Chapter 8

BOMBER CHERRY

Flight Lieutenant Robert Cherry eased back on the joystick of his Lancaster bomber, gaining height as he pulled away from the airfield. In the moonlight he could see the East Anglian coast, the North Sea, and occupied Europe. He ordered his crew to carry out flight checks and looking round he settled into formation, ready for the night flight to their destination. The primary target for that night’s operation was Essen and given that it was a clear summer’s night he didn’t expect a diversion, or an abort, which meant a tough and dangerous night’s work ahead. The “Battle of the Ruhr”, the systematic bombing of major German industrial cities was designed to cripple military production. From the outset it had become apparent that daylight bombing, without heavy fighter escort, involved unacceptable losses to the attackers. Since precision night bombing was impossible, the concept of “area bombing” was devised. This meant destroying large areas of the cities, mostly civilian dense districts. There was a pretence that “area bombing” was directed towards the factories and infrastructure with the massive number of civilian deaths an unavoidable consequence. It was a fiction. But one that avoided any uncomfortable moral questions. 

Bob Cherry when he left Greyfriars went to medical school. Kings College Hospital. He took to his studies, sport, and social life of a University in London with his characteristic enthusiasm. Greyfriars was a soccer school, but his fellow medical students persuaded Bob to try rugby, Kings being one of the leading clubs in England. Bob had developed into a well-built six-footer, with boundless energy and skill to match. He rapidly made his way up the club in his first year and the following season he became a regular in the first XV. In the penultimate game of the season, he received an injury which put him out of action for at least six months. 

He decided, before the heavy work in his medical studies required a full-time commitment, to take up his cousin’s offer to join him on his farm in Kenya. There he learnt to fly and developed his love of aviation. The year brought many delights, including big game hunting and guiding and it was with reluctance that he returned home after 15 months.

He resumed his studies at Kings and his rugby career. In 1938/9 season he was chosen to play, at wing forward, for London Counties and was being spoken of as a possible England player. The declaration of war in September 1939 put a stop to any such ambition.

Bob volunteered for the RAF and given his flying experience, expected to be drafted immediately. He was initially refused as a medical student, and his induction into the RAF was deferred and it wasn’t until December 1940 that he was accepted, much to his frustration, as he watched aerial battles over London and Kent between the RAF and the Luftwaffe. After basic training he was informed that they would not assign him for fighter training, as he had hoped, but was put forward as a potential bomber pilot. 

Having completed his initial training in a Tiger Moth, he, to his surprise, found himself bound for Canada and the USA for further pilot training under the “Arnold” scheme. He travelled on the SS Leona, a peacetime liner now converted into a troopship, into which were squeezed over 2000 servicemen in a ship designed to take half that number. It joined a “fast” convoy crossing the Atlantic. The journey was uneventful apart from, unexpectedly, at the halfway point their Royal Navy escorts abandoned them and until their arrival in Canada the, officially neutral, US navy protected them.. From disembarking in Canada, they travelled to Turner airfield in Albany, Georgia, wearing civilian clothing for the journey in deference to US neutrality. The training was rigorous, mostly conducted by American instructors and in American training aircraft. Not everyone passed and only just under half of those who accompanied Bob made the grade. Many of those who failed became gunners, bomb aimers or navigators.

Having succeeded himself, when he returned to England, they sent him to RAF Cottesmore with a hundred or so other men, pilots, gunners, navigators ready to complete their final training before going into action. There they were instructed to organise themselves into crews. This process wasn’t as arbitrary as it might seem. It was important that a crew, whose lives would depend on each other, should have a rapport, or at least a respect for each other. In this manner Bob got round him the team that he would fly into battle with and, with one exception, the team he wanted. It was a commonwealth team with a New Zealand Flight Engineer, a South African rear gunner, an Australian bomb aimer, the remaining crew being English. The training began on the Avro Manchester, a two-engine medium bomber which proved a disappointment in operational terms, with underpowered engines and general unreliability, but it spawned its successor the Avro Lancaster four engine heavy bomber which became one of the icons of World War Two.

Bob’s wish for action came sooner than might have been expected. On completing their first training run, they were told that they were to take part in the greatest raid of the war so far. The Head of Bomber Command Sir Arthur (Bomber) Harris planned, a demonstration of how air power could win the war on its own, with the “Thousand-Bomber Raid”, a night attack on the city of Cologne. There weren’t enough front-line aeroplanes to achieve this arbitrary number, so he pressed several OTU units into service. Bob remembered only too vividly that first sortie. He was in one of the later waves and by the time he approached the German coastline he could see, over the eastern sky, the red glow of a city in flames. The sheer scale of the attack overwhelmed the German defences. He approached the target nervelessly, keeping a straight line as the bomb aimer prepared for and then released the bombs into the inferno. Bob then swung away and turned for home. It was their first experience of combat conditions which, they realised, couldn’t be replicated by any amount of training. All acquitted themselves well except for the rear gunner, who lost his nerve. He fired his guns several times with no enemy in sight and upon landing declared “I don’t want to go through that again”. Bob needed people they could rely upon, so had him transferred. 

The crew, once assigned to a frontline squadron, were a well-integrated unit and had total confidence in the others to carry out their respective tasks. This was their 21st mission, and they had reached the target every time and dropped their bombs.

“Everything in order Flight?” Bob asked the New Zealander Harry Crowe.

“Yes skipper”

Crowe was the same age as Bob, sometimes referred to as Bumfluff for his futile attempts to grow a ginger beard. The aircraft droned on to the ceaseless throbbing of the four Rolls Royce Merlin engines.

Bob was a popular commander, both because of his abilities as a pilot, his calm manner under pressure and his natural ebullience. He had an old banger which he loaded them into on days off and drove to Nottingham for a lively night out. He was the life and soul of parties in the mess, lead the singing, despite entreaties not to, and winning drinking competitions. 

The night was clear and moonlit. This fortunate in that the pathfinders could easily identify and mark the target, but unfortunate in that the German night fighters equally would have no difficulty in finding them. As they approached the Dutch coastline, Bob stopped unnecessary chatter over the communication system. The navigator shouted out. 

“45 minutes to target,”

Bob kept a careful eye on the other aircraft in the stream. Mid-air collisions occurred, and although the sky was so clear that shouldn’t be a danger, it still paid to be vigilant. As he flew on, he could see, in the distance, the glow of fire from the bombs of the attackers that preceded him. The Luftwaffe night fighters were out but, as yet none had attempted to interfere with them. As they crossed the German border, he could see the flash of flak still a distance ahead of them. He thought, idly, why is flak so called as when he read about aerial fighting in the Great War, it was called “archie”. 

Just then there was a violent explosion, or explosions. The plane was thrown upwards and to its right. A blast of air threw Bob back into his seat as the craft turned in a slow roll to its right, almost to its beam end. Bob recovered from the shock and tried to regain control. He thought, “So, this is it,” as the plane plummeted towards the ground. He had seen it so often happen to others. The smashed front of the cockpit let blasting freezing air, which whistled through the body of the craft. Engines screamed; the aeroplane sped towards the ground. Instruments on the panel seemed out of control, the altimeter whizzed round.

As he struggled, he realised the controls were responding, although sluggishly, and using every ounce of strength levelled the plane off at an altitude of 3,000 feet. With relief he realised he could control and fly the plane, though it took all his strength. It shook and yawed, making flying in a straight line virtually impossible. 

He worked out that a flak round had exploded to the front of the craft, destroying the front right of the cockpit. That the craft had also been lifted upwards indicated to him that there had been a further explosion below them. He turned towards the Flight Engineer’s seat behind him. 

What he saw froze his blood. Harry had taken the full force of the blast. His oxygen mask had been ripped off. Horrifyingly, the left side of his face, the side exposed to the explosion, had been ripped off as well. It left a gargoyle of a face. Eye devoid of flesh stared at him. Teeth and bones of the skull on that side were exposed whilst the right side of his face was untouched. The force of the explosion had swung him round, he was now staring, sightlessly, at Bob with both eyes. Wind buffeted him and his left arm, shattered though it was, waved at him.

Bob gasped and looked away. But then steeled himself. He called Ken the navigator to come forward as one of the port engines was on fire and had to be dealt with. Ken struggled forward in the face of the gale. When he saw Harry Crowe, he nearly lost his grip on the superstructure and be thrown back under the wind pressure. Bob shouted.

“Port engine’s on fire.”

He pushed the throttle back on that engine and told the navigator to use the extinguisher button to kill the fire. That having been achieved, he checked that the other crew members were alright and announced over the intercom.

“We’re heading for home. She’s handling heavy but I have full control and we’ll be just fine,”

He then said to Ken.

“I think they hit us below at the same time. Do a damage assessment,”

When Ken returned, he shouted to Bob.

“You’re right. It’s a bit of a mess. Better check the undercarriage,”

Bob tried to lower the landing wheels. No response. 

“Damn. We’ll have to crash land. I’m heading to the jettison area. Give me a course,”

The jettison area was in the North Sea and was where, if a plane had to return early from a mission, they could offload the bombs, it being too dangerous to try to land with them. It was off limits to other aircraft and shipping. Bob then had a thought and tried to open the bomb bay doors. There was no response. He then shouted to Ken to check the bay and the manual release mechanism.

Ken returned “Not good I’m afraid.”

“Is there any possibility of opening the bay?”

“Hopelessly jammed. Unless the whole bottom drops off, we’re stuck with those bombs,”

“Set a course for home,”

He felt, for the first time, a pain in his left ankle and leg. When he tried to move it, he gave an involuntary cry. His lower leg had been jammed against a stanchion. Damn, he thought that’s all we need. He pondered the options and then came to a decision.

Over the intercom, he briefed the five crew members.

“You’ll know that flak hit us. One to the front starboard and one below. I’m sorry to say Harry has copped it. But I’m able to control the bus and we shouldn’t have any problems getting home so long as we don’t meet any fighters. I’m going to fly in low until we get to the coast. The bomb doors are jammed, and the undercarriage blocked. We can’t land in this condition. When we cross the coast, you’ll have to bale out and make your way home. Ken give me a course that will bring us close to the coast and a return to the jettison area.”

Bob looked round to his right and stared at the broken body of his friend and said quietly.

“Sorry, old man. You won’t be coming home with us,”

The bloodied face, buffeted in the wind, nodded as if in assent.

“What about you, skipper?” asked Ken.

“After I’ve offloaded you lot, I’ll reverse direction and crash the bus into the sea in the jettison area,”

“And what happens to you?”

“I’ll set the plane to glide into the sea and I’ll bail out myself and hope for the best,”

“Is there no alternative?”

“Can you think of one?”

There was silence. Then Ken gave him a course.

“That will bring us over the east coast and then if you reverse 180 degrees and fly for 5 minutes at 120 knots that’ll get you there,”

Bob nodded.

Luckily for them, there was no interference by German fighters as in their present condition, they’d have been sitting ducks. As he saw the English coastline come into sight, he struggled to gain height so the crew could bale out. They clambered over the remains of their colleague, with a shudder, and wished Bob good luck as one by one exited and disappeared into the night. Bob could see the parachutes as they descended reflecting in the moonlight as he turned the plane round and headed back out to sea feeling very lonely. Only Harry Crowe kept him company.

He turned gained more height and timed his return. Then throttled back as much as he dared, got up from his seat, killed the engines and put the aeroplane into a shallow dive. Gingerly, because of the pain in his leg, he negotiated into the bomb aimers position in the aircraft’s nose. Bob, a large man wearing his bulky parachute found negotiating the tight space almost impossible. The plane, set in a shallow glide, turned downwards at a more acute angle, adding to Bob’s difficulties. Puffing with the effort, he struggled in the confined area as he tried to exit through the small aperture in the floor. The parachute caught on every projection as he tried to manoeuvre. The aircraft was accelerating as he twisted and turned, trying to get into the right position. The craft took an even more acute angle. He started to panic despairing of ever squeezing out when suddenly he popped out like a cork from a bottle. Releasing his parachute, he descended towards the dark waters of the North Sea. The Lancaster drew away from him and continued its downward descent. He watched it, fascinated, as its angle grew steeper and steeper. It hit the water, and he saw the enormous explosion two miles away. Shortly afterwards the shock wave hit him and caused a violent buffeting, and he was still swaying when he hit the water. He gasped as an agonising pain shot up his left leg and he was just able to inflate his life jacket. After the noise of the aeroplane and the explosion, the silence of the sea with its gentle lapping waves was almost oppressive. It was fortunate that the weather was calm and the water, though cold, wasn’t the killing temperature of winter. Had it been the latter, Bob’s chances of surviving more than minutes would have been slim.  

Matters were serious enough, however, as Bob drifted helplessly in the black water. He hoped that the crash had been seen or that his colleagues had informed the authorities of his plan. He had two flares stuffed down his jacket. As he floated, he could hear and see, in the distance, a succession of bombers flying back home. He reflected, as he saw them pass, that each contained seven men who in a few minutes would be home, safe and warm, whilst he shivered in the sea. The cold had anaesthetised his left leg, a small bonus, and visibility was good. He kept moving his limbs in swimming motion, not because he felt he could influence the direction the current was taking him, but to keep as warm as possible and awake. To succumb to sleep would almost certainly be fatal. Seeing the glow of dawn over the eastern horizon raised his spirits, but still no sign of rescue. Bob struggled to stay awake. Surely, he thought someone must know he’s in the area. He knew there were RAF boats posted to rescue downed air crew. But he thought bitterly, they may be prohibited from searching the restricted area. But then they could search for him after the bombers had returned. All these thoughts chased themselves round and round in his mind. He was conscious that he was losing his battle with sleep as the chill permeated through him. The rising sun helped, in a small way, to warm, at least his face and give some cheer. Finally, he decided that there was no point in dying with his flares unused. He struggled, with frozen hands, extracted one and set it off. It gave him a lift as he saw it arc into the air. Nothing happened. He drifted on. The sun got higher in the sky. Bob fell in and out of consciousness. With an immense effort of will, he set off the second flare.

An RAF rescue boat saw it. Bob was only vaguely aware of being rescued until as he was being hauled aboard his left leg was bumped and he cried out in agony. They injected him with morphine, and he lost consciousness.

Bob Cherry was restless and frustrated. He was in a military hospital, his left lower leg in plaster. Other than reading and listening to the radio there was no outlet for his still abundant energies. All his air crew, who had parachuted safely in east England, visited him. They had been reassigned to new crews and expressed regret at the breakup of the team. Bob had written a difficult letter to Harry Crowe’s parents in New Zealand.

His C.O., Wing Commander John, and another officer identified as Wing Commander Jeffrey Jones visited him one afternoon.

“How are you today, Bob?” John asked him cheerily.

Bob gave a wry smile “Bored out of my skull sir,”

“I can see that. But I’ve been talking to the medics and I understand you’ll be out of plaster soon and ready for physiotherapy,”

“Yes, sir. With any luck I should be ready to return in a couple of months,”

The two senior officers looked at each other.

“I’ve good news, Bob. You’re to receive the DSO for your action. Well-deserved if I may say so,”

“Thank you, sir,”

“But some less welcome news, I’m afraid. No easy way to say this but you’ll never fly a combat mission again,”

Bob’s face flushed “But why not? You said yourself I’ll be out of plaster and undergoing physio soon,”

“Your leg will never be the same. You hopefully won’t end up with a limp, but it will always be weak. I’m afraid you can’t fly again,”

“But look at Douglas Bader. He flies with no legs,” Bob burst out.

The Wing Commanders voice hardened

“The Glory Boys have their own rules. Their pilots fly alone in a small machine. As a Lancaster pilot, you handle a large expensive aircraft and six highly trained specialists. Sorry Bob, this is not open to discussion. But Wing Commander Jones has a suggestion to make,”

“I’m head of Deputy Directorate 2(b) in Intelligence Section. We analyse German air tactics and strategy, including of course defensive measures the Luftwaffe employ against our Bomber offensive. You are just the sort of chap we need. Someone with extensive combat experience and with some scientific background. It’s important work, involving debriefing pilots (not the standard debrief after operations) but to speak to pilots about their general experiences and to liaise with the boffins and so on. It’s the way you can use your training and experience to maximum benefit to the service.”

“Doesn’t leave me much of a choice, does it?”

“Do I take that as a yes?”

“That’s a yes sir,”

“Recover here. Take a two week leave and then report to my office in London,”

When the two men left, Bob sank into his bed and stared at the ceiling. He struggled with his emotions. He would never again fly a Lanky. Never again would he have the comradeship of colleagues in active service. Something that could never be replicated.

As he continued to stare upwards, he thought of the missions he’d been on. On the colleagues lost over the last 12 months. Of the strain of starting each mission, wondering if it would be his last. On the statistical probability, he wouldn’t get to the end of his tour.

Then his thoughts turned to his future. With a start he realised he could now plan - the job he had taken sounded both important and interesting; he could finally propose to Marjorie Hazeldene.

As he lay there, he allowed himself a small smile.

“I have survived!!” he thought.