Aircrew: The Story of the Men Who Flew the Bombers (26 page)

Flt/Sgt Ken Booth, mid-upper gunner, (aged 19) with his four Browning .303 machine guns in a Boulton Paul hydraulically operated turret.

Flt/Sgt Mick Campbell, RAAF. Rear Gunner, (aged 24), the crew’s ‘grandad’! On operations, both he and Booth wore electrically heated suits to combat the freezing conditions.

Flt/Sgt Bruce Lewis – the author.

LACW ‘Miki’ Smith of 101 Squadron’s highly secret Signals Section, Ludford Magna, 1944.

The Waist Gunner – Sergeant Odell Dobson.

8th AAF Air Gunners. A group of typical air gunners, tough and generally of stocky build, but the exception, Sergeant Odell Dobson, was well over six feet.

Odell Dobson’s Crew. Typical of many crews who manned the ‘Heavies’ of the 8th AAF – ten flyers; four officers and six sergeants. From this group, only Odell Dobson, (fourth from left, back row), and radio operator Roger Clapp, (fifth from left, back row), survived an attack by enemy fighters on 10 September, 1944.

The Swedes made a gesture, as they had every right to do. They fired obsolete flaming onions that burst 10,000 feet below us. We spotted some ancient biplane fighters that wisely kept their distance from our 402 Lancasters, but flashed their Aldis lamps in ‘warning’. On the way back, around 0300, it seemed most of the inhabitants, including the Swedish armed forces, had gone to bed. The activity had died down, and the lights extinguished.

Moments later, over Denmark, the dream ended for over twenty Lancaster crews, as waiting Luftwaffe fighters tore into the bombers and sent them tumbling from the sky. We, as on other nights, were lucky.

The three raids mentioned earlier, on the 5th, 6th and 7th October, completed my 30 ‘ops’. Still not quite believing I had actually survived I sat down and penned a letter to my parents telling them it was all over for the present, and that some leave should follow shortly. Then Miki and I went for a walk. As we wandered through the beautiful autumnal woods that overlooked the lovely little village of Tealby, where we had spent so many off-duty hours, I proposed to her and she accepted me. Danger was behind us. The future, whatever it held, looked bright and exciting. That night, lying on a haystack, we watched 101 Squadron taking off. As our Lancasters climbed for height my heart went out to all the crews, but with special thoughts for Jim Bursell and the boys who still had six trips to do to complete their tour.

The following morning, with a light step and a new sense of freedom, I was making my way to the Adjutant’s office to sort out some leave when Jim Bursell waylaid me. ‘Bruce,’ he said, coming straight to the point as always, ‘as you know we flew last night, and the boys are not happy with the new chap. They don’t want to fly with him any more. We’ ve had a chat about it and they’ ve asked me to ask you if you’ ll carry on with us – fly with us on our last five trips.’

‘Bloody hell, Jim, you’ re asking a hell of a lot!’ That was my immediate reaction. Then I looked at him, lean, reliable, like an
older brother, his eyes anxious for my answer. I thought of the crew. The two inseparable Canadian gunners: Larry, tall, boyish and fair; Chuck, chunky-square dark as a bear, an ex-lumberjack. And all the others, each in turn, especially Colin Pyle, the unflappable, skilled navigator from Newcastle-upon-Tyne, full of common sense, with whom I had worked so harmoniously. These were the men who had accepted me as part of their team. I had never enquired about the wireless/op whose place I had taken. Somehow I knew they didn’t want to talk about him. Now they were calling on me again. My emotions were a mixture of pride, frustration, fear, and a certainty that, having ‘diced with Jesus’ and miraculously won, yet now, after all, it was only going to be a temporary victory.

It was blackmail of course. If I refused, there would be a lifetime to ponder on my decision, whatever happened. Yet, if I agreed to carry on and we got the ‘chop’, what about Miki? What about the shock to my parents? Having received my letter, they would assume I was safely through.

But from that first second when Jim asked me, I suppose I knew there could only be one answer: ‘OK Jim. I’ ll do it.’ And somehow managing a grin, ‘I’ ll hold you personally responsible if I get the “chop”!’

Jim’s relief was obvious. ‘I’m bloody pleased, Bruce. If you hadn’t agreed I think I’ d have had a mutiny on my hands!’

‘The bastards!’ I muttered with a mixture of resentment and affection.

Almost at once we flew off to a Fort Fredrick Heindrik, near Breskins, to destroy some heavy guns, attacking them at low level. Next it was Dulsberg, where the Germans threw up intense heavy flak wrecking our starboard outer engine. This was the fourth time I had flown in Lancasters with less than the full complement of engines. Then there was a daylight raid on Cologne. This time the heavy flak blew a hole in the front of the aircraft. The return trip was uncomfortably cold and draughty. Three down, two to go. ‘What a bloody stupid clot I am,’ I kept grumbling to myself.

Raid No 4. Another mission to Cologne. A night job this time. Again we lost an engine, but on this occasion within minutes of taking off. Let me quote from my log book:

30.10.44 Operations: Cologne. A trip of snags! Starboard Inner Engine U/S from Reading on outward journey. Intercom U/S before target. No brake pressure. Fuel shortage. Sent message to base. Lightning flashes from aerial connections. Earthed all aerials. Target bombed OK. Landed Woodbridge.

Woodbridge, in Suffolk, was a specially established ‘crash drome’ for bombers in trouble. Twin searchlights pierced the sky vertically. They were like the gateway to heaven. Enter between those beams of light and you would touch down on concrete – stretching away into infinity and three times the width of a normal runway. Jim brought our wreck of a machine to a halt and she never flew again. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for this effort. Next day we went back to 101 by train. One to go!

The Bursell crew flew their final operation three days later. It was in yet another brand-new Lancaster, our
third
G George, the other two having literally been shot to pieces under us. The raid on Düsseldorf was almost an anti-climax. We bombed an armament centre supplying the front line, and only encountered moderate flak in our wave. As we crossed the Dutch coast on the way home, Jim called me up on the intercom: ‘Well, that looks like it for real this time, Bruce. Will you and Miki be getting married now?’ ‘That’s the intention,’ I replied. ‘What are you going to do, Jim?’

We were roughly above The Hague at that moment. Jim said, ‘Before the war I used to be an executive with the Shell Oil Company. I’ ve got an office down there somewhere. I’ d like to think that when this lot is over, my chair will still be waiting!’ Normally, when flying, this well-disciplined crew only spoke when it was vital to do so. But now, with the tour all but over, each member in turn talked of what he hoped to do after the war. I thought I knew them well, but at this moment they were adding a new dimension to their personalities – drawing an image of what sort of people they might be in the future. Now they felt certain there was going to be a future.

We celebrated in style the following evening, and with us, of course, was the ‘other’ crew, the one who had kept our kites flying trip after trip. Never grumbling, working in all weathers, they had performed near-miracles. We pulled each others’ legs unceasingly:
‘We’ d no sooner fixed up the poor old kite when you buggers bent it again!’. ‘It’s a wonder we ever got there, the way you bodged it up!’. ‘You had more G Georges, Jim, than me and the lads have had hot dinners!’ Magical, memorable moments, never to be repeated. Soon we would shake hands and not meet again.