of our pilots prevailed, and they regained control of J Johnny. Another few seconds and we would have been just another tangled wreckage of machine and human bodies. "We had passed through the barrage and lost the searchlights. Now we set course for the enemy coastline. As we crossed it a few desultory flashes of gun-fire were thrown at us as a warning never to return. At last we could take stock of the damage. The radio would not work and a gaping hole in the fuselage admitted a cold draught. The starboard engine throbbed sweet music to us as the port engine coughed and groaned like a tired old man. Flames would gush forth and disappear into the night, but that was not the end of our difficulties. "The moon was slowly being obscured, the aircraft was being bucketted about like a small boat on a high sea, and we faced a difficult journey to base.After those few seconds in the grip of Hamburg's flak, the reaction was setting in on us. The wireless operator had been hit on the head and he murmured over the intercom, 'Wonder if I'm dead and don't know it? Nuts! It couldn't be as easy as that.' He continued to repair his set. "In normal flight, at economical cruising speed, a smooth-running Wellington could make the long and now tortuous sea crossing; but our engines seemed old and fuel-greedy, and it was not a normal flight. On the outward journey there had been the climb to more than 14,000 feet, with a bomb load. Then came the full-power jinking while running the gauntlet of anti-aircraft fire. We knew by now our port fuel tank had been vitally holed and life saving fuel was leaking away. Our torn fuselage became a petrol-soaked length of fabric. What now, if the port engine should spurt forth flame, or one incendiary bullet from a night fighter hit us? "With a shuddering, shaking, groan, the port engine gave up its struggle and the starboard one now had to get us back. More fuel had to be fed to it to keep the heavy labouring body of the aircraft on an even keel. We well knew that our petrol was low. Physical fatigue and nervous strain overcame us in a form we had never experienced. Vertigo-inducing darkness had closed in around us completely. Low clouds occasionally obscured the stars. I could imagine the skipper's thoughts. '300 miles to go, ground speed 120, that's two and a half hours. Allow half an hour or more, to get into the circuit and take my turn to land. With the radio out we can't warn them. It's going to be close.' "The skipper was flying by muscular memory. The artificial horizon was out of order, and he oriented himself on a star, only to see it disappear behind a wave of wispy cloud. Not only vertigo found us there, but hypnosis, induced by vibration of the bulkheads and fuselage. Perspex sides of the turrets blurred and swayed in and out, expanding and contracting the enclosure. The front gunner was hunched in his turret with nerves drawn doubly taut against the deception of his senses, and the imminence of disaster that would strike without warning Ц the explosion of silence that meant the last tank had run dry, or the shock of a crash into the sea. Hypnosis rode with the pilots too, sitting alone in the darkness with four other lives depending upon them. The engine beat out a rhythm which became a drone; and then a lullaby, stupefying and perilous. "The skipper jerked back from the very edge of a trance and drove himself into a frenzy of industry, shuttling his attention around the cockpit, purposely complicating the simplest procedures, anything to keep another trance at bay. He touched buttons and switches, eased his straps, patted his pockets. He made elaborate ceremony of taking out his torch and examining the fuel gauge. Wherever the skipper curved his eyes and however often, he always brought them back to that fuel gauge. "Below us we often caught a glimpse of a lone flame float, tossed about on a now white-horse sea. We droned homewards and it would soon be time for us to reach the English coast. Still there was no sign of any searchlights, no flashing beacon to guide us on our stricken way. Tiredness set in completely now. I couldn't think of our Station, my people, friends, or of any earthly things. I was enmeshed in the body of a war machine and the throes of war. "Our journey seemed endless when the front gunner shouted over the intercom, 'Beacon on the starboard!' The navigator checked. Yes, it was England. Through our physical and mental exhaustion a feeling of gladness crept through. But we had yet to reach base. The navigator gave the skipper a course and soon we could see the beacon of the aerodrome. We found the drome but not a welcome light did we see, not even a flicker from the camp. It meant just one thing, Hun intruders. "Over to port a brief exchange of machine gun fire split the inky darkness. The skipper checked the fuel. 'Enough for half an hour chaps!' We kept silent. Should we climb and jump? No, not enough fuel and power. Should we crash land? No. We'll get Johnny in OK. The skipper tried the RT and, wonder of wonders, Control answered us, 'Elephant J Johnny. Intruders. Circle Q site'. 'Johnny to Control. One engine. No fuel. Must land.' A silence, more deadly than our trip across the sea. A crackle on the RT. 'Johnny, make your approach. And when ready say lights on. Chance light will be on for a few seconds. It's up to you!' Those instructions were enough for us. At least we'd prang on old England if needs must. Around we went in a wide flat right turn. It had to be this time or else! A dip to starboard and a faint wet glimpse of a long ribbon of concrete met the nose of the aircraft. 'Control Ц Johnny, lights on!' Below us and in front was sanctuary. Oh! pray for brake power and unpunctured tyres. "We were down with a swish, bump and complete darkness as the light was quickly dowsed. A long bumpy run and suddenly a lurch to port, a crash, and a sudden stop. Deathly quiet, no talking, just a stupefied, pregnant silence. "Suddenly I awoke. My benumbed senses and nerves returned. I found myself rotating the turret by hand. I was out and my feet were unsteadily braced on Mother Earth.That feeling of sickness on take-off, and over the target area, returned. I had to clutch the starkly silhouetted shapes of my guns for support. The ice-cold feel of steel did something to me and the nausea passed away leaving a body and brain devoid of any feeling or sense. "There were sounds of motors and an ambulance and fire engine pulled up with screaming tyres. Dim figures appeared and I pulled myself out of my trance and staggered wearily to the front of the aircraft. Ghostlike shapes were clambering on to the aircraft, like fishermen clambering over the hulk of a dead whale. First one cumbersome shape, then another, appeared from the depths of Johnny and within the space of seconds we were together. There was a babel of voices all asking questions; receiving unintelligible replies. Gradually, we resumed the shape of earthly mortals. Relief poured over us in ever-increasing waves. We lit cigarettes and wandered to the waiting transport. "The ambulance followed us to the crew room and, once we got used to the brilliant light, took stock of ourselves: pale grey faces, deep-set weary eyes, sunken and surrounded by dark shadows, shoulders hunched with fatigue, hands shaking, a rip in the wireless operator's helmet, a crust of dried blood down his left cheek. Slowly and cumbersomely we undressed, dragging deep gulps of smoke into our lungs, exhaling it like wisps of the cloud we had met. "We walked through the entrance and out onto the aerodrome where we could see Johnny resting on one side, with the high tail rising sharply against the lightening sky. One final look, and we wandered over to the Intelligence Room. Then a cup of hot, stimulating Oxo, a sandwich, and a rest while we gathered our scattered thoughts into a cohesive story of action. "Questions here, answers there, pointings, maps and charts, remarks on the weather, defences, performance of equipment. Suddenly it was over. With a pat on the back and a word of encouragement we were sent on our way to the mess.The usual breakfast of egg and bacon was eaten in a forced silence. The last remarks were from the skipper, 'Well, that's that. It's me for bath and bed. Are you all OK?'And off we went to bed. A long hot soak in the bath, dozing and only stirring to turn on some more hot water Ц the last cigarette whilst drying one's tired body Ц the memory of clean, cold, inviting sheets Ц the twisting and turning and, eventually, oblivion. "We rose at mid-day, had lunch and strolled to the Flight. We hopped aboard transport and went out to look at Johnny, which had been moved from the runway and was now in a dispersal bay. The port wheel was embedded deep into the mainplane, the engine and airscrew pitted and torn with flak, and there was a hole under the petrol tank large enough for a man's head and shoulders to go through. A gaping hole here, a gash there, and what had been a proud Johnny was now a war-savaged warrior. After collecting a few articles of kit we returned to the Flight. A messenger was awaiting us to say, 'You're on again chaps; briefing at 1800.' Our aircraft was to be A Apple, another veteran of the Squadron. Apple had been tested so it was simply a matter of checking our kit and strolling up to briefing. Asked if we were OK, we said, 'Yes, we're fine, Sir.' 'Good show, chaps,' was the reply, 'a maximum effort tonight'. 'Where, Sir?' 'Oh, you'll find out soon enough.' We did. It was to be Hamburg again! 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