THE BOMBERS COME HOME

Evening Post, Volume CXXX, Issue 78, 28 September 1940, Page 18

THE BOMBERS COME HOME

COME four hours earlier British | bombers had crossed the English coast, off on another of those raids that are giving the German lead- J ers so much anxiety. It was just getting dark when they set off. . . . Soon we shall hear the first of them, back again, says a writer in the "Evening News." While we have been waiting, some of us have snatched an hour or two's sleep; now everyone who is on duty waits expectantly. The Station Commander sits at a green-topped table desk in the Operations Room. He glances now and then at the huge blackboard fixed to the wall in front of him. There, he sees at a glance the details of the night's operations, so far as his squadrons are concerned. . . . The names of the captains of aircraft who are out; their raid numbers and their targets and the times they took off. Another column is headed "E.T.A." That means the estimated time of arrival over the target. There is other information on the blackboard, too; with, finally, a column that at the moment is still blank. This is for the times the machines get back—and with what joy the last figures in this column are filled in, indicating that "all our machines returned safely." Outside on the aerodrome, all is ready to receive the returning raiders. On the tarmac an ambulance and a fire engine are drawn up side by side; at regular intervals the drivers start up the engines and run them for a short time to keep them warm. One of the station doctors—a young flying officer—looks into the "ops.'" room. "Soon be down, now, doc," they tell him. "Have a cup of tea—there's plenty here." The doctor sips his tea. As he picks up his cap to leave, he asks: "Heard of anything special for me?" For sometimes a radio, message is received from a returning aircraft saying that a member of the crew has been wounded. "No," he is told. "Everything's all right so far as we know. Except that we haven't heard from a couple of 'em." He points to the blackboard. "Aircraft 'M'; that's old X . But you know what he is; sure to turn up all right. Then there's young Z . He's in 'P.' Haven't had a call from him, either. Still, here's hoping. . . ." The. young officer doctor takes his stand outside beside the ambulance. Less than a year ago he was at a London hospital, preparing to specialise in children's diseases. When war broke out he joined the R.A.F.V.R. Every night when the bombers are out he or one of his colleagues is here to see them return. It is two o'clock now; the dawn light will soon be trickling through. The Station Commander goes out to take a look at the sky. . . . The even drone of an approaching aircraft grows stronger and more vibrant in the stillness. Then the drone gradually fades as the bomber, having flown over the aerodrome and received signalled permission to come in, begins its wide, measured sweep to land. A few minutes later the Duty Pilot telephones from the Watch Office to report: "Aircraft 'L' landed at 02.10 hours." The Squadron Leader at the Operations table writes out a slip and passes it to a sergeant; he fills the time

in on the blackboard—the first figures to go down in that last tell-tale column. The captain and crew of aircraft "L" troop into the room. They wear a strange assortment of clothes. The captain is in an oil-stained pair of white overalls; his second pilot has just a leather jacket over his uniform, and the rear gunner is wearing the unshapely "outer" of his Sidcot suit. It has been a warm summer night. Very different from the weather on those leaflet raids and special reconnaissance flights last winter, when planes often collected half an inch of ice on their wings. "Well, and how did you get on?" the Station Commander asks the captain. "Oh, we got it all right, sir," is the reply, quiet and confident. "It" was an oil refinery in the Ruhr. The two officers go over to study the large-scale map of the Ruhr.- "We went in this way," says the pilot, tracing his route on the map. "Had no difficulty in pin-pointing ourselves; in fact we got pretty well straight in on the target, sir. We bombed from north to south at 8000. The first two dropped short, but the rear gunner reckons the rest of the stick1 fell right across the target. We made a second i run from east to west across the railway line alongside the works." He tells of this thrilling adventure as calmly as if he were reciting details of a cricket match in which he had taken part. The Station Commander nods approval. "Right," he says. "Let Intelligence have the details. Then you'd better get off to bed. I shan't want you for anything more. There's some tea on the table over by the door." The pilot calls the members of his crew together, and between them they give all the details of their attack to one of the Intelligence officers. Meanwhile other crews are coming in. They stand around, smoking and sipping tea, until it is their turn to pass on full details of the success of their raid. Snatches of their conversation are interesting. "We gave 'em a packet tonight all right." . . . "Seemed to be more stuff thrown up along the Rhine than there was the other night." .. . "Their searchlights were a bit of a pest tonight." . . . "All right, let's fix it for tomorrow night, if there's nothing on— and then we'll go to a dance afterwards." . . . "Somebody was getting a deuce of a lot of stuff thrown up at him over Duisburg—they were absolutely hose-piping it at him. Then just as I was thinking, 'Gosh, I'm glad that isn't me,' they let loose at our machine. . . ." Mostly in their early twenties, the majority of these pilots are already "old hands" at war, having carried out many raids against the enemy. Some have been decorated. The room is thick with smoke now. All the tea has gone. From outside comes the noise of a sports car starting up—an officer who lives "out" with his wife is off home. Others drift across to the mess for bacon and eggs. Finally the Station Commander says "Good night," We walk to his house together. Half-way over, he pauses. "You know," he says, "I've been flyj ing ever since the early daj's of the last war, yet. those chaps make me feel 'very humble."