Fly Boy (14 page)

“Climb, climb, climb!” the bomb aimer yelled. “Get elevation—flak directly ahead. Hard to port, hard to port!”

The plane banked and climbed at the same time—a surefire way for an inexperienced pilot to stall or sideslip or … But I didn’t have an inexperienced pilot—the squadron leader was at the controls of this plane.

There was a thunderous explosion and the plane shook violently. Had we been hit? Should I grab my parachute? I looked over at Mike. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t even reacting. He was completely calm. In fact, was there a little smile on his face? He had his head down and was studying the charts in front of him. That made no sense. How could he be so calm?

Mike looked up. He gave me a thumbs-up and broke into a big grin. He leaned forward. “Quite the ride … It’s almost over … Just hang tight.”

The plane levelled out once again. The engines were loud, but they weren’t whining anymore—there was a purring to them—and there was no more flak. Were we out of it?

“Clear, open sky ahead,” the bomb aimer announced.

“Confirmed,” Matthews agreed. “Clear sailing. All eyes external. Report Lancaster positions and ready for possible attack. What does it look like out there?”

“Scattered, very scattered formation.”

I didn’t recognize the voice but knew it had to be the wireless operator.

“We have planes port and starboard … scattered elevations and directions.”

“Time to get this formation back into shape,” Group Captain Matthews said. “Mike, give me a bearing and elevation.”

Mike instantly barked out a different bearing than the one I’d calculated. Had I been wrong? No, it was because the evasive action had spun us off course and he’d had to recalculate—something he’d done in the middle of all that chaos, the dips and banks and climbs amidst the barrage of anti-aircraft fire. When I’d been panicked, he’d been working, doing his job. Could I have done that job with all of that happening? Did I have what it took to be the brains of the plane?

There was a gentle turn as we banked to starboard, back toward the route I’d originally plotted.

“This is group leader to squadron pilots and navigators,” Captain Matthews called out. “Let’s re-form and tighten up, on my initial bearing and elevation. Let’s get ready and ready
fast. The way that flak stopped so suddenly, I expect we’re going to have visitors soon. All eyes open. Gunners be awake, be aware, be active.”

Mike leaned forward again. “Every plane had to take individual evasive action to avoid the flak, so they’re scattered across the sky. Until we get back into a tighter formation, we’re more vulnerable to enemy fighters.”

“So once we get into formation, we’re safe?”

He chuckled. “Saf
er
, not safe. Go back and ask Sparky if he knows how many planes were lost.”

“Planes were lost?”

“Planes are always lost. What we don’t know is how many. Go—he’ll know.”

Hesitantly I got up from the table, reluctant to leave, fearing that a sudden change in direction would throw me across the plane. Then I remembered: Captain Matthews was going to be flying flat and straight to allow everybody else to re-form around him. At least that was the plan, unless we were attacked by enemy fighter planes. I’d better hurry.

I moved through the plane, one hand steadying myself against the wall. Sparky—which seemed to be what every wireless operator was called—was busy working, listening on his headphones and tapping out a message in Morse code to the other planes. He looked up at me.

“How many planes?” I yelled.

He shook his head. “None yet … No enemy fighters yet.”

“No, no, how many of our planes were … were …” I let the sentence trail off, as if asking the question would somehow increase the number.

“Eight … seven … I don’t know for sure. There are reports of at least five being downed, and others that haven’t
reported in or—” He stopped and his eyes got big and his expression even more serious. “We have confirmed enemy contact. A dozen echoes on the fishpond so far.”

I knew that “fishpond” was the nickname for radar, and “echoes” meant there were planes on that radar.

“Where are they?” Matthews called out over the intercom.

“Climbing from the stern and port … four o’clock … five o’clock … gaining quickly.”

“Does anybody see them?” Matthews inquired. “Anybody in any plane, do we have a visual?”

“Affirmative!” came a voice I didn’t recognize. “We have visuals coming at us from below … dozens of them … dozens!” he screamed.

“Gunners be alive!”

At that same instant there was an explosion of gunfire! I spun around and saw the tail gunner swivelling in his turret, firing his gun! Then, from above, the upper gunner began firing, his legs spinning as he rotated his turret, spent cartridges being spat out and falling to the floor like rain, bouncing and rolling around. The air stunk of cordite, the smell of gunpowder.

I stood there paralyzed with fear. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I wanted to find someplace to hide, but there was no place to hide.

“Bandits, bandits, coming in from the front, diving on us, diving!” a voice cried out.

The feet of the upper gunner spun around as the turret swivelled and he readied himself. His movement unstuck me and I ran back to my spot by Mike. His head was down; he was working on a formula for a course correction.

He looked up. “Help provide another set of eyes.”

I heard the words, but I didn’t understand what he meant.

“Go forward!” he screamed, motioning to the front of the cockpit. “Look for enemy planes!”

“Oh, yeah.”

I pushed past his table and brushed the curtain aside so I was standing right behind the pilot and flight engineer. Up above me—all around me—was the open glass of the canopy. If I was looking for someplace to hide, this wasn’t it. Here, I was completely and utterly exposed.

I looked around. I could see the darkened images of Lancasters all around us. Dozens, no hundreds of planes flying in formation. But I couldn’t see any—

A tiny plane zipped between two of the bombers just over to our port side, and red tracers streamed from its guns while the guns from three Lancasters spat fire back at it, bullets forming a path from their guns out into the air. The plane twisted and turned and sped by so fast, it was as if the bullets couldn’t even catch it! It was untouched, but its bullets didn’t seem to be hitting their targets either, as we kept on flying steady and level.

“There! There!” I screamed. Directly in front, flying straight toward us, was another fighter, and its guns were blazing! Red tracers came flying out from overhead—our upper gun was firing at it! Our plane dipped and the fighter flew overhead, so close that I could see the rivets in the bottom of his wing!

Involuntarily I leaned back and almost fell over.

“Close … a bit closer than I would have liked,” Matthews said. His voice was so calm, so matter-of-fact. “Good eyes, Davie! You really are a good luck charm.”

I didn’t feel so lucky. All I felt was my heart pounding, my
legs shaking, sweat pouring down my sides, and I thought there was a chance I might throw up. I wanted to sit down, I wanted to curl up into a little ball, but I couldn’t. I grabbed on to the canopy to steady myself and began scanning the sky again.

The wheels screeched as the plane touched down and then bounced slightly back into the air, causing my legs to jam into the bottom of the table. We raced along the tarmac, and the roar of the engines and the rattling of the runway diminished as we slowed down until we were merely rolling, taxiing toward the hangar.

The two gunners were out of their turrets now, and Sparky was off the wireless, and they were all standing together. I couldn’t hear them over the engines, but they were laughing and smiling. It was so strange … they were acting as if nothing had happened! Or maybe they were just so relieved that it was over. I was relieved too, but also numb. Mike was packing up the maps into a leather carrying case.

Finally the engines stopped, so suddenly that I was startled and then relieved. I unplugged my headphones and took them off. Now I could hear the voices and the laughter. The hatch popped open and they all climbed out, parachutes in hands. I stayed in my seat. I felt so drained that I wasn’t sure my legs would hold me up.

“How you doing?” Mike asked.

“I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“You did well. Didn’t he do well, Skipper?”

Matthews held out a hand. “Congratulations on your first mission. You performed admirably.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You got us back home,” Mike said. “Kid can plot my course any time.”

“Thanks.”

“Come on, everybody, let’s get some breakfast before the debriefing,” Group Captain Matthews said.

I slowly got to my feet. My legs felt like rubber and I hoped nobody noticed that I was wobbly and shaking—just as I hoped nobody had noticed the tears that I’d already shed. There hadn’t been many, and I’d instantly brushed them away, but I couldn’t stop them from coming. I’d been so relieved, so grateful, when the first Spitfires appeared and chased the last of the enemy planes away that the tears had just come.

For almost two hours we’d been repeatedly attacked by enemy fighter planes. They swooped by, attacking from above, below, behind, and straight ahead. Sometimes it had been only a few planes acting independently, and other times it had been a whole formation coming in. Our gunners had inflicted some damage. I hadn’t seen it, but I’d heard over the radio that we had downed two, with a third being a probable kill.

But they weren’t the only kills. I’d watched from the canopy as a Lancaster was strafed by enemy fire and then burst into flames, spun to the side, and plunged. It disappeared from my field of view before I could see if any of the crew had escaped. And that wasn’t the only plane. I’d heard chatter over the radio and knew that at least another three planes had been shot out of the sky—another twenty-one men who wouldn’t be coming back this morning.

There was a truck waiting by the plane. We climbed into
the back, where our other three crew members were already waiting. Mike banged on the back of the cab to signal we were in, and the truck lurched forward, exhaust fumes spewing out and into the back. It brought back memories of that first truck ride on the way to the Manning Training School. Was that only two months ago? It seemed like years ago, when I was so much younger.

Everybody in the truck with me seemed so happy. The conversation was full of laughter and discussion around a football game scheduled for later that day between our squadron and another one and what they hoped to get for breakfast. My stomach was so upset I didn’t know if I could eat, or keep it down if I did.

The truck came to a stop, but my stomach didn’t. It seemed to be getting more and more upset and … I was going to throw up!

“Let me through … please,” I pleaded as I pushed through and jumped off the truck, almost tumbling over as my feet hit the ground.

I ran on wobbly legs, almost falling over, until I reached the side of the building and then rushed to the back. I wanted to get out of sight before I vomited. The convulsions got so bad I doubled over and started heaving—loudly and violently. The chocolate and beef jerky I’d eaten during the flight came flooding back up, flowing out and down my face and onto my boots and the ground. I heaved again, and the little that remained came out. I struggled to get my breath, and my whole body was flushed, and I felt light-headed. I stumbled a couple of feet and dropped to my hands and knees. The grass was cool and wet with dew. I brought one hand up and held it against my forehead. The moisture felt good.

There was a hand on my back and I looked up. It was Group Captain Matthews.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my jacket. “A little bit … I’m … I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“About this … I just … my stomach … it was too much.” I paused. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Do what? Have breakfast?”

“I don’t know if I can do that either. But I meant fly … I was just so … so …”

“Scared?”

I looked down, away from him, and nodded my head in agreement.

“I’m scared every time I go up.”

“You?” That caught me totally off guard. Then I realized why he’d said it. “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but I was up there. I saw. You weren’t scared.”

“When that plane came directly toward us, I almost screamed. If you’re not scared when something like that happens, you have to be delusional, psychotic, or in extreme denial, and none of those apply to me.”

“But you didn’t look scared. You didn’t act scared. Nobody did.” I was thinking about Mike’s calm demeanour and about the flight engineer monitoring the panel controls while bullets were flying all around us and enemy fighters were buzzing by.

“How we act and what we’re feeling are different. You handled it well.”

“This is handling it well?” I asked.

“Son, this was your first mission. I have men—grown men
with wives and kids—who still bring up before or after or during each mission. Men, brave men whom I would trust with my life—men whom I
have
trusted with my life—who break down in tears, who wake up from a deep sleep in a cold sweat, screaming out in fear.”