OVER THE RUHR

Hauraki Plains Gazette, Volume 52, Issue 3270, 31 May 1943, Page 3

OVER THE RUHR

NIGHT RAID ON ESSEN LETTER FROM AN AIRMAN TWIST & DIVE, DIVE & TWIST This realistic account of a bombing raid on Essen is taken from a letter send by Sergeant L. Thomas, R.A.A.F., to his parents, Mr and Mrs R. W. Thomas, of Katoomba. He is now reported missing, believed killed. Crews flying in the night are first notified about mid-day. They then do a night flying test as soon as possible and retire to the mes sto read or listen to the wireless until after tea, when briefing takes place. Briefing on these nights is timed for hbout six or seven o’clock, when : we assemble in a large room with i tables plentifully besprinkled with [ maps and charts, over which muttering observers are poring and using pencils, compasses and protractors. Various station officers discuss signals, navigation, weather conditions and aerodrome control. The ' room,

full of blue tobacco smoke and' the murmur of conference, empties itself after a “pep”talk by the C.O. The navigators remain t oattend to a few last details.

“We Settle In”

Between briefing and take-off there is a lull, the most rritating part of operations. It is generally a period of a couple of hours. I generally have a bath and shave and change all my clothes—the Germans, if you make a permanent visit, take a little time to get round to personal details. I then put all my personal articles in a bundle, with directions as to disposal, clean out by pockets, and havink made arrangements for a possible accident, make preparations for a safe return, set up my bed, lay out pyjamas, towel, soap and toothbrush.’ That being that, there is little more to do except fill in an hour; It is hard to concentrate; the r.Terr is usually noisy; more laughter than usual. The wireless is particularly strident, and usually a piano ’is leading some community singing. I stay in my room reading or writing letters. An hour and a-half before take-off, we have a supper, one of the best we' ever get; hot, large and healthy. We collect bur thermos flasks full of bovril'or coffee; grap up in our gaudiest scarves, and make for the crew room. The new room is always a bustle, j Navigators ate making use of lastminute weather reports to work out courses; others are dressing in Mae Wests, flying boots and parachute harnesses. There is, of course, a con- , siderable undercurrent of ribaldry and badinage. About half-an-hour before take-off there is an exodus towards vans to. take us to th eplanes.' The . navigators are easily, recognised by their well-laden appearance—parachute, huge 'map case, sextant and large “gen” folder. At the plane we stand about talk-

ing to the ground crew. We have a smoke and generally feel dry in the mouth. When it is time to start up, we clamber into the kites, each stowing his parachute, thermos, and flying supper. We settle in.

The engines are started after the usual well-known dialogue between pilot and ground-crew. And then the aircraft shudders as the four engines warm up.

At this period I always feel tired andimpatient. The aircraft shakes as the engines are run up and then comes a seemingly endless period of taxiing and manoeuvring for take-off. The flare path is a ro\v of misty lights, ! the runway a long black ribbon in the moonlight. The control pilot flashes a green lamp—permission to take off. We swing into position, the engines roar and sometimes splutter as they catch full power, blowing back blue exhaust and flashes of fire. The plane moves forward. With a surge it gathers speed. Its tail lifts slowly. The runway shortens and the glim | lamps on the side become a continuous blue. One bounce and we are airborne. Lights flicker on the dashboard as the wheels come up a long long straight climb. The 1 plane sinks as the flaps are raised. The pilot makes a laborious circuit. The navigator lays out charts and maps and log. The wireless, operator tunes in. The front gunner crawls into the turret. No one speaks. Everyone settles down and begins work.

The pilot sets course over the aerodrome, and starts a gradual climb'to cross the coast at five thousand feet. After half-an-hour’s flying the English coast is seen —a white hazy splash where the sea foams on the shore. The navigator strains his head, twisting to get a good look for a pin point on the moon-bathed ground.

A slight alteration of course for climbing. The rate of climb is increased. The noise of the engines is now a roar in a background half forgotten. The sea is glassy and phosphorescent under the motionless moon, which lights it here and there in white glittering patches. At eight thousand feet we pierce a thin layer of broken cloud, the upper surface of which is clear, white and grastly. Above us is a haze and the stars are blurred in that bitter coldness of the northern skies.

I At twelve thousand feet we adjust oxygen masks. The oxygen is dry. We breathe out more moisture which collects agains the skin between- the mask and the face. At eighteen thousand feet we straighten out and throttle back to cruising power. Forty minutes have passed since leaving England and our. eyes strain ahead for searchlight streams of “flak” or black patches of island, sure signs of the approaching enemy coast. The coast is picked out and crossed. Everyone becomes more alert. The sky seems deserted. We find the north bank of the Rhine and swing south to approach our target—Essen in the Ruhr—from the safer side. Away to the left a single mauve searchlight sweeps the sky. Immed-

lately a dozen others sear the heavens with waving swords. They come to a peak, cross and steady. “Some poor cow’s getting it over there,” the front gunner mutters. Up in the peak of the searchlights a double stream of darting lights curves and dies away, begins again and becomes a continuous stream. On the ground red flashes fracture the darkness and away above other flashes appear as the shells explode.'

There is no time to watch another’s plight. A sudden light flickers up near our wing tip, swings across us, stops, and flies back. The pilot indulges in a violent diving turn, and we all watch that blade of light as it is joined by others. We twist and dive and dive and twist. For a moment the plane is a great gem of macabre purple light, before it falls away into the darkness. Streams of tracers hose the region of our departure.

We all relax. My hands are sweating; and between my two jaws that were united in solid bone, I slip some chewing gum. I check position. The pilot continues to weave from side to side, -diving and climbing. Searchlights are making theii’ implacable pyramids.

Ahead we see a great molten glow; sure sign of a really big fire. The edges are hazy and indistinct, but something is glowing like a great burning low. As. we approach, the belt of searchlights increases. Tne sky is continually swept in great arcs by master beams —and- is alive with crackling red-hot sparks of tracer bullets, rising like a stream of vicious fireflies. Great red bursts edged with oily smoke break into' a chandelier of green and blue lights—flaring onions.

The flashes or shrapnel shells are continued. It is all a giant mimic fireworks display. We hear nothing but the drone of the engines and crackle of statis in our earphones. It is all so unreal— a night of silent jubilee with an -outsize in noiseless bonfires. But you can feel the keyed-up atmosphere in the plane. Over the target!

I ' The navigator is in the bombing i position, straining to pick up roads or bends in the river and other telltale marks. The pilot takes direction from the navigator, who gives brief orders to turn right or left, or to steady. Then a pressure on the bomb teat and the plane gives an upward tug as tons of bombs, fall away! She heels over in a diving turn, then surges upwards as the ground defences, using the bombing run to plot us, send .up a salvo of greetings. Flashes rattle along the fuselage. Looking back we see great red bursts from the heavy bombs and a stitch of white light from incendiaries. Time To Relax Tail to target, nose down, we weave for the coast, and .the defences keep up until we are about 30 miles away. Now we have some breathing space, but are on the alert all the while, until we snake over the coast to the sea. The atmosphere is one of relaxation. Thermos flasks are out. Oxygen is

turned off, and moisture wiped off our mouths and chine. The smell of coffee and bovril fills the fore part of the plane. A look-out is kept for enemy planes all the way to the coast and inland, because even at base fighters have been known to shoot bombers landing. 7 The green dawn is breaking as we circle the drome and land in the pale light. There is a scramble as the plane is parked, and everyone looks flushed. Cigarettes are lighted and gossip becomes airy as we wait for the vans. A tired-looking W-A.A.F. greets us; the' weary ground crew hastily attends to the plane, and -we are transported back to the crew room to change our flying clothes. Outside, the gardens and grass of the aerodrome are wet with silver dew; there is the scent of roses in the air, and the morning is crisp to the skin and the lungs. The English countryside is about us once more.