BOMBING BERLIN

Te Awamutu Courier, Volume 65, Issue 5493, 3 July 1942, Page 3

BOMBING BERLIN

STORY OF LOCAL AIRMAN GREAT AUTUMN ATTACK RECALLED BRITISH LOSE 37 PLANES Early this year when serving as front gunner in a Sterling bomber, Flight-Sergeant Jack Menzies Smith, son of Mr and Mrs Shepherd Smith, Alexandra Street, wrote the following article in the form of a letter to a friend in Canada, who had it published in the Port Huron Times Herald of January 3. It describes the great autumn attack on Berlin by squadrons of British bombers, in which the British lost 37 first line craft. It isn’t every newspaper that has a “correspondent” in England’s Royal Air Force. The Times Herald has one and his name is Jack Menzies—a New Zealander—front gunner in a Sterling bomber. Menzies, friend of Philip W. Browning, 1602 Lapeer avenue, wrote the accompanying article in a letter to Browning for publication in The Times Herald. It describes the great autumn attack on Berlin by squadrons of British bombers. In this attack the British lost 37 first line craft. It has since become famous as one of the greatest aerial attacks of England’s war against the Nazis. BY JACK MENZIES, R.A.F. GUNNER It is midafternoon somewhere in England. The weather is bright enough but coldish. We have completed inspecting our kite (bomber) after having tested it earlier in the day. Any minor faults we found in the morning flying test have now been repaired and I have the feeling that only the knowledge that the crate and my guns are OK can give one. We have been “briefed,” that is told about the target and approaches —height and angle approach—from which to bomb. “Mac,” our navigator, has an armful of maps and we split up from the briefing room to go to our various ways to our huts to get dressed for the long trip. I go to my room with “Reg,” our rear gunner, and we strip and redress —long silk and wool underwear, two pairs of socks, heated boots, a shirt and a white submarine jersey. This is our battle dress. Our meal before our flight will be ready in 20 minutes so I write the usual two letters—one to my mother and one to my brother.

LEAVES LETTERS That is only a precautionary measure, of course. I have no qualms about not coming back, but sometimes these things happen. I leave the letters on my table and go down with Reg to “high tea.” On the way we meet “Limey,” our wireless operator, who has, as he says, “all the Gen,” and who’ is always happy when we visit Jerry as his home has been bombed twice. We go into tea and the corporal WAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Air force) in charge of the mess says: “Hmm—-looks as if you are going some place.” Then she frowns and says, “I suppose you want something to eat,” and without waiting for a reply, brings our meal. Someone says to her: “Who put the margarine on the bread ? ” Before she can answer someone else says: “Who took it off?” We laugh, then settle down to eat. Meanwhile our thermos flasks are being filled and on our way out from the mess we pick them up. Then over to the crew room we go—about eight of us in our crowd. Someone on my left is telling a yarn; someone else is talking about his last leave—and‘Reg telling me about the four shining barrels in his turret. At the crew room we don more clothes, our heated leather jackets, trousers and gloves. Each article is electrically connected with plugs and sockets. We connect these to see if they are tight. PREPARE FOR 25 BELOW ZERO Then our yellow (so they can be seen easily in the sea) “Mae Wests,” over which our parachute harness fits. We are feeling very warm now, but at 18,000 feet it will be about minus 25 degrees. We waddle—no other word can describe our walking motion—out to the dispersal, where our plane is kept, and climb aboard. George, our pilot, is already in his seat, 22 feet above ground level. We all take our positions. The wireless operator switches on the inter-communication and we all plug in our helmet leads and soon George says to the engineer: “Prime all engines,” and the engineer answers: “Yes, captain.” The engines are run up and we taxi out. The ground crew gives us the “V” for victory sign and we move across the drome for the take off. “Belching Bertha,” our kite, moves along very smoothly considering she carries a . . . (censored) bomb load. Taxiing out we test our guns, firing a couple of short bursts. We call up control, get permission to take off and then we get the . . . (censored) light from the flare path. We move up quickly and with increasing speed until I no longer feel the wheels running on terra firma. Now there is a smoothness about Bertha. . Over the hedge and road, and our rear gunner laughs over the intercom and tells us of a man who has fallen off his bicycle when looking up at us as we flew within yards of him. We soon reach 5,000 or 6,000 feet and I get the engineer to lock me in the turret and close the bulkhead. From now till we land I will feel alone out here in my little glass house. RE-CHECKS GUNS Course is set—l re-check my guns and see that the turret rotates easily. Then I plug in my heated suit to the supply socket fitted in the turret. Mac calls up and tells me to let him know when we cross the coast. It will be a job to-night as it is fairly hazy below. However, I watch and soon see a wavy silver line where the waves break on the shore. Mac plots where

we cross. The procedure is the same at the enemy coast, except that it’s easier as I have some idea where the coast is on account of the enemy searchlights. A new course is given and after about an hour I see red flashes dead ahead. The Jerries have plotted our course and are shooting flak at us We weave a littl6. That foxes them—but they are rotten shots anyway. A few bursts come close-, but not too close. Then all is quiet again. For half an hour we see little at all, except a lot of flak getting shot at someone else. Looks bad I A large cone of searchlights beams, weaving around the sky and about five miles away on our port side. Too quiet really. Then: “Tracer coming from underneath for’ard,” says Reg, our gunner. He goes on grumbling about Jerry nightfighters not coming out in the open and I can imagine hirp rotating his turret trying to see Jerry, who usually stands off, fires a burst and then runs. TARGET LOOMS Again all is quiet but it will liven up soon as we see our target coming up. There it is—plenty of flak and searchlights. There are flares falling all around from our kites to light the target. Ah, that’s it. We run up; bomb doors open; mater switch on bombs gone. Seconds later (it seemed hours) Reg reports where the bombs hit and tells us of the explosions or of the fires we start. Then Mac plots them and we race for home. . I feel cold now and have a drink of coffee, but I still scan the skies. I see a vapor trail above us, report it and keep an extra sharp lookout. We see a kite caught in a searchlight and hope he gets out. It’s a nasty feeling being held in searchlights. Limey starts to sing. He’s happy and says bombing Jerry is “the berries,” which means is the tops, or something. We cross the coast and soon we reach England. Gosh, it looks good! Minutes later we touch down. It’s three o’clock and we all go to a room to tell the results of our raid, and then to bed to sleep till 1 p.m. Then once again we go downstairs to eat and the corporal WAAF says: “Hmmm, see you got back”—but she doesn’t frown, she smiles If I could tell all I could make it far more interesting. But the fact remains that the next day the paper said: “Big Raid On Berlin RAF flew through adverse weather to target. ... 37 planes lost .... our biggest losses for some time.”