Authors: Ryan Clifford
Unfortunately for them, all they would bomb was concrete, grass and empty hangars.
***
Todd completed his final briefing at around 2200 and the crews walked to their aircraft. The ECM and Recce Canberra would get airborne as the conventional bombers were forming up overhead Essex and then lurk at high level. If the ECM discovered any chatter, it would jam the German frequencies as required. The PR Canberra would cruise up and down, waiting to swoop in and take shots of the two airfields in question. They would both then recover to Bedford. The three Tornados would climb to mount a CAP above the Channel as the leading bombers crossed over the British coast heading for the French airfields. It seemed a simple enough plan. In any case, unless the three Tornados were
directly
attacked, Todd had secretly ordered them to stay clear of any action.
However, the Germans were waiting for them, once again. The excellent replacement Freya radars picked up the fleets of bombers, and relayed the information to the night fighter units in France, which included the four Me 262 squadrons. Conventional German night fighters scrambled and headed straight for the British formations. Flak units sprang into life and pounded the bombers, and RAF aircraft started to fall from the skies.
The Me 262s bided their time and waited for the British jets to appear before they got airborne. Conventional British night-fighters were helping their colleagues and as a result, a high percentage got through to their targets. They laid a devastating carpet of high explosive and incendiary bombs onto their targets, and promptly turned for home – only to face more Flak and now the Me 262s, as the Tornados sat on CAP and did nothing.
The Luftwaffe tore into the returning RAF fleet and although the ECM Canberra did its best to distract them, the Germans had a field day.
They decimated the fleeing bombers until Todd Morrissey could stand no more.
‘Ok, boys,’ he transmitted to his two pals, ‘let's see what we can do.’
And this was when they fell straight into the trap.
These were not ADV Tornados – fighters – they were two bombers and a Recce jet. They crews had neither the experience nor the equipment to deal with night fighting. As a consequence, when a full squadron of ten Me 262 night fighters were vectored onto their position, they stood little or no chance.
The Recce jet was shot to bits on the first pass and exploded in the night sky, killing both crewmen instantly.
Todd saw the flash and Stumpy dived towards the sea as fast and steeply as he dare, screaming to his number two to do the same.
However, it was too late for them. Their aircraft was severely crippled by gunfire, and both crew had no choice but to eject into the darkness as their Tornado preceded them into a very cold North Sea. No-one ever recovered the aircraft or the crew.
Todd and Stumpy were zooming towards the sea and as they reached three thousand feet, Stumpy pulled 4g and levelled out at under three hundred feet above the waves doing over six hundred knots. They were heading directly for Bedford and jinking wildly in an attempt to shake off any Me 262s. Unbeknown to them two ‘Blaue-Tod’ had crashed into the sea when the aircraft overstressed their airframes and broke up in vain attempts to keep up with the fleeing Tornado.
The remainder gave up the chase and returned to base – fuel expended and aircraft severely overstressed.
Stumpy jettisoned his missiles and continued to Cardington at maximum speed. They landed without further incident as the Me 262s had no chance of catching them at such low level in the dark. Todd activated his terrain following radar (TFR) and used it to good effect.
High up above, the ECM Canberra realised what was going on, as they intercepted several transmissions from an extremely alarmed Todd and his pilot. They decided to return to base, but made the error of starting their descent from thirty-thousand feet far too soon. A four-ship of German jets intercepted them over Flamborough Head in Yorkshire and made short work of the undefended Electronic Counter Measures Canberra. They riddled it with bullets and the crew was dead well before it plunged into the sea about ten miles off the coast.
The Recce Canberra had also been listening out, and really didn’t know what to do. They were cruising at forty thousand feet when the last of the bombers dropped their loads on the wrong airfields. The big question was – should they complete their mission as briefed or run for home?
It was a difficult decision. They had no radar for low level night navigation and it was clear that the three Tornados had been attacked and possibly shot down.
In the final analysis, they decided to scarper. They considered that this was a fight they could definitely not win.
So they turned for home and continued towards Birmingham at high level before letting down to Cardington. They contacted the tower at their home base and had it confirmed that they had made the correct decision. The air over the Channel was alive with waves of Me 262s and conventional night-fighters. They were ordered to land asap.
They continued to their descent point as hundreds of British bombers from the raid limped back home. Over three hundred had been lost – shot down, hit by Flak or as a result of mid-air collisions in the panic.
In the Canberra PR9, navigator Al Gibson gave Phil Merry the instruction to descend and Phil pulled back on the throttles to start the journey down. However, Al and Phil were not having a good day. As the throttles were eased to idle, both engines wound down.
‘Shit!’ cried Phil, ‘that shouldn’t happen, it's probably this dodgy 1940s fuel. Ok, trying a relight.’
He tried to relight the engines, but it wouldn't work.
‘You need to get lower, Phil. They won't relight up here,’ advised Al.
The glided down another twenty five thousand feet before Phil tried again.
Still no luck. Phil Merry made his assessment.
‘We’ve got two choices if these bastards don’t relight Al. We either jump out or crash land. I suggest you blow your hatch whilst you still can. And find me a bloody airfield to stick this down on - if we have to.’
Al agreed and blew the hatch above his head, which immediately allowed all of his loose paperwork to be sucked out into the night. It also made inter-cockpit communication extremely difficult.
Meanwhile, Phil was transmitting a Mayday and requesting a landing field for the possible crash landing.
‘Purple Eleven, your Mayday is acknowledged. Proceed to RAF Baginton near Coventry. They will be ready for your arrival. The airfield would be on your maps as Coventry Airport. Copy the co-ordinates for your TANS.’ Gloria was on top form.
As the information was passed, the navigator transferred it to his nav equipment, and the pilot struggled to keep control of his aircraft and steer it towards Coventry.
They passed through ten-thousand feet and the engines would not relight. Phil tried several times but at five thousand, he gave Al the choice.
‘Decision time, mate. Jump out or try a landing? I'm easy either way if we can find the airfield.’
Al Gibson could hear Phil more clearly now that they had slowed to around two fifty knots. He had been passing headings to steer towards their landing field.
‘I’d rather go for the landing if you don’t mind. Coventry airfield is eight miles on the nose. Can you make it. Phil?’
‘I'll give it a damn good try, mate,’ responded Phil as he struggled with the flying controls. ‘ I just hope the gear comes down.’
It didn’t.
It would be a belly landing.
‘Still want to crash land Al?’
‘Three miles and nine hundred feet – it looks good Phil. Give it a go. Ejecting from these PR9s is usually fatal for navs.’
Phil Merry acknowledged his friend and concentrated on the airfield ahead. There were landing lights – after a fashion – in the middle of a completely blacked out landscape. In normal conditions he would never have found the tiny landing strip.
Six hundred feet, four hundred, two hundred – Phil adopted the correct nose up attitude and slid the Canberra onto the grass, and as it hit he blew the cockpit canopy to ease his exit. In this case turf was preferable to concrete – fewer sparks to ignite fuel. The jet skidded across the field and eventually came to a stop up against a large oak tree on the periphery of the airport with a dull thud.
Silence.
‘Al, can you get out, mate.’
There was no answer. All Phil saw was a small shape in flying gear sprinting across the field away from the aircraft. Phil decided to follow suit, unstrapped, stood up, cocked his legs over the side and dropped the six feet to the ground. He stood up, unharmed and followed his navigator into the darkness, where he found him standing on the grass with a lit cigarette, about two hundred yards away from the Canberra .
‘Didn’t know you could run, Al?’
‘Never had to before,’ he joked.
Both men sat down and awaited rescue.
Meanwhile, the Force 1992 at Cardington had pulled out all the stops, and within an hour the crew were on their way home and the Canberra was covered in a huge tarpaulin with thirty puzzled MPs in attendance.
Now there were only two surviving aircraft from 1992.
As predicted, the night’s mission had been a fiasco.
***
Todd climbed out of his Tornado and stormed up to his waiting father.
For two pins, he might actually have struck him!
But Todd restrained himself and assaulted him with words instead.
‘I fucking told you! I fucking
told you
! You just wouldn't bloody listen, would you? What sort of man are you? What hidden agendas are lurking beneath that staid, Machiavellian exterior? What is the real bloody mission here? Why did we really come back to this God-forsaken place? It's not even our timeline – which reminds me – where the hell is Jim Charles? Tell me
now
just what is going on – is it your plan that no-one returns home safely?’
The Air Marshal stood impassively as Todd berated him in front of the entire 1992 team, who watched agog! They had never seen such a senior officer ‘bollocked’ in this fashion before. Sir Henry didn’t reply but summoned Todd to his office in order to put his explanation on the table. After the door was closed and uninvited ears excluded, the AVM spoke.
‘If you weren’t my son, Todd, I would put you under close arrest for gross insubordination. May I remind you, and not for the first time, that you are under military orders and as such you are compelled to follow my instructions – to the letter if necessary. I am not obliged to explain myself to you or anybody else on this detachment, so I suggest you calm down, go back to your men and prepare for the eighth. What is done is done. I cannot change it or bring back your friends and colleagues. I propose that you ‘get over it,’ Todd, and get back to work. Do I make myself clear?’
Todd was flabbergasted.
He had expected at least a small crack to appear in his father’s armour, but there was nothing. For the first time he realised that there were things going on far beyond his pay-scale or understanding. He decided not to continue bashing his head against a brick wall.
‘I'm going now father, but you’ll pay for all this when we get home – I promise you – on the lives of all of those lost in this debacle. Don’t bother speaking to me again. I am no longer your son.’
Sir Henry viewed Todd with ever hardening eyes.
‘Have it your way Wing Commander. And by the way, I will be taking over as co-pilot of the C-130 when we depart. I am fully current on this type of aircraft, and you can reassure the Captain that I will not interfere.’
Todd stood with his mouth agape for several seconds, turned and left the office, slamming the door viciously behind him.