Moral Fibre

Just when Moran was beginning to wonder if the Germans had been caught sleeping, all hell broke loose. Flak blew up across the sky ahead of him, turning it dark brown and dirty grey. Fauquier’s and Forrester’s aircraft visibly started bouncing and recoiling in response to the pressure waves but continued flying into the murk.

Abruptly, a sheet of flame shot up from Q-Queen’s port wing, and Kit heard Roper report, “Forrester’s hit.”

Despite the spreading fire, Forrester kept his aircraft pointed at the target. Fauquier released his bomb and started to climb away, but by now an inferno engulfed Q-Queen’s fuselage. Still the Australian pilot held course. Seconds later his bomb dropped away to fall into the Rhine in front of the barrage. Its load shed, Q-Queen rose enough to scrape over the girders of the massive dam’s upper level. Forrester appeared to be trying to ditch in the river beyond, but a wingtip hit a high-tension wire. Instantly the kite went into a flat spin. It smacked down onto the bank of the Rhine. For a second nothing it lay there completely still as if time had stopped. Then it exploded with a loud boom and smoke billowed into the air.

“Curtains.” Roper summarised grimly.

Moran knew that every detail of Forrester’s crash was etched into his memory. He would relive these moments in the future — if he had one. Now, he could spare it only the periphery of his mind. He concentrated on flying Zebra, and it took all his strength to hold her two hundred feet behind and to the left of Howard, while they ran the gauntlet of flak toward the target. Although he managed to hold course, he could not hold Zebra steady no matter what he did. The slipstream of the others combined with the flak flung Zebra this way and that.

Babcock shouted over the intercom, “Bomb aimer to pilot: I can’t fix on the target the way you’re flying!” The exasperation in his voice was tangible. Moran could sympathise — he just couldn’t fly any better.

Over the radio he heard faintly Howard telling Fauquier he was going around again. Clicking on his own radio, Moran called, “Hang on! We’re come with you.”

Howard’s Lancaster banked away so hard it stood silhouetted against the white sky.

Moran kicked Zebra’s rudder and tried to keep up with it. He could only hope that the sudden change of direction would surprise and confuse the flak gunners.

For an endless moment, they seemed to hang in the air, their belly exposed to the full fury of the guns. Moran awaited the crack and distinctive shudder that would indicate the flak had found them. It didn’t come. Maybe the German gunners had shifted their attention to Cockshott and Sanders. The last two aircraft in the low-level attack had dropped out of the cloud and were hurtling toward the target.

Meanwhile, Moran followed Howard as they continued banking around back to the start of the bomb run. Moran kept the target in sight as they turned. Although both Cockshott and Sanders successfully released their bombs, the Tallboys fell wide. The Kembs Barrage still stood defiantly. Of course, their bombs were time-fused to go off after 30 minutes, so it might yet come down….

Howard dropped his starboard wing to fly straight and level again. Heaps of debris from the high-level attack lay in jumbled chaos at both ends of the dam. Smoke and dust smeared the air, adding to the smog created by the flak. To avoid Howard’s slipstream, Moran fell farther behind him, and eased out more to the left. Although Mustangs darted around them, firing at the flak batteries in an attempt to distract the gunners, the Germans took no interest in the decoys. The flak concentrated relentlessly on the two approaching Lancasters. Moran saw no way a 37,000 lb aircraft could penetrate the wall of anti-aircraft fire ahead of them intact. He only hoped that they would die as fast or faster than Forrester had.

Ahead of him Howard’s starboard fuel tanks erupted into flames, and he banked hard as cannon fire continued to hammer into his Lancaster. The fire rapidly engulfed the entire fuselage. When it reached the port fuel tanks, they burst apart scattering debris from the port wing, some of which clattered against Zebra. What remained of Howard’s aircraft arched through the afternoon sky. Streaming smoke, it smashed down into the tall trees of a wood to explode with an enormous boom. The pressure waves shook Z-Zebra, and a split-second later Osgood and Roper started firing furiously and pointlessly at the flak batteries. The Lancaster shuddered as if in the grip of an earthquake, yet through it all Babcock’s voice came over the intercom controlled and clear: “Steady! Skipper! Steady! We’re almost there!”