Moral Fibre

The flight up to Lossiemouth was uneventful. Here, they were given beds for a few hours’ sleep, before being woken at 2 a.m. They got a hearty “ops breakfast” of bacon and eggs, then picked up their rations of chocolate and biscuits and thermoses of coffee and tea. They were going to need them. It was starting to snow, and the ground crews were scrambling to de-ice the wings.

“You’re going to have the devil of a time keeping things from icing up, Daddy,” Moran remarked, as they climbed aboard. “Aye,” replied the Scotsman, apparently unperturbed, as Peal and Tibble disappeared behind their curtain. When Tibble plugged in the intercom, Moran immediately ordered Osgood to test the heating to his fight suit. “I don’t want you freezing back there!”

“Thanks, Skip. It seems to be working perfectly. Nice and toasty, so far.”

MacDonald leaned forward and flipped on the wipers to keep the windscreen clear. A snow plough was moving up and down the runway methodically to keep the runway clear before any snow could accumulate.

MacDonald called for “contact” on number three engine, and after backfiring several times it settled into a steady rumble. So did number two, but number four kept stalling. Fauquier took off, followed successively by eight other Lancasters. By then, all the remaining aircraft except I-Item had left their dispersals to queue for take-off. Moran started to sweat despite the cold. He turned his attention to number one engine, got it running, and then tried number four again. As he did so, he glanced at the runway and verified there were just two Lancasters still waiting for take-off. He went through the start-up drill for number four again, and finally it caught. He gunned the engine. It belched black smoke into the frigid air, but otherwise seemed fine.

Moran and MacDonald rushed through the remainder of the take-off drill, waved the chocks away, and lumbered to the start of the runway. Not one of the other nineteen aircraft was anywhere in sight anymore. The green light beamed from the control caravan beside the runway, and Moran ran the engines up against the brakes. They sounded all right, so he eased the throttles back a little and then released the brakes. They started down the runway, snow blowing into their faces. Moran could feel the weight of the Tallboy and their extra fuel load in the handling of the controls and the sluggishness of the wheels beneath his feet. The Merlins protested and strained as they tried to drag the heavy crate forward. All the while heavy snowflakes smashed, melted and streamed down the cockpit glass.

MacDonald was reading the speedometer. “Ninety, ninety-five.”

They had used up one third of the runway and were much too slow for take-off. The Lancaster did not seem to be developing any lift. She was stuck to the earth, tired and listless. Moran shoved the throttles through the wire but immediately felt I-Item start to sway to port as he did so. “Hold the throttles!” He shouted at MacDonald so he could return his right hand to the steering column. MacDonald grabbed the throttles, but his expression was one of sheer terror.

At last, the Lancaster started to bounce without actually leaving the ground. They were fast running out of runway. He either had to risk take-off or abort. Moran pulled the control column back, and the aircraft reluctantly left the earth. Yet everything about it remained sluggish and undecided. They were on the brink of stalling and crashing.

“Full flaps!” Moran ordered MacDonald as he put his own hand back on the throttles. They were vibrating so badly that they slipped back if not held in place.

The flaps popped them up but then the aircraft levelled off again. Cautiously, Moran had MacDonald ease the flaps back to neutral, watching the altimeter tensely. The aircraft did not sink. “Full flaps!” he ordered again, and once more the aircraft leapt up a couple hundred feet. Moran shook his head. It was a ridiculous way to gain altitude, in steps rather than climbing steadily, but it worked for now. They were supposed to cross the North Sea at no more than a couple of thousand feet anyway. The problem would come crossing the Norwegian mountains and then attaining the bombing altitude of 18,000 feet. By then, Moran comforted himself, they would have used almost half their fuel load and the aircraft’s weight would be back down below the authorised payload.

Moran settled onto the course provided by Peal and tried to unwind after the harrowing take-off. They were flying between the clouds and the agitated North Sea. White horses galloped in the dark beneath him, but their snarling and hissing were blotted out by the droning of the four Merlins. Gradually the snow stopped. The cloud cover thinned. Stars became visible overhead. It was roughly three hours from Lossiemouth to the point where they turned east to cross Norway. Once or twice Peal requested a modest change in course; otherwise, all was quiet.

Moran was conscious that they were as much as a quarter of an hour behind the others, but he simply could not flog any more speed out of tired old I-Item. He visualised the route in his head and could see no opportunity to cut any corners either. Cutting corners would only result in crossing the Norwegian coast sooner, presumably at a place where German defences was denser. It would also mean flying over enemy-held territory longer. That didn’t make sense.

Peal called over the intercom. “Navigator to pilot: turning point in five minutes. You’ll be steering 085.” Peal’s voice was very faint, and Moran presumed that he had unclipped his oxygen mask to have a drink of tea or something. Since they were flying at only 1,800 feet and oxygen was unnecessary there was no harm in that.

He checked his watch and noted the time himself. He had commenced the turn before Peal reminded him, his oxygen mask apparently still off. Moran made a mental note to tell him always to press the mask to his face when talking into the intercom, even if he didn’t want to clip it on. For the moment, however, Moran’s greater concern was “bouncing” this decrepit old crate up another thousand feet to avoid hitting anything when they made landfall.

Suddenly the land was there. It was rugged and black against a faintly lightening eastern sky. Moran instinctively pulled up a bit more and the Lancaster, although still mushy, responded. That was a relief! They moved over land. Someone had seen them and was firing anti-aircraft shells at them, but not very effectively. The tell-tale bursts of smoke were off to the side and behind. The flak batteries appeared to have been caught napping.

“Pilot to navigator: what altitude do I need to clear the Norwegian mountains?”

Only silenced answered. Moran’s blood froze. Surely those two harmless cracks of enemy fire hadn’t shattered Peal’s nerves? He must have faced far worse flak than that on the sortie to Leipzig.

Trying to keep his voice very neutral and calm, he repeated, “Pilot to navigator: what altitude do I need for clearing the Norwegian mountains?”

Still nothing. Moran looked over at MacDonald. The Flight Engineer was looking back at him, his horrified expression reflecting Moran’s feelings exactly. Unclipping his oxygen mask, Moran signalled MacDonald closer. The engineer came and leaned down so his pilot could speak directly into this ear. “Go back to Peal and find out what’s going on.”

MacDonald nodded and turned to push his head through the curtain of the navigator’s workspace. Moran keep the Lancaster climbing as hard as he dared, trying to remember the altitudes on the map himself. MacDonald tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up. “Nothing wrong with Peal, sir. He gave you the altitude both times you asked.”

“I didn’t hear him. Tell him to put his mask back on.”

“He’s wearing it, sir. Maybe his mic’s dead?”

Moran immediately switched on his own mic and called: “Pilot to crew: check in.”

Dead silence answered him.

“Maybe it’s my headset,” Moran concluded. “You call the rest of the crew.”

MacDonald switched on and called. “Flight engineer to crew: we may have intercom problems. Check in.”

Moran watched MacDonald’s face, while in his ears was nothing but the droning of the engines. MacDonald shook his head. “Nothing, sir.”

“Go down into the nose and see if Stu’s mic works.”

MacDonald dropped down the steps into the nose, while Peal shoved his curtain aside, and came out to squat beside Moran. He had written down altitudes and courses on a chit of paper. Shouting over the engines, he said: “Climb to 4,700 feet and steer 110. Once we’re over Sweden, we’ll turn onto a northerly course, and you can pretty much choose your altitude for the next hour. I’m going into the astrodome to take a last star fix before it’s too light for another.”

“Well done, Adrian.”

Peal smiled at him and nodded his thanks. He looked perfectly calm and confident.

MacDonald was back. “It’s no good, skipper! Stu can’t receive or send over the intercom either. The entire intercom must have packed up.”

“Go back and ask Tibble to come forward. We’ve got time for him to try and fix it.”

A moment later Tibble squatted down beside Moran and removed his mask. Moran explained the problem. Tibble nodded and moved back to his station purposefully.

The sky was definitely lightening. Meanwhile, although still sluggish, the Lancaster crept up to 4,700 feet. The mountains loomed ahead of them, but Moran could see a gap between two peaks, clearly the pass they were making for.

Peal nudged him and showed him a piece of paper with “09:18 turn onto 025.”

Moran nodded and checked his watch. It was just after 9:00. Minutes later, they soared between the mountains drenched in pristine glaciers broken by jagged peaks. Then the land started dropping away below them, and lights were scattered across the plain ahead of them. They were over Sweden.

The clock crept toward 09:18 and Moran thought he heard some clicking in his earphones. Maybe Tibble was making progress.

Peal returned to Moran’s side and called over the engines. “Steer 025.”

“O25.” Moran automatically repeated, although Peal stayed beside him, his eyes on the compass as they swung onto the new course.

Tibble burst into the cockpit, sweat trickling down beside his leather helmet. “Skipper! There’s nothing I can do! I’ve tried every trick they taught us. Unplugging, replugging, rewiring the socket. Everything. It’s dead.”

Moran gazed at Tibble. There was no mistaking the frantic look in his eyes. He appeared to feel personally responsible for this disaster.

“It’s all right, Terry. It’s not your fault.”

Moran looked back out over the gradually lightening landscape below him. Everything from the slowly greying sky to the snow-covered earth was white — except for a weaving black line on which a few pairs of headlights crawled. The earth curved upwards on either side of them to form mountain ranges. Moran assessed the implications of the inoperable intercom. Visibility was excellent, so navigation to the target was probably not going to be a problem. Nor back again, because Peal could bring him the course changes by hand. But how would Osgood be able to warn him of approaching fighters or order him to corkscrew when needed? More importantly, how could Babcock lead him through the bomb run without a working intercom?

“Is the wireless working? Can you get a message to Fauquier?”

Tibble nodded.

“Tell him what’s happened. Keep it very brief. Just our call-sign and ‘Intercom u/s.’”

“Yes, sir.”

Tibble left the cockpit to return to his workstation.

“What are you going to do?” MacDonald asked.

Moran shook his head to indicate he didn’t know. If this had been their twentieth op, or their tenth, even their fifth, things would have been different, but it was their first. After Peal putting up a black on the first Tirpitz raid and given his own past, Moran was extremely reluctant to turn back.

Tibble returned. He handed Moran a notepad. On it he had written one word: “Abort.”

Moran nodded, but he did not react at once. He stared ahead in the direction of the target. He could picture it: the massive battleship nestling against the sides of the fjord, looking too large to turn around in the narrow waters. She certainly couldn’t go anywhere fast, and they would come at her one after another. Did he really need to communicate with Babcock? Couldn’t he just fly straight and level as they got close and let Babcock drop when he wanted? Yes, they’d been drilled on the importance of precise bombing, but in this case wasn’t a near miss better than aborting?

But a timely call from Osgood might make the difference between life and death — for seven men. The chances weren’t very good to start with, so did he have the right to deny them even that small margin of safety just to prove something? And to whom? Fauquier had ordered him to abort. To carry on would be nothing but dangerous, insubordinate bloody-mindedness.