had to reach. Survive twelve ops and the odds got better that you'd survive all thirty, for that meant the crew functioned well together. The men of the Ace were far beyond twelve and could see the finish line. Each had a role to perform if all were to survive, and the role of both gunners was to protect the bomber from night fighters.
A new gunner skewed the odds.
He was odd man out.
Trent Jones was a sullen tailor with little meat on his bones.
When new flight crews arrived in the mess, the old hands would bet on how long each man would last. The ones who enjoyed life, like Sweaty, were more likely to make it. But loners like Jones—blokes who sat off by themselves penning letters home—were destined to get the chop, the smart money said.
The Welshman's wife had left him and skipped with their child to Australia. Then he'd lost his original crew in a takeoff "prang" over the North Sea, when a pair of bombers laboring for height crashed into each other and plunged into the drink.
He was the only one to escape. That was like a mark of Cain to other airmen.
By the time they completed the air test, the field was a bee-hive of action. Tankers drove around filling giant bombers with thousands of gallons of petrol. Trucks dropped off oxygen cylinders, and tractors towed ordnance trolleys to bomb-up the planes. Ack-Ack gave Jones a thumbs-up on how he handled the turrets and the guns. The other men left the gunners behind to polish the windows of their combat stations, and to strip and clean their guns as armorers fed long belts of ammunition into the rear of the plane.
Balsdon knew something big was up when they gathered later that afternoon outside the briefing room. The hut was surrounded by service police, and the men couldn't get in without showing ID and having Wrath vouch for them. Once inside, the men received a warning: "Tonight's mission is top secret. If word leaks out, the source of that leak will be summarily executed."
That grabbed their attention.
The crewmen sat on long wooden benches facing a large map of Europe that was shrouded from view by a blackout curtain. All rose to their feet when the cologne-soaked station and squadron commanders entered.
"Gentlemen, the target for tonight is Berlin."
With those crisp words, they drew back the drapes to reveal the map on which the men's flight path was marked with red tape. Known flak and searchlight batteries were emblazoned along the route.
After the briefing, the pilots obtained their maps from the station map stores. All but Wrath. He was taken aside by the wingco for a hush-hush chat, and Balsdon saw the skipper get handed a for-your-eyes-only map. While the rest of the crew hurried off to collect their chutes and Mae West vests, Wrath—by now a flight lieutenant—ushered his navigator away for a cigarette.
With no one around, the two stood smoking behind the hut.
"What's up, Skipper?"
"I don't know, Balls. It's so deep cover, they won't say. But we're not going to Berlin with the stream."
"We're flying diversion? To throw off the Huns?"
Wrath shook his head. "That's what's strange. We're to break away from the others over Germany and make a solo bombing run on a town I've never heard of. The wingco says I can only tell you. Eight hundred bombers are striking Berlin to smokescreen our solitary mission."
+ + +
They tried to give him parachute number 20812, but there was no way Balsdon would take it. Adding the digits together gave the number 13. He should have seen that as an omen.
The locker room was thick with stress. Despite the casual air of the Ace's crew, superstitions, talismans, and rituals still ruled the day. Ox got dressed in the exact same order for every trip. If he made a mistake, he stripped down and began again.
Collars were banned because they could shrink and strangle you in the water, so Nelson tied on a stocking from his latest conquest, having asked the dame to save its partner for his return. Ack-Ack flew with a
A new gunner skewed the odds.
He was odd man out.
Trent Jones was a sullen tailor with little meat on his bones.
When new flight crews arrived in the mess, the old hands would bet on how long each man would last. The ones who enjoyed life, like Sweaty, were more likely to make it. But loners like Jones—blokes who sat off by themselves penning letters home—were destined to get the chop, the smart money said.
The Welshman's wife had left him and skipped with their child to Australia. Then he'd lost his original crew in a takeoff "prang" over the North Sea, when a pair of bombers laboring for height crashed into each other and plunged into the drink.
He was the only one to escape. That was like a mark of Cain to other airmen.
By the time they completed the air test, the field was a bee-hive of action. Tankers drove around filling giant bombers with thousands of gallons of petrol. Trucks dropped off oxygen cylinders, and tractors towed ordnance trolleys to bomb-up the planes. Ack-Ack gave Jones a thumbs-up on how he handled the turrets and the guns. The other men left the gunners behind to polish the windows of their combat stations, and to strip and clean their guns as armorers fed long belts of ammunition into the rear of the plane.
Balsdon knew something big was up when they gathered later that afternoon outside the briefing room. The hut was surrounded by service police, and the men couldn't get in without showing ID and having Wrath vouch for them. Once inside, the men received a warning: "Tonight's mission is top secret. If word leaks out, the source of that leak will be summarily executed."
That grabbed their attention.
The crewmen sat on long wooden benches facing a large map of Europe that was shrouded from view by a blackout curtain. All rose to their feet when the cologne-soaked station and squadron commanders entered.
"Gentlemen, the target for tonight is Berlin."
With those crisp words, they drew back the drapes to reveal the map on which the men's flight path was marked with red tape. Known flak and searchlight batteries were emblazoned along the route.
After the briefing, the pilots obtained their maps from the station map stores. All but Wrath. He was taken aside by the wingco for a hush-hush chat, and Balsdon saw the skipper get handed a for-your-eyes-only map. While the rest of the crew hurried off to collect their chutes and Mae West vests, Wrath—by now a flight lieutenant—ushered his navigator away for a cigarette.
With no one around, the two stood smoking behind the hut.
"What's up, Skipper?"
"I don't know, Balls. It's so deep cover, they won't say. But we're not going to Berlin with the stream."
"We're flying diversion? To throw off the Huns?"
Wrath shook his head. "That's what's strange. We're to break away from the others over Germany and make a solo bombing run on a town I've never heard of. The wingco says I can only tell you. Eight hundred bombers are striking Berlin to smokescreen our solitary mission."
+ + +
They tried to give him parachute number 20812, but there was no way Balsdon would take it. Adding the digits together gave the number 13. He should have seen that as an omen.
The locker room was thick with stress. Despite the casual air of the Ace's crew, superstitions, talismans, and rituals still ruled the day. Ox got dressed in the exact same order for every trip. If he made a mistake, he stripped down and began again.
Collars were banned because they could shrink and strangle you in the water, so Nelson tied on a stocking from his latest conquest, having asked the dame to save its partner for his return. Ack-Ack flew with a
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