I decided on the alternative that would get us over the target with the others. Alf had worked out our new track and new course as soon as he realised what I wanted to achieve, and we set that course in the hope that any trouble would be survivable. There was little doubt about the effectiveness of German radar. In the twenty minutes we were over their territory and on our own on the last straightened leg of the track they threw everything at us including the legendary kitchen sink. No fighters appeared, but the flak certainly did, and in quantity. We had to lose a little time in altering course from one side to the other. At 20,000 feet or so, flak takes something like twenty seconds to leave a gun barrel and explode at that height. The drill was, therefore, that as soon as the pilot saw flak bursting close around him, he altered course by a recommended 60° to port or starboard, stayed on that course for about half a minute, then corrected by a 120° turn the other way, carrying on like that until evidence of flak was no longer there. The effect was that, when the Germans on their radar had picked up the new course and altered the setting of the anti-aircraft guns accordingly, by the time the shells they then fired reached our flying altitude we would be on an entirely different course and flying away from the danger. It worked. We survived that raid, got to Soest right in the last minute scheduled for the last bomber to drop its load, and happily joined the main stream for the return journey to Full Sutton. The decision had been the right one. But it had needed luck and we had had it in full measure.


* * * * * T


hinking of the crew members has reminded me that among the light- hearted moments in the Mess at Full Sutton were those when we sang what became the Squadron songs, one of them being about each of our jobs. Life in the Mess was, whatever the strains of operational flying, as relaxed as anything I have known. In a way it was remarkable that, although we all knew that one crew in twenty or thereabouts was likely to be missing after the next raid, there appeared to be no great tension affecting the majority of the officers. One or two could, now and again, be seen to be showing signs of stress. One Flight Commander, a Squadron Leader I will not name, took to huddling in a corner seat, silent and brooding. We all seemed to know that he would not be with us for long. On the raid immediately before his last one, when he did disappear with his crew, he returned to Full Sutton and came in to land the wrong way down the runway. It was no surprise that the next was indeed his final flight. One young, pale-faced F/O left us after twice turning back at Beachy Head with (unsubstantiated) engine oil pressure loss. The reason was LMF – ‘Lack of Moral Fibre’ – as was the term then used. We had two twins, tall and handsome young men – little more than boys – who were popular members of the Mess. One failed to return from a mine-laying


111


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