Fly Boy (13 page)

All at once the ride became incredibly smooth and we were gaining elevation! We soared up and the trees passed below, and then the church steeple vanished beneath us. We were quickly gaining altitude—much faster than I’d expected.

I stumbled, almost tumbling over, grabbing on to the back of the flight engineer’s seat to stop myself, as the plane banked sharply to the right. Below us I could see the barracks and the runway and other planes taxiing out to join us. Matthews levelled the plane out, taking us on a long circular path around the field. We joined into a formation with those already in the air, marshalling for those still to come.

“This is beautiful,” I said quietly.

“That it is,” Matthews replied.

“Sorry, sir, I was just talking to myself.”

“You’ll have to learn to do that in your head.” He paused. “How are the gauges looking?”

“Engine temperatures are within the normal range. All systems are go,” the flight engineer replied.

“Excellent. That’s what I like to hear, old chap. Okay, crew, we’re going to give it a go tonight. I want everybody to stay sharp, stay focused on the task. Understood?”

There were grunts of agreement coming back through the headphones from different places in the plane. I’d stay sharp too, although I wasn’t sure if I was anything more than luggage at this stage.

I looked out the canopy window. We were in a sea of Lancasters, with planes surrounding us on all sides. I knew there were two hundred planes on this mission, but it seemed as if there were thousands. They filled the sky in all directions, illuminated by the stars and the bright moonlight, until the edges of the formation were swallowed up in the darkness.

Along with the bombers were the escort fighter planes. Most were Spitfires—the type of plane my father had flown. The type of plane I hoped to fly someday. As they darted past, they seemed so fast and nimble and small compared with the big, lumbering Lancasters. It was good to have them along, but they only made me realize how vulnerable we would be to enemy fighter attacks. They just zipped between us, so much faster, and they were able to manoeuvre, turn, climb, and bank much more quickly than we possibly could. I wondered how much longer they’d be with us before they had to turn back.

I knew, from the conversations I heard on the intercom system, that we had passed over the English Channel and that below us was occupied France. So far we hadn’t encountered any enemy aircraft or anti-aircraft fire—not that either was expected at this point. Anti-aircraft fire would be placed around target areas to offer protection from the bombing, and enemy fighters wouldn’t attack until our escorts had turned back.

“Course correction coming up, right?” I asked the navigator.

“Soon. You have a knack for this. Any visuals below that you can make out?”

I shook my head. The last thing I’d seen with any clarity was the white cliffs of Dover, and since then there’d been nothing.

“It’s hard at night, especially when everything is blacked out. When the runs are during the day, you’ll see more. No matter how much you trust your maps, your memory, and your mathematics, it’s always good to take a reckoning off landmarks.”

“He’s telling you the truth there.”

I thought it was the flight engineer talking.

“Same as my job. Read your dials, but use your head.”

It
was
the flight engineer. I had to remember to find out his name.

“I’ve seen engineers so focused on their dials that they didn’t notice an engine was on fire because the heat indicator said everything was fine.”

“I’ll try to remember that … There’s so much to remember,” I replied.

“He’s doing a tremendous job!” Mike said. “I think I’ll leave him to do the job himself. Anybody mind if I step out for a smoke?”

There was laughter over the intercom.

“Come on, Mikey, you know there’s no smoking close to the aircraft. Don’t want to go setting off the oxygen tanks,” somebody said over the intercom.

“I suppose that’s the end of my other idea—to light a bonfire to warm my hands,” Mike said.

There was more laughter, but I would have welcomed the bonfire. It was so cold now that I was able to see my breath, and I’d put on both my wool cap and my gloves.

“Okay, everybody, not only shouldn’t we be lighting fires,
but it’s time to extinguish all lights,” Captain Matthews said over the PA. “We’re about to lose our fighter coverage.”

Mike dimmed the light over his table and we were plunged into darkness. The only faint light came from the dials on the instrument panel. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I was able to see outlines.

“Are the bombs selected and fused?” Matthews asked.

“Yes, sir, Cap. Bombs selected and fused. If you like, we can drop them right here and return to base immediately.”

There was more laughter.

“I’m afraid that would set a record for creepback,” Matthews said.

I’d heard about creepback—a plane dropping its bombs well short of the target to escape the flak.

“I think we’ll stick with the original plan and drop them on target instead of over the French countryside.”

“Affirmative on that, Captain. Just like to give you options.”

“I wish I had the option of longer fighter coverage,” the captain said, “but there they go.”

I stood up so I could look out the canopy. Off to the starboard side and up about forty-five degrees, I could make out the outlines of two Spitfires. The first one climbed high above us while the second waggled its wings—waving goodbye—and then dove sharply and disappeared.

I looked all around. There were no more Spitfires to be seen. I could still see the outlines of lots of Lancasters, though. Those close and to the port side, the side with the moon, were almost shining and shimmering in the moonlight, while others, farther away, were just dark shapes in the night sky. It was reassuring to know we weren’t alone, and we certainly weren’t defenceless, but this was where the dangerous part
of the mission began. This was when the enemy fighters would be coming up after us.

“Time for course correction,” Mike said. “I want you to change bearings … fifteen degrees north.”

“Roger that,” Matthews said. “I’m also changing altitude … climbing to eighteen-five … I see some cloud cover we can climb into.”

I felt the plane slowly bank at the same time as it began its climb. It was a gentle, smooth course change. I could only barely feel it, and a hand against the navigator’s table held me in place

“Feeling okay, kid?” Mike asked.

“I guess so. Anything I can do to help?”

“Go to the back for a while. Make sure the tail gunner is staying sharp … Even keep an eye out. Watch below and behind, because that’s the most likely direction of attack.”

“Sure. No problem.”

I started to walk toward the back, but he grabbed me by the arm and stopped me. He pointed to the floor, and for a second I didn’t realize what he meant. Then it clicked in. I reached down and picked up my parachute.

“Navigator, how long until we’re over the target?” Group Captain Matthews asked.

Mike motioned for me to answer.

“Six minutes, sir,” I replied.

“Has Mike gone out for that smoke?” Matthews asked.

“Still here, Skip. Just letting the kid earn his wings.”

“Any lights up front?” Matthews asked.

There were pathfinder planes that would hit the target before us, flying low and dropping flares first to mark the target and then firebombs to light it up.

“Negative, Skip.” It was the bomb aimer.

Hanging there in the bubble at the front of the plane, he had the best view. I started to wonder, had I given us the wrong heading? I knew that one degree off projected over a couple of hundred miles would cause us to miss the target by ten miles, and we’d made five different course changes under my direction.

“Mike?” the captain asked.

“We’re right on course. The kid is bang on. I’ve already had him plot our return path.”

“And you’ve confirmed everything?” Matthews asked.

He sounded concerned. I didn’t blame him, because he wasn’t the only one who wondered about my abilities. I
wasn’t willing to trust the safety of the crew to me without my calculations being double-checked. Chip joking about me landing us in Berlin still stuck in my head.

“Confirmed, plotted, and marked. The kid is a natural.”

“The jury is still out on whether he can be a navigator or not, but I’m thinking of making him into my personal good luck charm. We’re almost over the target and no sightings of enemy fighters the whole trip. How often does that happen?”

“Not very often—certainly not often enough,” Mike replied.

“This is starting to look like a milk run!”

“We have archie! I repeat, we have archie to the port side!” the bomb aimer yelled out over the intercom. “It’s set for about twelve or thirteen thousand!”

“I see it,” Matthews announced. “I’m going to put a little distance between it and us.”

I felt the plane climb and bank simultaneously. At the same time there was a loud explosion and the whole aircraft shook. There was another explosion and another, and the plane shuddered.

Mike leaned over so his mouth was right by my ear. “This isn’t so bad. Once the flak starts, it’s a guarantee that no fighters are in the area!” he yelled over the sound of the engines. “Let’s just drop our cookies and get out of here.”

“I see the markers!” the bomb aimer yelled out.

It was essential to have the target marked, but it also marked
us
—where exactly we were heading. Everybody on the ground, all the anti-aircraft gunners, and the planes they could send up to intercept us—all knew we were coming. I guess that didn’t really make much difference, though.
Between radar and a cloudless, moonlit night, they probably knew anyway.

“Forward … one minute … level it out.”

The plane came out of the bank and flattened out.

“Opening bomb doors,” the flight engineer announced.

I heard the hydraulics and felt the plane slow down slightly as the open bomb doors caused more drag. I knew that once the bombs were dropped we’d be so much lighter that we’d be able to fly faster and climb more quickly—and we’d need that if the fighters did come up after us.

I stood up so I could look out through the canopy. All around us the sky was starting to fill with black puffs, exploding antiaircraft fire, and powerful searchlights were sweeping the sky looking for us. Up ahead, the flak looked thicker and closer together, and that’s where we were flying—where they knew we were going to be flying. Despite the bitter cold, my whole body suddenly felt a rush of heat, and sweat started pouring down the inside of my shirt.

“Two degrees to port … a little more … steady. Flat and level … Release the bombs on your mark.”

“Roger that,” Matthews replied.

“Roger, Skip. Twenty seconds to release,” the bomb aimer replied.

He started counting down. I counted down in my head along with him, wanting him to count faster so we could release them quicker. Up ahead was more and more flak—and we were flying straight for it!

“Bombs away!” the bomb aimer called out.

The flight engineer pushed a lever forward. “The cookies are away!”

At the same instant that I heard them being released, the
plane jumped up. I’d known that would happen, but I was surprised by how violent the leap upward was.

“Bomb doors closed,” the engineer said.

“Evasive action! Hard to port!” the bomb aimer yelled. “Hard, hard, hard!”

It was almost as if the plane heard him and responded immediately. I wasn’t ready for the quick response and tumbled off my chair and rolled across the floor. The engines whined and screamed as we turned, and then the plane suddenly dipped and dove! I rolled
up
the wall of the fuselage, rising almost all the way to the ceiling! The plane flattened out and I fell back down, luckily landing on the pile of parachutes.

Mike reached over and grabbed me, pulling me toward him. “Grab on to the table!” he yelled. “Wedge yourself underneath so you won’t go bouncing around!”

He held on to me until I could get my legs locked around one of the legs of the table.