The Last Lancaster

 
The dawn broke early across the flat lands of East Anglia on that fateful day. The sky swept across the land from the sea to the distant hills. A faint mist was swept away a by cool breeze from the east. It was not cold but there was a distinct chill in the air. It was not felt by the bomber crew making their way out to the dispersal area, they were not at ease, they had been scheduled for a daylight raid and they were deep in their own thoughts. Only the captain knew where they were going, but they all knew that it was doubly dangerous over Germany in the daytime and they did not relish the thought of the day ahead.

It was fraught with danger that they tried not to think about. They had been up early, before dawn, for what some of them thought of as their last breakfast, and after an uneasy nights sleep, were not in the best of moods. As they made their way out they saw the bomb load being hoisted up into the belly of the Lancaster. Damn, it was 22,000 pounder, ’Grand Slam’, as they were nicknamed. That meant maximum weight, hard take off, difficult altitude, and low manoeuvrability. Could this mean submarine pens! They gave one another knowing looks, these were heavily defended, let alone attacks from fighter aircraft, bad enough at night, but in daylight; suicide!

They looked up at the solid aircraft, 69 ft long, with a wing span 0f 102 ft, with four Rolls Royce engines, it was a powerful and reliable bomber. Was this to be their coffin? It was designed for night flying and had very little defensive armour. What they needed was cloud cover; clear blue skies meant they were naked and exposed to the enemy! They prayed for a change in the weather which was not to come.

 They swung up into the aircraft; gunners manned the rear and upper turrets, the rest of the crew made up of the pilot, engineer, wireless operator, navigator, and bomb aimer/front gunner, making seven in all, got into their allotted positions They were a crew, but not necessarily  buddies, the rankings of the air force made that difficult, but also they had learnt not to become too matey when death could strike indiscriminately in the skies! They had flown many missions and had adopted an automaton mindset to withstand the horrors; this was a job of work, do it without heroics and get home safe.

 Everyone in position, start the Merlin’s, outboard first, then the inboard, white smoke curling away until they ran up to full speed. Chocks away! Signal to taxi out. It seemed strange that they were the only one on the tarmac when normally there would be a queue of aircraft waiting to take off! Brakes full on, throttle fully open, waiting for the signal flare to go. The captain looks up at the sky, the pale straw of dawn turning to a deeper blue, heralding the sun. Hell, straight into the sun soon after take off, he reaches for his dark glasses to protect him from the glare as the flare lights up in the sky. All throttles wide open, the Merlin’s screaming as the props bite into the air, and the lumbering giant starts to move. All check, was the command, safety harnesses on, they all check in, OK skip, in that jokey air force manner.

The giant gathers speed, it’s more like a double decker bus at this stage, rolling and pitching on the tarmac, the pilot has no control other than to keep rolling straight ahead. There is a full load on board and it will take all the runway to lift off, everyone is on tender hooks, a full fuel and bomb load, a mistake now and its oblivion. The roar of the engines is deafening, there is a strong smell of petrol, and the exhausts are belching flame; there is no escape possible on take off. The flight engineer keeps an anxious eye on the engine temperatures and at the same time on the air speed indicator. The end of the runway is rushing up, soon it will be too late. The Lanc. is running smoother, the skipper eases back on the control; nothing! Jesus!

Rotate; the word comes as a sigh of relief and the lumbering plane starts to lift, pulling back hard on the control but it seems to stick like glue, then suddenly, as the sun strikes his eyes, it is airborne! 

    
 He is practically blinded by the sun but he now has the feel of the plane, its just a question of fly straight and climb. In minutes they are over the North sea, heading towards the Dutch coast. With this heavy load he knows that he will not reach ceiling height before reaching the coast, and that makes them vulnerable to anti aircraft fire, so he decides on a risky strategy; go in at roof top level! This disregards his briefing, but so what, he thinks.

He keeps the throttles fully open to maintain maximum speed of  270 miles per hour. His co-pilot/engineer looked at him with some alarm and signalled with a swirl off his hand too high an engine speed, and the other on the top of his head, too high a temperature. The pilot took no notice, the engineer shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, you’re the boss!

 The navigator was on the intercom; give me a course, where the hell are we going? Open your confidential documents, but set me a course for Hamburg. Suddenly the flat lands of Holland were below them, they could see the dykes, and the windmills, so close it seemed they could touch them. Cattle scattered as they roared over them, and Dutch people looking up waved too late to be seen.  Test guns, came a request, a bit late but hell yes. .303 machine guns opened fire, their sound faint above the roar of the engines, hell, he thought, give me a suicide mission and I’ll cowboy it.

 Amsterdam coming up, skip, course 45 degrees north across the Zeider Zee if you wanna clear run. He swung the aircraft in a left bank, the upper gunner could then see how low they were as the wing tip came dangerously close to the ground. Jesus skip, you godda death wish. Keep your eyes skinned for ME’s. Right, you barmy bugger. Give me 240 air speed, came from the navigator, we’re going to Peenamund, arrival four hours! A collective groan went through the plane; the submarine pens would have been bad enough, but Penemund, that meant the run over Bremen and Hamburg, heavily defended or what. Keep your knickers dry he said, trust me! He throttled back to 240mph, still well above the cruising speed and eating up fuel.

He signalled the flight engineer asking for fuel rate, by opening and closing the fingers of his right hand. The engineer knew what he wanted, checked the fuel rate and went back to confer with the navigator, coming back he held up two fingers and ceremoniously cut his throat. At this rate they would never make it make it back. The pilot grinned sardonically and sliced his throat, as if to say we won’t anyway!  They all knew the imminent danger, the ack ack guns wouldn’t catch them but an ME 109 certainly would!
 
                       

 Maximum speed of 387 miles per hour, powered by 1400 HP engine, with three 20mm cannon and two 13mm machine guns the ME109 was a  formidable machine that would knock a Lanc out of the sky in seconds, their only hope was that they would not be seen. On their own, at low height there would be no warning of the Lancs approach, but they could be caught by a lone wolf stooging about the skies!

 Peenemund; 1200 mile round trip, at this speed 5 hours, but they would not be able to keep that up so that could easily extend by 2 hours or more; lets hope we have enough fuel thought the navigator anxiously looking for a sighting. Give me a course to Oslo. Oslo? What’s he up to now, frantically searching for a map of Norway. 10 deg North. Over the sea shortly. Flying low level over the land was one thing but over the sea was more dangerous, height could easily be misjudged. The Skip obviously thought this and brought the plane up to 2000 ft, He felt it rise, but he was not comforted, at this rate they could easily get lost. Give me sighting when we reach the coast of Denmark. How the hell am I suppose to know that, they were certainly heading for disaster? If they get it wrong - it didn’t bear thinking about.

Islands ahead, from the top gunner. They all peered ahead. It certainly looked like a coast coming up. OK turning due east on 45 deg. Turning the plane he started to climb, at 10,00ft he levelled out. Give me a sighting when you see sea again. Hell whose the navigator here? He marked their probable position, and drew a line to Peenemund. He looked at the air speed indicator; 200 mph, that’s better he thought. Half hour to target, that’s assuming we are where I think we are. OK,  everybody here’s the griff, there’s an underground factory building a new secret weapon, we get one shot at it. Peenemund is on a peninsular, the general target area will be marked by die marker laid in the sea from a submarine. The factory will be marked out by a commando group, all we have to do is hit the marker. OK? OK! Hell as like, OK! Where was he getting such shit from, why weren’t I briefed with proper maps, how the hell do I know where we are - were are we?

 Sea forward skip, from the forward turret. Ye, ye, sea, so what, ok, heading due east half an hour to target - I hope. Forward to bomb sight. There’s the marker in the sea! I don’t believe this, frantically making a fix on the map, and working on the heading home when crack, crack, and the Lanc shakes. Wo up, didn’t expect this. Bandits high, Jesus now what? A lone formation of ME 109’s pass at high altitude. Didn’t see us. Crack, Crack, shells exploding all around - Jeez, we are too low. I have target if that’s the marker. Below there is nothing to see, wait, there are railway yards and buildings, nothing that looks like a factory! See that cross, yea, but how, crack, crack, shrapnel hits the side of the aircraft. Bomb doors open. I’m going in make it, right, there’s no second chance. Hold her steady, steady, crack, bang, the Lanc jumps a piece of shrapnel comes up through the wing, Steady, how can he stay so calm, everybody waits in nervous anticipation, please God. Bomb gone!!!

 He pushed the throttle wide open and pulls the stick up hard right. The Lanc jumps as the weight lightens. Crack thump, right next to the fuselage, a piece of red hot shrapnel takes the face off the navigator, he falls forward blood spilling onto the maps as his life ebbs away!

 Course for home nav. The Lancs climbing in a wide arc at its maximum rate of climb. Signal ‘delivery complete‘. We head for home, course check? Check the nav. The flight engineer crawls back to the navigators desk. Blood has run all over the maps, he turns him over and there is a gaping hole in his face, dam it, he’s grinning at me, then he slumps to the floor. The navs had it. Shit, give me a heading. The maps are covered in blood. Give me a heading for God’s sake! OK, OK, due west 270 degs. Shit, I haven’t got a compass here, it’s smashed. He looked down in dismay at the smashed compass, then he saw a red patch forming in his flight boots. Bloody hell, Get back here, with any maps you’ve got, and a compass! And signal a mayday - no, belay that, they’ll get a fix on us. The engineer settled back in his co-pilots seat.

By habit he checked the engine gauges, hm, one looked a bit dodgy. Can you feather the outer prop, its getting hot. He looked at the skip. He looked a bit tight lipped. 20,000, we’ll need oxygen, quick. Oxygen on. None came! Get us down he said urgently. He knew they would pass out in less than a minute then it was down all the way too late to recover! The skip did not respond, the engineer pushed the stick forward and put the Lanc into a steep dive, there was no time to delay! Bloody hell. They all held on tight, until he pulled it out at 15000 feet. Come up here he called the bomb aimer. He did not move, slumped in the cradle of death. Fuck, fuck, fuck, cursed the engineer. He call the upper gunner, get down here quick, you’ll have to navigate!  Steady at 15000 the Lanc cruised along on three engines. The engineer held her steady as they headed due west.
 Latitude 54 all the way to England.

Across the North Sea, 300 miles, less than two hours at cruising speed. That’s if we are on 54 north, and we have a enough fuel, and this old gal will hold together, if I can fly it and we don’t get attacked. There was all this confusion in his mind. Automatically he checked the engine gauges. Shit, there was another overheating! Feather back. Hell, he’d been taught to fly, but did he really know how, and under these circumstances? Hell, we need the tail gunner up here as well, shit, that will leave us defenceless! OK, to tail gunner? OK here, what’s up Doc. Bloody Canadian, always cocky! You keep a sharp lookout, we are in deep shit up here! OK Grimes - the top gunners name - you keep us on the compass bearing 270 Deg. Hell, we need a sighting on something. ME coming up fast.

The chatter of the tail gunners four .303 machine guns. Dive to starboard, over the intercom, he looked round, it was the Skip! Dive! With these engines? OK. He pushed the stick forward and hard on the right rudder. She rolled but did not respond to the rudder! God dam it, what now! Get ready to bail out. This was easier said than done since they had to collect their parachutes from the storage rack and get them on. Usually there was not near enough time. Hold her, she’ll spiral, from the Skip. They both got hold of the controls and pulled like hell to get her up. Steady at 10,000 ft, what was her heading?

 Look, Look, the gunner nudged him with his elbow. Alongside was the ME 109. How the hel…..what the hell? They both looked across, the pilot was signalling. He made a machine gunning motion with his hands and then held them up as he shrugged his shoulders. What’s going on? This is ridiculous. Get those parachutes on, mistaking the signal that he was giving them the chance to bail out before he shot the plane down. OK boys gogo. He looked at the Skip, but he just waived them away, he was stuck with what ever was going to happen, and that was that. Three of them made their way to escape hatch and out they went, one, two, three, tumbling over and over and over until their shutes opened.
                                                                                 *
 News Paper Item.
 There was a successful raid on an armaments factory in Northern Germany yesterday and one of our aircraft is missing. Three of the crew were picked up by air sea rescue.
                                                                                  *
Memo: to Prime Minister
From: Chief’s of Staff
Raid on Peenemund
Raid successful. Report from Special Forces. If not destroyed made totally ineffective. Bomber missing.
Air Chief Marshall
                                                                                 *
Minutes of Allied Joint Committee 
Suspect rocket installation at Peenemund disabled. Unfortunately not permanently but should buy enough time. Will continue to harass them.
                                                                               *
Typescript of meeting with Supreme Allied Commander
(And Telephone to USA President)
 I believe that we have interrupted the development of an inter-ballistic missile  by Germany by the raid on Peenemund, but it will be a close run thing! It is now a race for time. Britain is already under attack by V2 rockets and their sites must be destroyed for the British people to continue to promote this war. Recommend you attack with all speed and determination.
Winston Churchill

1980
 Walkers making their way across a desolate part of the North Yorkshire moors came across some aircraft parts. This was reported to the police who in turn reported it to the Air Ministry. A special team arrived and started to excavate round the site and found other parts. Records were studied. Enough was discovered to identify it as a Lancaster. When this report appeared in the local press a young boy came forward saying that he had a piece of metal from up there on the moor, and it had a number on it. It was an aircraft identifier - KYB 14-72.
The last Lancaster!

Postscript.
 A Dutch amateur aircraft historian matching flight records with missing aircraft and crews came across the discovery of KYB 14-73. He identified it as a Canadian built Lancaster flying out of Lincolnshire in England. Through Canadian military records he identified the Canadians at that base and simply sent the list to his counterpart in Canada. They searched through the names and found that one was still alive. He was contacted and told his story and the strange encounter with the ME 109!

 This intrigued the Dutchman and he started out to discover who the pilot might be, without success, when by chance he met a German lady on holiday. Their interests coincided and they had long talks about the war. And she told him the tale of her father, a Luftwaffe pilot, who returning from a sortie over England encountered a Lancaster in dire stress. Although he was fired at he could not return the fire since he was out of ammunition! He signalled this and waved them on, then to his surprise he saw them bail out. But even more surprising the Lancaster continued flying on. The last he saw of it was disappearing over the North Sea!