Читать книгу: «The Red Line: The Gripping Story of the RAF’s Bloodiest Raid on Hitler’s Germany»

‘In Bomber Command we had to lay on and, more often than not, carry through, at least one and occasionally more than one major battle every twenty-four hours. That was a situation which no naval or military command has ever had to compete with. Navies fight two or three major battles per war. Armies, maybe a dozen. We had to lay on, during my three and a half years, well over a thousand.’

SIR ARTHUR HARRIS

Foreword

They had waited 67 years and journeyed from every far-flung corner of the world for this day. A lifetime ago, young and idealistic, they had come together to battle against the Nazi scourge which threatened to engulf their homelands. Once sprightly, upright figures were now stooped by age or confined to wheelchairs, but medals were polished to perfection and trousers pressed to a razor-sharp crease, and nothing would prevent them from gathering to witness the closing chapter in their extraordinary and controversial story.

The sun shone down on London’s Green Park on 28 June 2012 as more than 800 Royal Air Force veterans paraded to witness the unveiling of the Bomber Command Memorial – their memorial. Some came from as far away as New Zealand, Canada and Australia, some just a few minutes’ bus-ride from nearby suburbs of the British capital. They were joined by widows, families, celebrities, political leaders and royalty. I was incredibly proud to be part of their day.

My association with the men of Bomber Command began in 1991. As a young Tornado navigator, I had been shot down over Iraq during the first Gulf War, captured, tortured and paraded on television screens around the world. My short but deeply unpleasant experience of captivity entitled me to join the RAF Ex-Prisoner of War Association.

Until that point, I had known little about my forebears who had flown the early bombers into the heart of German-occupied Europe during the darkest days of the Second World War. I’d watched the classic films like The Dambusters and The Great Escape, of course. I’d met veterans at various military functions, chatted politely and listened to the occasional war story. But I’m ashamed to admit I hadn’t got to know these men; I understood little of their personal stories, their astonishing sacrifice and their incredible bravery.

Now I was able to join their illustrious gatherings – some raucous, laughter- and beer-filled, some poignant and sombre, when awe-inspiring stories of survival brought the occasional tear at the memory of lost friends, or moments of stillness at the recollection of life-threatening danger. Men like Lancaster navigator Harry Evans invited me into their homes to ‘share a brew’ and talk about wartime memories. Harry was just 18 when he joined up. ‘I’d seen the fighter pilots in the skies over London and wanted to be part of it all; it looked so exciting. I wanted to be one of those Brylcreem Boys who were fighting back against the Germans.’ He got his wish – and went on to be part of one of the most deadly chapters in aviation history.

Over the years, their reunions have become fewer and the numbers attending have diminished to the point where many Second World War old-comrade associations have now disbanded. At last year’s Remembrance Ceremony, only four surviving WWII prisoners-of-war managed to join us on parade at London’s Cenotaph. The eldest, Alfie Fripp, shot down in 1939, died on 3 January this year, aged 98. And so it was with a mixture of pride, pleasure and sorrow that I took my seat amidst the crowd of nearly 7,000, gathered around the memorial to honour and remember a truly extraordinary group of people.

I chatted with Lancaster pilot Rusty Waughman, who had come down from Coventry, the scene of a massive German blitz. Alongside his navigator, Alec Cowan, and bomb aimer, Norman Westby, who had travelled from Andorra in the Pyrenees, they relived experiences few could comprehend. Rusty spoke for so many when he told me, ‘We have waited a long time for this … The memorial is not a celebration of our work, it is recognition of the sacrifice so many of our friends made. We are proud to have been part of it all, to have made just a small contribution towards winning the war. I wasn’t an educated lad with a brilliant mind. You just did your job to the best of your ability. Luck played the major part in it really. We knew so many who were lost.’

Rusty and his crew truly understood the ‘luck factor’; they had witnessed those terrible losses at close quarters.

Every one of the 125,000 men who served with Bomber Command was a volunteer and their average age was 22. If the names and ages of each of the 55,573 who gave their lives had been read out at the unveiling ceremony, the roll of honour would have taken two full days – 48 hours – to complete. Yet the furore surrounding the RAF’s bombing of German cities and the lack of moral fibre of successive generations of politicians meant that they were denied the recognition their brethren in Fighter Command had been swiftly granted for their outstanding achievements in the Battle of Britain – and many of the survivors of the bomber war suffered downright hostility instead.

Some trace the roots of this invidious state of affairs back to that icon amongst British heroes, Winston Churchill. In the final year of the war he pressed Bomber Command to crush German resistance with ‘carpet bombing’ raids on cities in eastern Germany; his wish was to deliver a ‘basting [to] the Germans in their retreat’. When the Air Ministry demurred, he told them in no uncertain terms to get on with the job. ‘I asked whether Berlin, and no doubt other large cities in East Germany, should not now be considered especially attractive targets,’ he wrote. ‘I am glad this is “under examination”. Pray report to me tomorrow what is going to be done.’

Bomber Command was issued with a clear and unambiguous instruction to execute ‘one big attack on Berlin and attacks on Dresden, Leipzig, Chemnitz, or other cities where a severe blitz will not only cause confusion in the evacuation from the east but will also hamper the movement of troops from the west’.

The horrific loss of life in Dresden in particular came to epitomise the strategy, and perhaps prompted his astonishing U-turn six weeks later. ‘The destruction of Dresden remains a serious query against the conduct of Allied bombing,’ he told the Chiefs of Staff in a briefing paper, laying the blame for the death and destruction of which he was the architect squarely at the open bomb doors of Sir Arthur Harris and his ceaselessly loyal aircrews.

It remained there for many years.

No memorial was granted them; no campaign medal. But the survivors would not let their fallen comrades be exiled to the margins of history. A small but stubborn group finally determined to right this wrong. It took them five years and cost some £7 million – money raised by the men themselves, through newspaper appeals and personal donations that ranged from a few pence of a child’s pocket money to many thousands of pounds, and in one case an incredible £2 million. Alongside such luminaries as Bee Gee Robin Gibb (who sadly did not live to see the culmination of his incredible work), I joined their campaign. It was now my privilege to witness its outcome.

Just after midday, Her Majesty the Queen pulled aside the drapes to reveal Philip Jackson’s stunning sculpture, the centrepiece of architect Liam O’Connor’s beautiful Portland stone memorial. There were gasps of pleasure and admiration from the front of the crowd, and cheers from those of us further back who, for the time being, could only imagine the sight.

The bronze statues depict seven members of a bomber crew, recently returned from yet another sortie through enemy skies. Exhaustion and relief are etched on their faces. Five of the figures gaze skywards, praying for a glimpse of friends destined never to return; two stare downwards, perhaps reflecting on the ordeal they have just endured – and knowing they must do it all again before the sun rises tomorrow.

The sacrifice of thousands of young lives is woven into every fibre of the monument. A stainless steel lattice in its ceiling depicts the geometric fuselage construction of the early Wellington bombers. Aluminium from a crashed Halifax lines the roof; eight young men were killed when she was shot down over Belgium in May 1944, and three were still at their stations when she was discovered in 1997. Even the rivets connecting the pieces are scale replicas of those used in the aircraft. And as a symbol of generous reconciliation, a yew tree donated by the people of Germany grows alongside the memorial.

The verdict amongst those who shared the day was unanimous. Andy Wiseman, a Halifax bomb aimer, echoed the thoughts of many as he gazed at the bronze faces of the crew. ‘I understand just how they feel,’ he said softly. ‘This was us, every single night. My only sadness is that it took so long to get the memorial. It would have meant so much to the mothers and fathers who lost so many sons.’

The service of dedication was dignified yet simple. The Chief of the Air Staff, Air Chief Marshal Sir Stephen Dalton, promised the relatives of the dead that ‘they will now know that their service and raw courage has been recognised’. He spoke of the collective heroism of the men, highlighting the story of Canadian Air Gunner Charles Mynarski, who fought through the flames of his burning aircraft in an attempt to save his rear gunner. Mynarski died of the injuries he sustained during the rescue while the tail gunner survived. Mynarski was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross for his valour.

As the Venerable Ray Pentland, RAF Chaplain-in-Chief, began the dedication, four Tornado bombers roared overhead, to a chorus of cheers from the crowd and a wail of protest from a handful of car alarms. And then came the moment we had all been waiting for: ‘May this memorial commemorate the lives of all who have served and died in Bomber Command, as we acknowledge their sacrifice and service to others.’

As we reflected upon his words, the familiar drone of four Merlin engines filled the crowded park. And here she was, overhead: Britain’s last surviving airworthy Lancaster bomber. Many of those in wheelchairs struggled to their feet as our tear-filled eyes turned skywards and her massive bomb doors opened – to scatter thousands of blood-red poppies in a timeless Act of Remembrance.

We cheered and clapped in both celebration and sorrow, and in an instant she was gone.

‘You’ve waited a long time for it,’ the Queen had told Marshal of the Royal Air Force Sir Michael Beetham, himself a distinguished wartime pilot and one of the leaders of the campaign. ‘Well done.’

As the service ended, thousands queued to file through the memorial, to offer a quiet prayer or remember a fallen friend or loved one. The Royal Family wandered amongst the crowd, chatting to old and young alike; children played amidst the drifts of fallen poppies, and the bar began a roaring trade.

On stage in the entertainment area, TV presenter Carol Vorderman interviewed Rusty Waughman and his Lancaster crew about their experiences. Although more than a little uncomfortable about being singled out, Rusty was delighted with the day and its highlight: ‘Shaking hands with Prince Charles and being kissed by Carol Vorderman … twice!’

Although it was now late afternoon, bomb aimer Norman Westby had arranged a special feast at a local hotel. They were to be served bacon and eggs, the meal they had all enjoyed on the successful completion of each operation over enemy territory nearly 70 years before.

As Rusty and his crew departed for their own private Act of Remembrance, I have no doubt they reflected on the morning of 31 March 1944, when so many of their friends and fellow crew members had been absent from Bomber Command’s traditional ‘survivors’ breakfast.

JOHN NICHOL

Hertfordshire

13 January 2013

CHAPTER 1
The Home Front

Cyril Barton

There is nothing out of the ordinary about Joyce Voysey’s semi-detached house in New Malden or the quiet suburban street on which she lives. The garden is well kept, the house immaculate and neatly furnished. Joyce and her sister, Cynthia Maidment, are two white-haired ladies with kindly faces and easy smiles, eager to welcome their visitors, especially those who have come to talk about their beloved brother, Cyril Barton.

His portrait, an oil-painted copy of his official RAF photograph, gazes from the wall of the sitting room. His broad, boyish grin is equal parts innocence and mischief and his eyes shine with pride. While Cyril looks down, his sisters serve tea in china cups and saucers on a polished mahogany table. At one end is a large scrapbook, filled with papers and cuttings, and a stack of files, all of them focused on Cyril’s service in Bomber Command. The scrapbook is well thumbed, its pages now faded and yellowing. At first glance there is nothing to suggest that they contain one of the most extraordinary stories of the Second World War.

Cynthia, Joyce and their three brothers and sisters idolised Cyril. They always looked forward to the week when he made the long journey home from his RAF base in Burn, North Yorkshire. Cyril was the oldest, wisest and most confident of the six Barton children, and life at their semi-detached Edwardian house seemed more fun whenever he was there. He was mischievous and playful but also like ‘a little father to us’,¹ Cynthia remembers, who often put them to bed at night when their dad, an electrical engineer, worked late shifts. He and their brother Ken, who was two years younger, had also taught the girls to sew, knit, draw and read.

Cyril flew with 578 Squadron. He and his crew had been operational since August 1943. Becoming a pilot had been a lifetime’s ambition. As a five-year-old he had once stuffed feathers from a recently plucked chicken into the sleeves of his pullover and jumped off a wall, flapping furiously, determined to defy gravity. The family had little money, but whenever funds allowed he was bought model aeroplanes, which he would build assiduously. Sometimes he would even allow his little sisters to help finish off the wings with yellow tissue paper. He was always willing to give them a ride on the back of Ichabod, his trusty bicycle, named after the son of Phineas in the Book of Samuel, and loosely translated from the Hebrew as ‘The Glory has departed’.

When they were teenagers, Cyril and Ken had heard the distinctive rumble of a Vickers Wellesley in the night sky. They went out into their quiet suburban street for a closer look. The light bomber had lurched into an uncontrollable spin, and the pilot had parachuted out. Seconds later, there was a world-shaking bang. Cyril and Ken shoved Cynthia into their younger sister Pamela’s pushchair so they could get to the crash site quicker than Cynthia could run. A few streets away the tail section of the plane jutted from a tiled roof. No one had been injured, but the house’s pregnant inhabitant gave birth earlier than expected. Cyril’s only regret was the absence of debris which he could claim as a souvenir.

Cyril Barton

His dream of flying seemed to have been dashed when his late childhood was blighted by serious illness. Severe bouts of meningitis and peritonitis hospitalised him for months, interrupted his schooling and at times threatened his life. His parents were twice summoned to the hospital to see him for the last time.

Each time he recovered, he managed to catch up at school, and throughout his ordeal he remained typically selfless; a diary entry from his sickbed recorded his principal concern: ‘I don’t know what to get Dad for his birthday.’

His love of aviation never wavered. At the age of 14 he went to work at Parnall’s, a manufacturer of military and civil aircraft. They had recently taken over Nash & Thompson in Kingston, who designed gun turrets for RAF bombers, and it was here that Cyril started as an apprentice draughtsman, taking one day a week off to study at college for his National Certificate in Aeronautical Engineering. His early apprenticeship was as blighted by illness as his schooldays had been, but he managed to complete it, and when war broke out, though he might have claimed the protection of a reserved occupation, he knew his chance to fly had finally arrived.

The minute he reached enlistment age in 1941 he asked his father if he could volunteer for the RAF. The family had moved to the safety of the countryside, leaving Cyril lodging in Surrey with his Sunday school teacher, so parental permission had to be sought by letter.

Mr Barton couldn’t hide his reluctance to agree to Cyril’s request; he had survived the horror of the trenches in the Great War and was in no hurry to see his much-loved son follow in his footsteps. ‘Dear Cyril,’ he wrote,

After all these … forms, the phone calls and so on, I weighed up your position and feel that the matter should rest entirely with you. Naturally your mother and I are not too keen on your “joining up”, more especially as I know by experience what such a step entails, but in view of what you have said regarding your present state at Parnells [sic], I rather grudgingly give my consent …

I am writing as requested to both the Air Ministry and Parnells and in doing so I wish you every success and a happy ending to your enthusiasm. Stick to your principles and faith (this will be very hard in the RAF) and I am confident that you will win. We at home will be waiting and watching in all that the future may hold for you.

I’ll close now and may God bless you and help you in the days that lie ahead. That is my greatest wish and hope …

Goodbye and ‘happy landings’.

Dad

Unsurprisingly, Cynthia and Joyce’s parents worried constantly about Cyril’s frequent and serious ill health, and their concern made his homecoming even more precious. Most of those serving an operational tour with Bomber Command were given one week off in every six. Cynthia, Joyce and Pamela, then aged seven, would wait eagerly for him to return to New Malden – the family had grown bored with country life and moved back to Surrey by then – wondering what new skills he would pass on, what practical jokes he might pull and what words of wisdom he would impart.

Their house always reverberated with laughter during these visits, and even when he was away in the United States, completing his pilot training in Albany, Georgia, he wrote streams of letters, including one to his sisters in May 1942, enclosing photos of the young daughters of the family he was staying with, but promising, ‘I’m not going to stay and be their big brother … I’ll try and come home for Christmas!’

That February visit of 1944, the ground was still blanketed with snow. Without even changing out of his uniform, Cyril headed straight to the garden shed. He pulled out an old tea chest and attached some metal runners to it. His three sisters screeched with delight as he dragged them up and down the street on their makeshift sleigh.

But once the excitement had died down, Cynthia noticed a change in her brother’s usually gregarious nature. He still found time to teach Joyce how to conjure up a watercolour sunset by wetting the paper and then blending in the paints, but much of the time he was withdrawn and silent. Their mother told the girls that Cyril had ‘grown up’, but it concerned them to see him so distant and preoccupied. He had always possessed a serious side and a strong religious conviction, but the Cyril they knew best was a playful extrovert.

One morning, as he sat quietly on the sofa, staring into space, Cynthia was unable to contain herself for a minute longer. There had been talk of a girl he had met, and she felt a surge of jealousy that there was someone else on the scene who might share his leave. Was that bothering him?

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

Cyril remained silent for a few seconds. Then he nodded. ‘As you’re a young lady now, I’ll tell you.’ He patted the empty space on the sofa beside him. When she sat down, he turned to face her. ‘You know I’m having to bomb people in Germany?’

Cynthia did know, even if she didn’t fully understand. Cyril and his crew had completed more than a dozen ops. Their parents rarely mentioned the dangers he faced, especially in front of the younger children, but as they heard the drone of engines overhead and stood in the garden counting the bombers in their droves, his mother couldn’t help saying plaintively: ‘Oh, I hope Cyril’s not in one of them.’

It was the same story in thousands of other homes across the country; the worry was never voiced, but it hung in the air like mist. Most evenings the Barton family gathered in the kitchen and switched on their Consul Marconi wireless. Sitting around the table, warmed by a Triplex oven, they listened to their favourite programmes, whilst their mother and father waited anxiously for the latest news bulletins from the front.

‘Well, I don’t like doing it,’ Cyril said, ‘because it means I have to bomb other people’s children.’

Cynthia had never known him speak so seriously to her.

‘I’m a Christian and I find it difficult to cope with bombing innocent people,’ he continued. ‘But I do it because of you three young girls. I don’t want Hitler to ruin your lives. He has some terrible plans for the human race. He has to be stopped. So that’s why I’m having to do it. For you, Joyce and Pamela.’

Cyril remained subdued for the remainder of his stay, but at least Cynthia now understood why. She was grateful that he had spoken to her so openly; she was only 13, but he was treating her like an adult. And the next time they went for a stroll, he took her arm. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘you don’t hold my hand any more. You’re a young lady now.’

Cynthia still remembers her feeling of pride as he escorted her down the shopping parade.

Then the day came that the whole family dreaded: the day of Cyril’s return to active service. Joyce always walked him to the station hand in hand. As they stood awkwardly outside the entrance, Cyril noticed the state of her nails. ‘I think you ought to use that manicure set more often, don’t you?’ He smiled. When he had arrived back from the USA two years before, he had brought Cynthia a gold watch and Joyce a gold-plated manicure set in a green leather case. It was one of her most treasured possessions.

The Pantons’ small stone gamekeeper’s cottage in Old Bolingbroke, Lincolnshire, was less than a mile away from RAF East Kirkby, the home of two Bomber Command squadrons, so the deafening roar of 3,000 rpm Merlin engines provided the soundtrack for 13-year-old Fred Panton and his younger brother Harold’s everyday life. The boys ran down the hill with rising excitement whenever they heard them, and stood with the other onlookers on the main road adjoining the runway as the lumbering machines, fully bombed up, strained to get airborne.

The pilots and flight engineers at their side always stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the task of getting the aircraft safely off the ground, but the mid-upper and tail-end gunners often wiggled their guns to acknowledge the crowd.

Fred and 10-year-old Harold watched and waited until the bombers had gathered above them, and would not go home until they were just grey dots in the distance. Much later, the shadows of the returning planes would flit across their bedroom wall. Sometimes they were so close that Fred could make out the eerie glow cast by the instruments in the cockpit.

When the sky was silent once more, they wondered whether their big brother would be joining that night’s raid. Nineteen-year-old Chris was a flight engineer with 433 Squadron at Skipton-on-Swale, part of a maverick crew that included a Danish-born volunteer from the USA called Chris Nielsen and several Canadians. Despite his youth, Chris was already well on his way to becoming an officer and nearing the 30 ops that signalled the end of a tour. He still had dreams of being a pilot. There had been some close calls. On one trip the hydraulics on their bomb- and fuel-laden Halifax had failed on take-off, so the undercarriage and flaps would not retract. They were struggling to gain enough height to clear an oncoming hill, so Chris pumped furiously on the manual controls. They regained enough hydraulic pressure just in time to ensure the bomber cleared the hill. All on board were stunned into silence. Except for Nielsen. ‘It’s OK,’ he said in a bored American drawl. ‘I’ve got it.’

The two boys lived for the times he came back on leave. With eight children in their cramped cottage, Fred and Chris had to share a bed. Fred was always bursting with questions as they lay there, listening to the bombers return, but Chris would only talk about his experiences to their father, a veteran of the First World War. Fred sometimes heard the rumble of their conversation, but could never make out what they were saying.

Fred and Harold joined their older brother on rabbit-hunting expeditions (Chris had trained as a gamekeeper, aiming to follow in his father’s footsteps), but what he had seen and done in the skies above Germany was never discussed then either. For a few precious moments the war seemed a lifetime away, and they didn’t want to bring it rushing back. Watching the planes come and go, wave after wave, night after night, Fred knew the dangers they faced. He and Harold often visited crash sites once the bodies of the crewmen had been removed, and just stared, transfixed, at the twisted, smoking metal carcasses.

But finally, that winter’s evening, he could contain his curiosity no more. ‘Don’t you worry about crashing?’

There was a pause. ‘Not really,’ Chris replied casually. ‘It’d just be further experience.’²

His brother’s insouciance astounded Fred. He longed to know more, but didn’t dare ask. He didn’t dare ask his father either. Their late-night chats were man’s talk, to be shared only by those who had experienced the realities of war.

Once, when Chris had been home on leave, Fred had slipped on his big brother’s RAF jacket, trying to imagine what it was like to be him. His father caught him red-handed. ‘Don’t you be going out that door with that on,’ he’d said sternly. In his dad’s eyes, Fred hadn’t earned the right.

The questions would have to wait for another time, hopefully not too far off, when Chris’s tour – and the war – were over.

Alan Payne, a bomb aimer with 630 Squadron, was part of one of the crews Fred and Harold had seen straining to take off at East Kirkby. On the early evening of 29 March, Alan was preparing to leave his parents’ home in Wendover. He gave his mother a final cheery wave before putting on his helmet and climbing on to his motorbike.

For the entire week they had not spoken once about his experiences with Bomber Command. They never asked and he never told them, and that suited him just fine. He knew the truth would only upset them and cause them to worry even more than they already did.

The rain started to pour as he saddled up. It was going to be a long ride back to East Kirkby in this weather. While he felt the usual sadness of leaving his loved ones, at least he was returning to his surrogate family. Alan and his crew, like so many others in Bomber Command, were tight. They spent all their time together, more often than not at The Red Lion in nearby Revesby. And while they sank their pints, their conversations, like those with his real family, rarely turned to war. They knew all too well that young men like them were being lost every night, in ever-increasing numbers, during the winter of 1943–44. But they kept those thoughts at bay as they laughed and joked around the bar. The prospect of death never weighed heavily on Alan. He always felt there was a gap in the sky where he and his crew would find safety

The rain hammered down and the wind howled around his ears as Alan tore up the A1. He headed straight for the Peacock Hotel in Boston, where, sopping wet, he found time for a couple of pints before catching a bus to the camp, where Pat was waiting for him. She was a young Geordie girl who served the crews’ meals in the mess, and they had been courting for a few weeks; she had joined him and his crew at the pub so often she had almost become their eighth member. They had a quick chat and then it was time to get out of his wet clothes, unpack his bag and get some sleep.³