Mosquito Squadron (3 page)

Looking over to his left, Yeoman saw an airfield, with the dark shapes of Stirlings visible on their dispersal points even through the early morning haze. That was RAF Mepal, the home of No. 75 (New Zealand) Squadron. The Mosquitos were nearly home; the town of Ely lay dead ahead, with Burningham not far beyond it.

Yeoman called up Burningham Tower and obtained immediate clearance to land, leading the formation down in a descent to two thousand feet. The Mosquitos drummed over the airfield and then broke into line astern, joining the downwind leg of the circuit. Yeoman carried out his landing checks: brake pressure and superchargers okay, radiator flaps open, under-carriage down. He heard the landing gear lock into position with a thump, saw the reassuring green lights on his indicator. Reaching down with his left hand to the throttle quadrant, he pushed the propeller speed control fully forward, then switched the fuel cock to the fullest tanks.

A check with the yellow windsock showed him that there wasn’t much wind, so he lowered full flap just before he turned on to final approach, trimming the aircraft nose-down to compensate and reducing the speed to 125 mph as he lined up with the runway. A few seconds later the Mosquito’s wheels kissed the tarmac with a barely perceptible tremor.

‘One of your better ones, skipper,’ Hardy complimented him.

‘They always are, on the morning after a binge,’ the pilot replied. ‘I have the fragility of my head to think about.’

Yeoman taxied in, bringing the Mosquito to a stop at its dispersal and shutting down the engines. He turned off the fuel, ignition and electrical master switch, then unfastened his harness and pulled off his helmet, easing himself out of his seat. Hardy opened the small hatch in the cockpit side and dropped the short ladder. The two men clambered down, gratefully inhaling the morning air, and nodded to the waiting ground crew. Yeoman exchanged a few words with the corporal in charge, then turned to watch the other Mosquitos as they taxied in.

A Humber staff car came round the perimeter track, heading towards them.

‘Here comes the reception committee,’ Hardy said. ‘I told you the CO would be watching.’

Yeoman peered at the approaching vehicle, shading his eyes against the low-angle sun. ‘It’s the CO’s car all right,’ he muttered, ‘but there doesn’t seem to be anyone in it except the driver. And unless my eyes deceive me, it’s little Saunders.’

‘Could be your lucky day, skipper,’ said Hardy. Senior Aircraftwoman Joan Saunders, the Group Captain’s driver, was one of the most highly desirable inhabitants of RAF Burningham. She was also, by all accounts, the least attainable.

The Humber stopped and SACW Saunders got out, straightening her cap. She walked smartly across the grass towards Yeoman and Hardy, her hips swinging, every inch a woman despite the somewhat unbecoming uniform.

‘Grrr,’ said Hardy, so that only Yeoman could hear him. ‘That’s worth a court martial, any day.’

‘Good morning, sir,’ Saunders said, saluting and addressing Yeoman. ‘The Group Captain sends his compliments, sir, and would like to see you in his office.’

‘Very well,’ Yeoman said. ‘Thank you.’ WAAFS always made him feel uncomfortable; it didn’t seem right to address a pretty young girl by her surname. He turned to Hardy, who was gazing glassy-eyed at a point midway between Saunders’ top two tunic buttons, and dumped his parachute into the arms of the navigator, who was already burdened with his own.

‘Look after that for me, Happy,’ he grinned. ‘The walk over to the crew room will do you good.’

‘Oh, thank you, skipper,’ said Hardy sarcastically. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’

In the car, Yeoman unfastened the small bag containing the personal belongings he had taken with him to Fairwood Common and took out his cap. It was his second best, much the worse for wear, with a large oil stain across the peak, and he was very much attached to it, for it had been with him throughout his hectic time in Malta. He put it on and then, reaching down, pulled his trouser-bottoms free of his flying-boots, trying in vain to smooth out the creases.

‘Do I have time to get changed before I visit the station commander?’ he asked Saunders, as they drove off past the hangars.

‘Well, sir, he told me to bring you over as soon as you landed. There’s another officer with him, sir, from Group HQ, and I think he’s anxious to get away as soon as he’s had a word with you. So his driver said, anyhow.’

The Humber deposited Yeoman at the main entrance to station headquarters, which consisted of a series of Nissen huts joined together to form a single complex housing all the administrative paraphernalia essential to the smooth running of a RAF station. Yeoman walked along a corridor, turned a corner and ran headlong into the adjutant, Flight Lieutenant Rees, an elderly, wisp-like man with an enormous moustache and wizened, sun-dried features. He had served in Mesopotamia during the 1914-18 War, and in Egypt and India for years afterwards.

Rees dropped a sheaf of papers on the floor and the pilot stooped to help him pick them up.

‘Sorry, Adj.,’ he apologized. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry; the CO wants to see me.’

‘That’s all right,’ Rees said. ‘It’s nice to see you back. As a matter of fact, I was just going to have a peek outside to see if there was any sign of you.’

‘What’s going on?’ Yeoman wanted to know, full of curiosity.

‘Haven’t a clue, old boy. There’s one sure way to find out, though.’

Rees beckoned and led the way to his office, which adjoined the station commander’s at the end of the corridor. It was shared by the adjutant, a redoubtable flight sergeant through whose scrutiny all visitors had to pass and a little WAAF filing clerk who made endless cups of tea. The flight sergeant rose as Yeoman walked in behind Rees, bade him a curt ‘Good morning, sir,’ his glance taking in the pilot’s greasy hat and crumpled trousers, and then subsided again behind a mound of paperwork. Followed by Yeoman, Rees crossed his office and tapped on a door at the far side marked ‘Officer Commanding’. He opened it, stuck his head inside to announce the pilot’s arrival, then stood aside to allow Yeoman to enter.

Group Captain Hector Davison, DSO, MC, looked sharply over the top of his half-moon glasses at Yeoman as the latter came into the office and saluted. Despite his quiet, school-masterish appearance, the medal ribbons which the commanding officer of RAF Burningham wore below the pilot’s brevet on his tunic testified to his experience, and the cold, piercing blue eyes clearly brooked no inefficiency. He wasted no time on preliminaries, but waved a hand in the direction of a second senior officer who was standing by the window, sipping tea.

‘Yeoman,’ he said, ‘this is Group Captain Sampson from the Directorate of Operations, Air Ministry. He wants to talk to you. Sit down and smoke if you like.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Yeoman crossed the room, shook hands with Sampson and sat down in one of the leather armchairs facing Davison’s desk. He searched his pockets for his pipe, then remembered that he had left it in his bag which was still in the outer office.

‘Well, Yeoman,’ said Sampson, setting down his cup and saucer on the window-sill, ‘how are your chaps shaping up?’

‘Pretty well, sir. I’ll need to keep an eye on the odd one for a while, but they’re a good bunch. Keen as mustard to start operations.’

Sampson nodded, thoughtfully stroking his chin with an index finger, and in the pause before he spoke again Yeoman took the opportunity to study him carefully. He realized with a start that, despite a swathe of grey hair that gave the group captain a badger-like appearance, Sampson was probably not yet forty years old; and then, as the man half-turned and the light from the window fell on his medal ribbons, Yeoman remembered.

It had been in March 1941, and Sampson had led nine Blenheims in a gallant, suicidal attack on a group of German warships off Wilhelmshaven. The flak had been murderous and the fighters had been waiting, and one Blenheim after another had gone down in flames, but Sampson had brought the survivors through a storm of fire and got them home, riddled with holes and at low level all the way. That was why, on the breast of his tunic, he wore the mauve ribbon of the Victoria Cross.

‘Have you ever wondered why you were picked to form a Mosquito squadron, Yeoman?’ Sampson asked suddenly.

‘Yes, sir, I have,’ the pilot admitted. ‘But I’m glad it happened. The Mossie is a very fine aeroplane, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’ He grinned. ‘Almost like a Spitfire with twin engines, you might say.’

Sampson smiled. ‘That’s right, and it leads me nicely in to the point of this conversation, because there’s one thing the Mosquito possesses which a Spitfire doesn’t have, and that is range. Its armament is also excellent, and it has two attributes normally associated with single-seat fighters: speed and manoeuvrability. All of which adds up to an ideal aircraft for fast, long-range operations against the enemy.’

Yeoman remained silent, wondering what was coming next. Surely, he thought, Sampson had not come all the way to Burningham to tell him something he knew already.

‘No. 380 Squadron,’ the group captain continued, ‘was originally formed as part of No. 2 Group’s striking force, for the purpose of carrying out low-level attacks, mainly by day, on specific objectives on the continent of Europe. As you are aware, there are already eleven other squadrons within the Group, each with more or less the same task. They will eventually form the spearhead of a greatly expanded and powerful tactical force which will operate in direct support of Allied land forces when the day comes to push back across the Channel.’

Yeoman pricked up his ears. It was the first time he had heard anyone in authority mention a forthcoming Allied invasion of Europe in such definite terms.

‘However,’ Sampson went on, ‘your squadron will not be operating in the tactical role, although for reasons of security that is the impression we have fostered so far, and will continue to foster for as long as possible. Let me explain further.’ He reached out and picked up a pink folder from the edge of Davidson’s desk. He tapped it with his index finger and said: ‘This is our profit and loss account, Yeoman. A summary of the operations of RAF Bomber Command and the United States Eighth Bomber Command since March this year, since we stepped up the scope of our attacks on industrial targets in Germany.’

Sampson leafed through the folder, then closed it and laid it aside. He obviously knew its contents by heart.

‘The statistics are interesting,’ he said, ‘and somewhat alarming. Our own night offensive against the Ruhr began well enough; when we attacked Essen on 5 March with 350 aircraft, for example, fourteen of our bombers failed to return, which was quite an acceptable percentage, and when we went to Nuremberg with three hundred bombers three nights later the loss was down to seven. These results, we thought, were very encouraging.

‘Then we returned to Essen with four hundred bombers on 12 March, and this time we lost twenty-three, with a further sixty-nine damaged. We lost a further twenty-one against the same objective in April. In fact, during five attacks on Essen up to the end of May, our losses were ninety-two heavy bombers, with a further 334 damaged.’

Sampson’s voice was dry and dispassionate, but there was an expression in the group captain’s eyes the younger pilot knew only too well. The loss of ninety-two heavy bombers also meant the loss of over six hundred aircrew. Add that to the losses sustained during other attacks over the same period, and you had a tragedy.

Sampson tapped the folder again, then went on: This summary ends with the first big attack on Hamburg a few nights ago, when, thanks to the use of a new countermeasures device — bundles of metal foil, which proved very effective in jamming enemy radar — our losses fell to twelve aircraft out of a total force of 790. In a second attack on Hamburg, with a similar number of bombers, the loss was seventeen — still far within acceptable limits. We felt that the introduction of the new countermeasures was timely, because Bomber Command’s total losses between the beginning of April and the middle of July were nearly nine hundred aircraft.’

‘Good God!’ The exclamation burst from Yeoman involuntarily. Nine hundred aircraft: more than six thousand young men, not counting the dead and injured in bombers that did manage to get home.

Sampson noted his reaction. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s pretty grim isn’t it?’

‘It’s bloody well criminal!’ snapped Davison, who so far had been following Sampson’s comments in silence. ‘I know for a fact that we’ve had this tinfoil thing up our sleeves for months, but have been too scared to use it in case the Germans cottoned on to the idea and used it back at us. We might have saved hundreds of lives.’

‘Well, Hector, these things happen,’ Sampson pointed out. ‘Anyway, it’s not for us to criticize. No doubt the decision seemed right at the time.’ There was mild reproof in his tone; Davison grunted and sat back in his chair, glowering over the top of his spectacles.

‘In any case,’ Sampson continued, ‘our troubles are by no means over, because thirty aircraft failed to return from the third raid on Hamburg, and first indications are that losses were also high during last night’s attack, although we won’t know precise details for some hours yet. If they are high, though — say thirty aircraft or more — it may indicate that our countermeasures are beginning to lose some of their effectiveness, or that the enemy night fighters have adopted new tactics, or both.’

He paused and cleared his throat, glancing out of the window as a motor cycle went by noisily, then turned back to Yeoman.