Behind the Lines

B for Bravo ploughed on through the moon lit night as it left the British coastline behind and began crossing the channel heading for France.

The pilot, Squadron Leader Parker, clicked a switch on his oxygen mask and called up on his built in microphone.

“Check in please gentlemen?”

“Chalky Here.” The Jamaican Observer was a man of many talents. He was the navigator and waist gunner as well as a second pilot and Bomb Aimer.

“Tyson here Skip.” Tyson was the radio engineer and waist gunner.

“Jordan here.” The cheerful Canadian front turret gunner called as he and his partner at the other end of the plane moved the turrets back and forth.

“Patel here Skipper.” The Asian rear gunner made himself as comfortable as he possibly could in his turret as he checked over the bullet runs to his four 0.303 calibre guns.

Their own ship S for Sugar was being repaired so they were forced to take up the spare. The bomber crews were a wary lot and it was felt a bad omen to take the spare up. It was true that the two aircraft were the same to the laymen but to the crew there was a vast difference.

Parker called over to the other two Wellingtons.

“Gentlemen keep tight. The shortest time over the target as possible.”

“Will do sir.”

“Forming up on you now sir.”

They were crossing the French coast.

“Observe radio silence from now on. Good luck boys.”

“You too sir.”

“Wilco Squadron Leader. Over and out.”

Silence fell as they became focused in what they had to do.

Chalky was a marvel at keeping the course corrections coming to bring them over the target.

Unaware they were flying over the hero’s they settled down into their bombing run. A large blue beam spiralled around the sky as the antiaircraft guns sprayed the sky with explosive shells. The crew could hear it rattling against the fabric of the craft.

Chalky now lay in the bomb aimers position peering down his sight.

“Bomb bay open. Left, left.” From his position he guided the aircraft to the target. The blinding flashes of the flak made this job far from easy. “Right. Steady.”

A large building loomed into view and he pressed the tit that released the bombs.

With a little jump the aircraft dropped its cargo of destruction.

Chalky watched and tried to photograph the explosions for the debriefing. The bombs mushroomed into glorious shades of red, orange and yellow belying their destructive nature.

“We’ve hit the target Skipper.”

The fact that they had hit an empty warehouse five miles from the target stood as testament of how hard it was to hit a target even with a clear night.

“Good. Now plot us a way home.” Parker’s arms hurt from the strain of holding the aircraft straight and level when his mind was screaming at him to get away, to go back home.

Chalky was as good as his word but as Parker was vectored and began the turn the aircraft was coned in the blue radar controlled searchlight and within a second four others turned on and illuminated him. The light was so bright he was temporarily blinded for a few seconds.

The German gunners had a target now, one they could see. The gunners knew his altitude and speed and vector.

A fearsome salvo of flak shells exploded around them.

“Corkscrew left.” The forward turret gunner called.

Parker twisted and turned the aircraft and dived, trying to do anything and everything he could to get out of those killer beams. There was an all mighty crash as the aircrafts side was ripped apart by a shell as they escaped the beams at last but D Delta following wasn’t so lucky. The aircraft was coned like B bravo was but he didn’t have the time to start evasion tactics as a shell struck the fuel tank in the Port wing and blew it apart. With only one wing D Delta spiralled down to the ground where it exploded in a gout of flame. The centrifugal force of the spinning had stopped any of them being able to bail out.

With a roar B Bravo’s starboard engine burst into flame. Parker acting quickly feathered the engine and operated the fire extinguisher.

The fire was put out but not in time to save the engine.

“All stations call in.” Parker commanded as he adjusted the trim. Getting back to base with one engine was possible but tricky.

“Rear Turret okay.”

“Forward Turret Okay.”

Then there was silence.

“Chalky, Tyson?”

Nothing but static.

“Chalky, Tyson?”

“I’ll go back and check skipper.” Before Parker could react Jordan had disconnected himself and eased himself out of the turret. Connecting himself to a oxygen bottle he made his way into the body of the aircraft where a large hole had been blasted into the side of the plane. The wind howled through the rent threatening to knock Jordan off his feet. He connected himself to the system at the radio operators station.

“Skip. Tyson and Chalky have bought it, from a flax shell I think.” It was while he was huddled over his crew mates that death came calling.

Patel in the rear turret heard all this with a strange detachment, isolated as he was from everyone else.

He stared out into the darkness looking for any tell tale signs that would tell him an enemy fighter is in the area.

As he watched a Me 110 came up from below them. Patel spun the turret round to get a shot at it while screaming for all his worth.

“Corkscrew, corkscrew left!”

Parker tried to twist the aeroplane away from their attacker but the Wellingtons one engine strained to drag the aircraft round allowing the 110 to follow the turn easily.

Patel with a yell to his fore fathers let loose a stream of shells from his four 0.303 and was gratified to see chunks spin off the enemy aircraft and then his guns jammed. He worked franticly trying to clear them of the blockage but to know avail for as he looked up he could see the pilot of the pursuing fighter clearly, he was that close.

The enemy pressed the tit and a cannon shell smashed him aside and careered down the centre of the fuselage straight into Jordan killing both of them before as a spent force it hit the armoured back of the pilots chair.

Another squirt of the enemy’s guns peppered the still working engine before twisting away to return to base.

Parker had no choice, fighting to keep the aircraft level he yelled down the intercom the words he hoped he’d never use. “Eject, eject, bail out!”

He didn’t know how many were alive or dead he just gave them as long as possible to get out as he tried to hold the craft steady.

The realisation that once he let go off the control column the craft would nose dive making it impossible for him to get out came over him.

He looked out of his window to see the remaining engine catch light and suddenly he felt an icy calm come over him.

Now the Wellington bomber was a marvellous piece of engineering but even it couldn’t fly without any engines. It began to drop like a stone.

The flames extinguished and the engine off Parker turned the bomber into the wind. He had made up his mind. If he couldn’t bail out he would land it instead.

The hydraulics that lowered the wheels was shot to pieces so it would have to be a belly landing.

His eyes tried to see a landing spot as the woodland below whipped passed mere feet away. And then there it was. The bomber scraped over the last trees and over the electrified fence and on to the deck. With the screaming of metal and wood under duress the bomber slew round in an arc across the grass and smashed into the electric fence causing it to spark and flare all over the place.

Instinct compelled Parker to get out of the now burning aircraft. He dropped out of the emergency flap onto the ground and began to try to run away only to fall down in terrible pain from a broken leg. He crawled away like some frightened animal ripping his nails as he went. His mind filled with the need to get away and nothing else. He had just reached a safe distance when the fire reached the fuel tanks and the aircraft blew up. Wood and metal shrapnel sprayed the area like whistling shells just missing him.

He must of passed out because when he next opened his eyes it was to see a pair of highly polished Jackboots. With a groan he passed out once more.

The Commandant looked down at the Squadron leaders body a moment before barking out his orders.

“Get this man to side room nine before he comes too again. Only English speaking staff are to attend him. Make sure there is no German signs or literature in the room and that goes for Laboratory coats and hospital gowns.”

“An interesting set of instructions Commandant but can I ask why?” Rot Wag asked.

“Why of course you can good Professor. We will endeavour to convince him that he’d managed to reach England and that I am an Intelligence Officer come to debrief him. The air raid on the factories was a ruse to put us off our guard and hide their real target.”

“And that would be?”

“Why the centre Professor. The centre.”

They had not long got back in to the grounds when they watched the aircraft plunge into the extensive lawns and gardens of the centre.

“Sir.” A young Captain of the guard ran up. “The electric fence has been compromised. We have had to turn it off for our own safety.”

“Get it back up and running as soon as possible and double the guard around the breach.”

“Yes sir.” The officer doubled away.

Unaware of a pair of hostile eyes watching their every move from the trees on the other side of the fence.