Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse. Len Deighton
these are mostly crews on their first couple of trips – who are carrying only high-explosive bombs. That’s because incendiaries could be mistaken for red markers. Remember, all you Supporter crews, it’s your job to shake up the defences with your HE. Aim at the reds; if you don’t see them I’d rather you brought your loads back here than made a mistake. And don’t go round again, save that for the experienced crews. All right. Next over the target are the Illuminators – they will be dropping short sticks of flares right on the aiming-point which they will identify from the light of the Finders’ flares. Lastly, the Primary Markers will arrive and put yellow markers down upon the aiming-point which will be lit by the Illuminators’ flares, Aircraft with Y equipment will check by radar and visual means because the whole main bombing force will be looking for those yellows. It’s been carefully planned, lads, so it’s up to you to check and double-check before you mark. We don’t want any more Pilsens and there won’t be if you all pull a finger out.’
On April 16th, 1943, a mistake by the pathfinders resulted in an attack being centred on a huge Czechoslovak lunatic asylum at Dobrany instead of the Skoda arms factory at Pilsen. The horror was compounded by the loss of thirty-six RAF aeroplanes and Pathfinder Force was still smarting from the shame of it.
There was a flurry of coughs and affirmative grunts. Lambert passed his cigarettes amongst his crew. Micky Murphy took a cigarette. ‘What do you think, Sam?’ he asked.
‘It sounds carefully planned,’ said Lambert guardedly.
‘That’s what they say about contraception,’ said Micky, and smiled to reveal his gap-teeth. He smiled at Battersby too. The boy grinned back, pleased to be included in the joke.
Upon the stage Jammy continued, ‘All right. The last wave are Backers Up. You are carrying green TIs. First look for any remaining reds because they are from the Mosquitoes. If there are no red TIs look for yellow ones from the Primary Markers. I’ll be there watching you with my beady little eyes and if any of you mess up my pretty pattern of coloured lights I’ll have your guts for garters. All right?’ The crews laughed and Jammy gave a brief guffaw. He always said that at the end of his briefing. A new joke would have worried them; at this time they preferred things that were old and familiar.
‘All right, one more thing,’ said Jammy. ‘Jettisoning of bombs. In recent months there’s been a greater tonnage of bombs dropped on Britain by us and the Yanks than by the whole bloody Luftwaffe.’ There was a pandemonium of whistling and catcalling. Jammy waved it down. ‘Yeah, it’s a real laugh at briefing, but when you are holding up a main-line train service or asking the poor buggers at Bomb Disposal to clear up your mess, it’s not so funny. If you must jettison I want exact times, map reference and fusing details immediately after landing. It’s easy to get away with it by saying nothing,’ he smiled, ‘and that’s why I’ll press for disciplinary action against the whole crew that doesn’t report jettisoning.’
They were all in a good mood now. ‘That’s it Jammy, give ’em hell,’ shouted someone. Again Jammy gave one of his sneeze-like laughs.
As the Intelligence Officer got up it was quiet enough to notice the sounds of the countryside: outside the window a chestnut tree moved abrasively, swifts called, a blackbird sang and thrushes were learning how to fly, the scent of newly cut hay came on the warm breeze. It was hard to believe that here in this pastoral backwater plans were being made to destroy a town.
Longfellow had been watching and listening to the briefing with the close attention of a journalist. The drama of the scene moved him. This was history being made. Last week he had sent these men out to destroy Cologne. Cologne, why it was beyond belief, a thousand years of history shattered into fragments in less than two hours by these young kids. Like a chapter he’d written for his second book: his criminals had sat around in easy chairs drinking brandy and discussing in matter-of-fact tones their plan to rob a bank. He’d rewrite that chapter, because now he knew that it hadn’t been matter-of-fact enough! This was how it really should be: young fellows, some still in their teens, offering each other cigarettes and making notes about how many tons of high explosive they would plant in a city centre.
Longfellow got to his feet slowly to make sure he had their attention. He ran his hand through his thick black hair. ‘Can you see me at the back?’ he called. There was an affirmative murmur. ‘I’m surprised to hear it, I can’t see you through this damned fug.’ There was some polite laughter. The room was blue with tobacco smoke and the yellow lights, he noticed, glowed through the swirling fumes like distant igneous planets. He made a note of ‘distant igneous planets’. That would do for the book. Longfellow’s clerk pinned up a bombing-pattern diagram headlined CREEPBACK. It was a long blob of bomb-hits extending to meet an arrow marked ‘Bomber Stream, Line of Flight’. Longfellow put on his spectacles and stared at the diagram. This made his whole audience look at it.
‘Tonight,’ pronounced Longfellow slowly and clearly, ‘we are attacking Krefeld. The heavy industry …’ He was unable to continue because of the noise, which was getting louder. There was a shrill laugh from Kit Pepper – one of Sweet’s gunners – and a sudden handclap from Roddy Peterson next to him. Longfellow held up his hand and then loudly corrected his error. ‘Tonight, gentlemen, you are attacking Krefeld.’ There was another sort of noise now; quieter and mollified. He decided to skip the build-up description of the target and go on to the matter of his real concern. The one that the Intelligence people at Group were complaining of so bitterly; in a word: creepback.
‘Now, you Backer-Up crews,’ said Longfellow, turning back to them. ‘It’s your job to drop your new flares into the centre of the existing flares. I’ve said this a thousand times but I will repeat it once again. When you see the marker pattern on your approach you are seeing it in perspective. That foreshortening is an optical illusion, so don’t drop short of centre. Creepback is this tendency to fall short and then shorter still. So don’t do it.’ He paused long enough to give importance to his next few words. ‘Now you chaps know as well as I do: there is another reason for creepback. One that people are reluctant to mention.’ He paused again. ‘Plain old-fashioned cold feet.’
The room was silent; no one coughed or murmured. Longfellow had their fearful attention. The Groupie looked towards the journalists but the smoke was too dense for him to see their reaction. Longfellow continued, ‘When the flak is coming up hard and heavy, you get itchy fingers. What you want to do is to get rid of your bombs and get the hell out of there. Of course you do but if you are going to drop your bomb-load in a field of potatoes then what the hell are you going all the way to Germany for? That last few hundred yards to your aiming-point, gentlemen, is the difference between tearing the Hun’s guts out and throwing in the towel.’ He took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and replaced them in a theatrical gesture.
Longfellow had theories about briefings. The cold accusation of cowardice, followed by a manly understanding tone, a logical argument and the final sporting allusion, was calculated to shock, stimulate and reinforce the determination of his audience.
‘Rule Britannia!’ shouted someone at the back.
‘These armchair warriors,’ murmured Digby, ‘they’ll fight to the last drop of our blood.’ Battersby giggled nervously.
Impulsively Flight Sergeant Lambert stood up. It was the first time he’d ever asked a question at a briefing.
‘What are the guts of Krefeld?’ asked Lambert. ‘What are we aiming at in that city centre?’ He had a target map in his hand; he waved it.
This wasn’t so good, thought Longfellow. He ran his fingers down the back of his hand like a man adjusting the fit of a pair of chamois gloves. He peered forward to decide what sort of man this was. He tried to see his eyes but the ceiling lights threw the fellow’s eye-sockets into darkness and masked his expression as efficiently as a pair of dark glasses. He smiled nervously at Lambert and remembered the standard answer he’d prepared for this sort of question. Sometimes the crews got fidgety about dropping their bombs right into the centre of crowded towns. It was natural that they occasionally needed bolstering up a little. Longfellow held up a target map of Krefeld and tapped the centre of it. ‘A Gestapo headquarters and a poison-gas factory, that’s