Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse

‘From there it’s straight run down to the target. I’ll be placing a yellow fifteen miles from the target and you must go in to bomb over that yellow datum-line marker. If you don’t you’ll be crossing the bomber stream. By the time you reach the datum marker navigators must have their ground-speed calculated so that captains and bomb aimers have an exact time to the aiming-point. That’s all. Anyone with queries can see me afterwards.’

Some of the new boys were scribbling away furiously. Cohen could see PO Fleming and his officer navigator checking and rechecking every word of the briefing. The rest of Fleming’s crew sat close and watched approvingly as he prepared the spell that would bring them safe through the night. Not all of the crews were together. Sweet always sat at the front with a group of officers. His engineer – Micky Murphy – sat next to Lambert just as he had always done. On the other side of Lambert sat Battersby, studying the oil and grease on his hands. He noted with pride that they were fast becoming real engineer’s hands like Murphy’s.

Digby leaned forward to Murphy and Lambert. ‘Faith, Hope and Charity are writing their memoirs,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, I remember what it was like on my first trip,’ said Lambert. ‘I was more frightened of making a mistake on my log than of tangling with a night fighter.’

All of the new crews had arrived in the Briefing Room at least five minutes early. For fear of taking some veteran’s allotted seat they had all stayed close together near the back of the room. Like new boys at school they were anxious not to attract attention, but when Jammy Giles stood up it was to this part of the Briefing Room audience that he addressed himself.

Flight Lieutenant Giles was the Squadron’s Assistant Adjutant and also its Bombing Leader. Thirty-three years old, he had joined the RAF during the Munich Crisis. He had first flown as a gunner, when any erk standing around at take-off could become an air gunner without training or brevet or sergeant’s rank. At that time he had been an LAC, almost the lowest form of Air Force life. Later, when his job had been made official and he’d got three stripes, he had delighted in swapping jobs with other aircrew. He had flown as gunner, as wireless operator, and even as second pilot. He had proved particularly skilled at bomb-aiming; so much so that at the end of his first tour he had got the DFM and a job as instructor. The discipline at the training school had been so irksome that he had applied for a commission and to his surprise got one. Now that the importance of his job had been recognized by the creation of the air-bomber category, Jammy had become an important man at Warley.

The eleven men in the room who had already completed a tour of operations were quieter and more introspective than the newer crews. Jammy was a notable exception. He was noisy, balding and inclined to plumpness; all due, he boasted, to the vast amounts of alcohol he consumed. Amid a less stringently selected group of men Jammy’s physique would have gone unremarked. Amongst these aircrews, however, his slight paunch was Falstaffian, his pate Pickwickian and his cheerful nose Cyrano-like.

This was emphasized by the build of his pilot, Roddy Peterson, a tall thin doleful Canadian. He had a dry, savage brand of humour that Jammy had taken to immediately and now excelled in. Laurel and Hardy they were often called. Before joining up Jammy Giles had lived with his mother in a three-room basement in the London suburb of Morden and worked as a clerk for a building contractor. Now he was a bemedalled officer; a Flight Lieutenant. It was a transformation beyond his wildest dreams and he refused to think of what he would do when the war was over. In any case he didn’t expect to survive it.

‘All right. Belt up there and listen,’ said Jammy. ‘I don’t care how many times you’ve heard it before.’ Several times in the past Jammy had brought some inattentive crew member up on to the stage and asked him to repeat the briefing. Jammy knew how to make such a man feel like an infant; the crews became quiet and attentive.

‘First the PFF Mosquito aircraft will mark the target with red markers. Their gear is much more accurate than anything we have, so their reds are what the Finders must look for. The Finders will put long sticks of flares over the reds. Mixed in with the Finder aircraft there are Supporters – and these are mostly crews on their first couple of trips – who are carrying only high-explosive bombs. That’s because incendiaries could be mistaken for red markers. Remember, all you Supporter crews, it’s your job to shake up the defences with your HE. Aim at the reds; if you don’t see them I’d rather you brought your loads back here than made a mistake. And don’t go round again, save that for the experienced crews. All right. Next over the target are the Illuminators – they will be dropping short sticks of flares right on the aiming-point which they will identify from the light of the Finders’ flares. Lastly, the Primary Markers will arrive and put yellow markers down upon the aiming-point which will be lit by the Illuminators’ flares, Aircraft with Y equipment will check by radar and visual means because the whole main bombing force will be looking for those yellows. It’s been carefully planned, lads, so it’s up to you to check and double-check before you mark. We don’t want any more Pilsens and there won’t be if you all pull a finger out.’

On April 16th, 1943, a mistake by the pathfinders resulted in an attack being centred on a huge Czechoslovak lunatic asylum at Dobrany instead of the Skoda arms factory at Pilsen. The horror was compounded by the loss of thirty-six RAF aeroplanes and Pathfinder Force was still smarting from the shame of it.

There was a flurry of coughs and affirmative grunts. Lambert passed his cigarettes amongst his crew. Micky Murphy took a cigarette. ‘What do you think, Sam?’ he asked.

‘It sounds carefully planned,’ said Lambert guardedly.

‘That’s what they say about contraception,’ said Micky, and smiled to reveal his gap-teeth. He smiled at Battersby too. The boy grinned back, pleased to be included in the joke.

Upon the stage Jammy continued, ‘All right. The last wave are Backers Up. You are carrying green TIs. First look for any remaining reds because they are from the Mosquitoes. If there are no red TIs look for yellow ones from the Primary Markers. I’ll be there watching you with my beady little eyes and if any of you mess up my pretty pattern of coloured lights I’ll have your guts for garters. All right?’ The crews laughed and Jammy gave a brief guffaw. He always said that at the end of his briefing. A new joke would have worried them; at this time they preferred things that were old and familiar.

‘All right, one more thing,’ said Jammy. ‘Jettisoning of bombs. In recent months there’s been a greater tonnage of bombs dropped on Britain by us and the Yanks than by the whole bloody Luftwaffe.’ There was a pandemonium of whistling and catcalling. Jammy waved it down. ‘Yeah, it’s a real laugh at briefing, but when you are holding up a main-line train service or asking the poor buggers at Bomb Disposal to clear up your mess, it’s not so funny. If you must jettison I want exact times, map reference and fusing details immediately after landing. It’s easy to get away with it by saying nothing,’ he smiled, ‘and that’s why I’ll press for disciplinary action against the whole crew that doesn’t report jettisoning.’

They were all in a good mood now. ‘That’s it Jammy, give ’em hell,’ shouted someone. Again Jammy gave one of his sneeze-like laughs.

As the Intelligence Officer got up it was quiet enough to notice the sounds of the countryside: outside the window a chestnut tree moved abrasively, swifts called, a blackbird sang and thrushes were learning how to fly, the scent of newly cut hay came on the warm breeze. It was hard to believe that here in this pastoral backwater plans were being made to destroy a town.

Longfellow had been watching and listening to the briefing with the close attention of a journalist. The drama of the scene moved him. This was history being made. Last week he had sent these men out to destroy Cologne. Cologne, why it was beyond belief, a thousand years of history shattered into fragments in less than two hours by these young kids. Like a chapter he’d written for his second book: his criminals had sat around in easy chairs drinking brandy and discussing in matter-of-fact tones their plan to rob a bank. He’d rewrite that chapter, because now he knew that it hadn’t been matter-of-fact enough! This was how it really should be: young fellows, some still in their teens, offering each other cigarettes and making notes about how many tons of high explosive they would plant in a city centre.

Longfellow got to his feet slowly to make sure he had their attention. He ran his hand through his thick black hair. ‘Can you see me at the back?’ he called. There was an affirmative murmur. ‘I’m surprised to hear it, I can’t see you through this damned fug.’ There was some polite laughter. The room was blue with tobacco smoke and the yellow lights, he noticed, glowed through the swirling fumes like distant igneous planets. He made a note of ‘distant igneous planets’. That would do for the book. Longfellow’s clerk pinned up a bombing-pattern diagram headlined CREEPBACK. It was a long blob of bomb-hits extending to meet an arrow marked ‘Bomber Stream, Line of Flight’. Longfellow put on his spectacles and stared at the diagram. This made his whole audience look at it.

‘Tonight,’ pronounced Longfellow slowly and clearly, ‘we are attacking Krefeld. The heavy industry …’ He was unable to continue because of the noise, which was getting louder. There was a shrill laugh from Kit Pepper – one of Sweet’s gunners – and a sudden handclap from Roddy Peterson next to him. Longfellow held up his hand and then loudly corrected his error. ‘Tonight, gentlemen, you are attacking Krefeld.’ There was another sort of noise now; quieter and mollified. He decided to skip the build-up description of the target and go on to the matter of his real concern. The one that the Intelligence people at Group were complaining of so bitterly; in a word: creepback.

‘Now, you Backer-Up crews,’ said Longfellow, turning back to them. ‘It’s your job to drop your new flares into the centre of the existing flares. I’ve said this a thousand times but I will repeat it once again. When you see the marker pattern on your approach you are seeing it in perspective. That foreshortening is an optical illusion, so don’t drop short of centre. Creepback is this tendency to fall short and then shorter still. So don’t do it.’ He paused long enough to give importance to his next few words. ‘Now you chaps know as well as I do: there is another reason for creepback. One that people are reluctant to mention.’ He paused again. ‘Plain old-fashioned cold feet.’

The room was silent; no one coughed or murmured. Longfellow had their fearful attention. The Groupie looked towards the journalists but the smoke was too dense for him to see their reaction. Longfellow continued, ‘When the flak is coming up hard and heavy, you get itchy fingers. What you want to do is to get rid of your bombs and get the hell out of there. Of course you do but if you are going to drop your bomb-load in a field of potatoes then what the hell are you going all the way to Germany for? That last few hundred yards to your aiming-point, gentlemen, is the difference between tearing the Hun’s guts out and throwing in the towel.’ He took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and replaced them in a theatrical gesture.

Longfellow had theories about briefings. The cold accusation of cowardice, followed by a manly understanding tone, a logical argument and the final sporting allusion, was calculated to shock, stimulate and reinforce the determination of his audience.

‘Rule Britannia!’ shouted someone at the back.

‘These armchair warriors,’ murmured Digby, ‘they’ll fight to the last drop of our blood.’ Battersby giggled nervously.

Impulsively Flight Sergeant Lambert stood up. It was the first time he’d ever asked a question at a briefing.

‘What are the guts of Krefeld?’ asked Lambert. ‘What are we aiming at in that city centre?’ He had a target map in his hand; he waved it.

This wasn’t so good, thought Longfellow. He ran his fingers down the back of his hand like a man adjusting the fit of a pair of chamois gloves. He peered forward to decide what sort of man this was. He tried to see his eyes but the ceiling lights threw the fellow’s eye-sockets into darkness and masked his expression as efficiently as a pair of dark glasses. He smiled nervously at Lambert and remembered the standard answer he’d prepared for this sort of question. Sometimes the crews got fidgety about dropping their bombs right into the centre of crowded towns. It was natural that they occasionally needed bolstering up a little. Longfellow held up a target map of Krefeld and tapped the centre of it. ‘A Gestapo headquarters and a poison-gas factory, that’s your aiming-point. All right?’

He felt the mood of the room change as he said it; there was a suppressed muttering and a heightened excitement. The element of anger that a moment ago had been directed so unjustly at him was now turned upon the real enemy: Krefeld.

The Group Captain preferred not to wear his spectacles except in the privacy of his office. He didn’t look at Lambert directly, he closed his eyes and nodded wisely, as though he had known about that city centre too.

Other technical officers continued the briefing. Sandy Sanderson, Squadron Engineer, was wearing an expensive blue lambswool roll-neck and as he spoke of the fuel-loads he kept peering to see if there were any women among the journalists. The Gunnery Leader said that Lancasters were still coming back with damage by .303-inch bullets. ‘British bullets. That means trigger-happy gunners firing at shadows. Keep awake, keep alert and keep the turrets moving so that the oil stays warm and thin, but remember that there are two-motor bombers with us tonight, so don’t open fire until you positively identify the night fighter.’

The Signals Leader gave details of the splasher frequencies – a rapid change of frequencies for bearings from beacons – and then the Met man gave them an outline of the weather situation. His curving line of cold front was in places two hundred miles in error and his prediction of its midnight frontal positions was even more inaccurate, but it would make no difference to these crews, who were going only as far as the Ruhr. There they would find anti-cyclonic weather as predicted.

‘Moon full, rising 00.30 hours at target: one hour before zero. Sunrise is 05.46 hours, so you won’t have to worry about sun-up. Now the cloud: along the enemy coast there’ll be some well-broken layer cloud. The residual thundercloud will have followed the cold front and won’t affect you. Over the target area you’ll have a very thin layer of medium cloud between 1,000 and 20,000 feet. Sorry I can’t be more precise than that, but it will probably have cleared by 01.00 hours.’

‘Jesus!’ said Digby without lowering his voice. ‘We’re going to be dancing naked in the full moon and he consoles us that we needn’t worry about sun-up.’ Loudly he said, ‘Anyone want to buy my wristwatch?’ There were a few laughs.

Even if the Met man didn’t hear Digby’s exact words he interpreted the sentiment without difficulty. Hurriedly he added, ‘You’ll have enough stratocumulus at 2,000 to 3,000 feet to give you some cover; visibility moderate. The bases will be the same: stratocumulus at 2,000 to 3,000 feet; visibility moderate. You’ve had your winds, navigators. Northwest wind over target, remember. See me afterwards if there’s anything else.’

The last man on his feet was Wing Commander Munro, the Squadron CO. Young ‘Tapper’ Collins wasn’t the only man who was completing his tour of operations that night. John Munro was also embarking on his final trip of the tour, with the difference that this was Munro’s second tour; tonight was his sixtieth bombing raid.

Munro spoke in the carefully modulated tones of the British upper class. ‘Not much to say tonight, gentlemen. Flak concentrations: the map speaks for itself. You are routed to by-pass these unfriendly regions, so don’t wander off or invent some new route that you believe to be better. Keep in the stream and you’ll avoid most of these red patches.’

Sweet called out, ‘What about a route that avoids that big red patch?’ The big red patch was the Ruhr, so everyone laughed. The Wing Commander smiled as broadly as he knew how to. ‘Keep in the stream, chaps, and watch your bombing heights. The only collision danger is over the target and if you keep to your height band it is almost eliminated. Don’t run across the target except from the north-west where the datum marker is. It’s rather like driving a car in traffic: keep on your side of the street and you are perfectly safe, but drive across the traffic stream and the chances of colliding are considerable.’ His audience, few of whom had ever driven a car, nodded knowingly.

‘And no evasive action over target. There’ll be no night fighters there when the flak is firing. Once you’re clear, keep to the return route and timing. This is a well-planned show, chaps. It’s a big raid – about seven hundred aircraft – with Lancasters, Wellingtons, Halifaxes and Stirlings.’

‘Hooray,’ shouted a dozen old-timers from the back of the room. Munro looked up and smiled. On recent raids 12.9 per cent of the Stirlings had been lost compared to only 5.4 per cent of the Lancs. If it comforted them to know the poor old Stirlings would be with them, lumbering slowly along at their feeble ceiling and drawing the brunt of the flak, why should he spoil it? But his young brother was piloting a Stirling this night, and the smile was a mask.

When the briefing ended there was a clatter of boots and a buzz of conversation as the flyers shuffled out through the door and into the golden world of the afternoon sun where the air smelled of newly cut grass. Munro buttonholed Flight Lieutenant Sweet near the door. ‘A word to the wise, Mr Sweet. These crew reshuffles: bad biz. If any of them want to change crews tell them to come and see me.’

‘You mean Cohen and Digby?’

‘I mean Cohen and Digby.’

Sweet smiled winningly. ‘They were requests. Digby asked if …’

‘Before you go on, old chap, let me tell you that this afternoon I had Flight Sergeant Digby, Royal Australian Air Force, on my neck, flushed with the exertion of hard-pedalling around the peri track, flatly refusing to leave Lambert’s crew. These chaps get superstitious, you know.’

‘We can’t win a war on superstition.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as that. Old Hitler’s been using it pretty strenuously and gaining quite a bit of ground. The old torchlight processions and secret signs, eh? No, if these chaps get comfort from their toy bears and lucky lingerie hanging by the windscreen, let them have it, I say. That goes for crewing too.’

‘But that’s mutiny, isn’t it? Surely Flight Sergeant Digby should have come to me in the usual way if he thinks he’s running B Flight.’

‘I can see you haven’t had much experience of our Australian allies, Mr Sweet. I’m damned lucky he demeaned himself to mention it to me. There are quite a few of his countrymen who would have been on the blower to Australia House and done it via their Prime Minister and ours if they thought they were being victimized.’