"It May Not Be Glamorous, But.."

Auckland Star, Volume LXXII, Issue 86, 12 April 1941, Page 15 (Supplement)

"It May Not Be Glamorous, But.."

CIDNEY GARDNER, 20year - old, chubby - faced &A.F. officer, went home on 14 days' leave from his bombing squadron. Jock, his favourite terrier, came to meet ®pn at the gate, wagging his kil as usual, but where the front of Sidney's house had been was a gaping framework of rubble. The top floor back wowed a bed, and the bathtub upended in the downstairs •Pace that had once been the "rawing room.

J? air raid warden in a tin hat . . 6 the news to Sidney. His mother • J * a ther were both dead, his kid i was in the hospital. His young fart ' wor k p d at the aircraft , 01 7 a few miles away, was the J® °f the family unhurt. There «: L. , n a direct hit on the house the Bl ght before.

"frjey had 14 days' leave. He teleP oned his squadron. Could he come kaek? No, he couldn't, they t, , He had to have his leave. cou the guest of »«♦ * an d Lady B. at their country Jhev had thrown it open to • pilots who wanted a breather. "I'll Enjoy This Job!" an y average man feel ® if an enemy had smashed every j**w>nal link he had with life in one ■1 bomb blast? If he was at the Z.V of £ 30,000 worth of destruc°n he would probably want to do Ord Bame thing, but if he disobeyed flerg and dropped his destruction ♦* ° n , an ything but the target . otted him by the operations officer *or«| a * s °ldier un " °itny of his position in his country's J® force.

®idney said when he zoomed his Jjjcnine across the runway on his next jP . ® er iin was: "Well, this is the r *time I'll really enjoy this job." i.-lnen he concentrated his mind on Jj* new responsibility, of getting to ® w target, an aircraft component south of Berlin, dropping his ®og and bringing liis ship and his ®panions home safely, for immediv the loud speaker at bomber com-

What does It feci like to go on a bombing raid over Germany, on a freezing cold night, with the "Ack Acks" below "throwing up" at you "everything except the kitchen sink"? A young captain of a bomber here tells you. "It may not be glamorous," he says, "but it's a *good show.' "

By Keith Ayling

mand announced that Sidney's ship was "airborne" it was up to him and no one else. Night bombing is a prosaic, mathematical and comfortless task. It lacks the glamour, the swift do-or-die quality of the work of the fighter pilot where you live a lifetime in 30 seconds, and return flushed with the glow of victory to a comfortable meal in the squadron mess. The bomber crew needs patience, endurance, resistance against cold, courage of a high order, determination and superb skill. There must be no shirking, no careless unloading of eggs on random targets. * No matter what the weather conditions, there must be always the extreme wariness to ward off enemy attack. That is British night bombing! There is a difference between the German methods of Coventrising selected areas and the British preference for steady individual attacks on selected targets. German pilots make stop-watch or clock bombing attacks. They fly their machines for a certain time on an agreed course. The bombs are released by radio beam control. This devilish system of efficiency ensures the bombs are dropped on enemy territory. The Germans lack bomb sights and a sufficiency of pilots trained for night flying, so they have evolved this system. Britain has been training her airmen in night bombing ever since the last war, gradually perfecting b°ml) sights and devising new methods of accuracy. As a British bomber roars across the Channel, climbing to 10,000 or 15,000 feet, its captain —a flight lieutenant or even a pilot-sergeant— invariably has three targets given him by the operations officer.

If he cannot get near enough to the maiu target to drop his bombs destructively, then he must go to the second. If he can't make that, then he has the third, and if he fails there, he must bring his bombs home and report to the intelligence officer. The bomber captains*usually get to their targets because the operations officers give them instructions so precise the targets might be in the next county. This particular night Sidney is going to blast an aircraft factory. Alternative Targets "We are doing this to create a bottle neck of motors for the airframe plant at ," says the operations' officer, "so do it well. If you can't get close in, and there's no reason why you shouldn't, go to B, where they're assembling Dormers. Got that clear? Any questions?" There were no questions, 1 and the officer went on. "If you fellows don't mind, go easy in asking for 'fixes.' Don't talk until you really need them," he smiled. "We'll give you 'fixes' of course, but the air is getting pretty jammed these days." A "fix" is "the technical term for a pilot asking for his position on R.T. (radio telephone). RT. can be listened into by the enemy, so it must be used sparingly. Pilots are encouraged to do nothing until they have dropped their bombs. The upper air over Europe these nights is crackling with these laconic reports. Nazis flv by radio beacons placed all over the Reich at agreed spots. These help the R.A.F. pilots to find theif targets as well as helping the Germans to get home.

Since one can't fly over enemy territory with Sidney and his crew, let s hear* his own story after he's made his report to the intelligence officer who is busy working out the whole affair to forward his remarks to Bomber Command. To him Sidney wave technical details, but back in the rest room he's talking more freely. "It was one hell of a flap, he says, his eves bright. "If it hadn't been so darned cold it would have been a good party. Poor old Bluey in the tail got frozen up. His heating went wrong. Bluey is the Australian tail gunner who has the worst job in a bomber. He has a turret of four guns to look after. Although he can talk to the pilot and the navigators, he «sa*fr-get

to them. Sidney only heard about the heating going wrong indirectly when Bluev was talking to Smith, the forward gunner. But there wasn't anything he could do except to tell Bluey that there was a good cup of tea back at the squadron.

"We were over the Rhine when they first began to throw up at us," said Sidney. "And didn't they send up something—we got everything except (lie kitchen sink. I thought they'd got us once. We rocked so much I couldn't keep her 011 an even keel. Then it stopped suddenly, and % we didn't pick up any more till we got to the Berlin suburbs. Then there was a real fireworks display. The coloured searchlights are pretty, too, but not much good. I called back to Bluey and he didn't answer.

"It was darn cold. There wag ice on the wings, too, but I was a bit worried, because I was getting cold too. Poor old Bluey must have been having a frightful time. I shouted at him, and then he answered. 'Okay here —was just having a look.' We got to the target and made three rims, dropping a stick each time. There were three tidy explosions—the middle one red, and others white.. I called up home, and we beat it. . . "Things were pretty nwrmal after that, except that poor old Bluey kept singing out of tune, but you can't get sore with a fellow who's singing to keep himself awake. We're a musical crowd anyhow. Sinclair (the bomb aimer) is a musical bomber anyhow.

"To-ni<rht as we were flying over the target he was singing "Peutschland Über Alios.' and then as the bombs went down he changed to 'God Save the Kinjr'—he's a queer fellow. We had another thrill, too. Wo heard the Boche oil his'R.T. giving our position to a fighter, but the fellow didn't turn up."

Sidney got up for a minute to welcome a tall, red-haired youngster who limped in. "Hullo. Bluey. how's the cold?" Bluey had a rich Australian accent. "She's a cow this time. I'll sav . . . but I'll manage."

They had to lift Bluey out of the (ail. That wasn't diflicuit. as a piece of shrapnel had torn a hole as big as a dog kennel in the Hoor. which hadn't exactly helped to keep Bluey warm.

When he had gone. Sidney went on: "You know we tly in formation. It's a case of the more we stick together the happier we'll be. That's stuck up in every bomber mess. We were halfway home when Bluey spoke over the phone. He wanted me to ask the old man (squadron leader) how many planes there were in our formation. "I told him, and ]»resently I heard ]iis guns popping off. He didn't say what happened till we got back. A darned Boche had joined in our formation —trying to sneak into our air field 011 our tails and then bomb it. I imagine Bluey gave him enough to make him change his mind." Such was Sidney's story. For 24 hours he'll rest, and then do a similar show. Each night he'll do his job as conscientiously as ever. "It may not be glamorous, but it's a good show," he'll say. "People never think of us as they* do a fighter squadron, but we don't mind that. If you'd seen what I've seen over Germany you d feel happy all right."