LITMIR.BIZ

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most conspicuously manifested itself in an inflamed foot condition which caused pain on the ground, worse in the air. In a conversation with Gibson that morning, the station medical officer felt unable to prescribe medication, lest it impair the pilot’s reflexes. Meanwhile Gibson’s three-year marriage to an older showgirl had become a poor thing. His only relaxation in weeks had been a snatched trip to a Grantham ‘flickhouse’ with a WAAF girlfriend to see Casablanca. Like a host of young men of all the nations engaged in the Second World War, he had aged years beyond the twenty-four cited in RAF records.

That night of 16 May, he wrote of himself and John Pulford, the flight-engineer on the folding seat beside him in the Lancaster’s ‘glass house’: ‘two silent figures, young, unbearded, new to the world yet full of skill, full of pride in their squadron, determined to do a good job and bring the ship home. A silent scene, whose only incidental music is provided by the background hiss of air and the hearty roar of four Merlin engines.’ He described Pulford as ‘a Londoner, a sincere and plodding type’. He embraced Fred ‘Spam’ Spafford, the bomb-aimer, as ‘a grand guy and many were the parties we had together’. His rear-gunner, Richard Trevor-Roper, silent in the remoteness of the tail, was ‘Eton, Oxford’, to which his pilot added that ‘Trev’ ‘was probably thinking what I was thinking. Was this the last time we would see England?’

      Gibson wrote of his crew as if he knew them intimately, yet in truth this was the first operation that any save wireless-operator Bob Hutchison had flown with him, and it would also be the last. Most of what he stated about the others was wrong. Trevor-Roper attended Wellington College, not Eton, and never Oxford; Pulford, dismissed in the author’s original as ‘a bit of a dummy’, was a Yorkshireman, not a Londoner. Like all 617’s engineers, he was a former ‘erk’, a ground crewman, maid of all work: monitoring the throttles and dials, moving around the aircraft to deal with small problems, check on the rear-gunner or investigate an intercom failure. Every twenty minutes it was his job to log engine temperatures, fuel state. That morning, Sgt. Pulford had received extraordinary permission from Gibson to attend his father’s funeral in Hull, an hour’s drive from Scampton, to which he had been accompanied by two RAF policemen to ensure that he said not a word to anyone about what he was to do that night.

The pilot described ‘Spam’ Spafford as a great bomb-aimer, ‘but he was not too hot at map-reading’. ‘Hutch’, the wireless-operator, was ‘one of those grand little Englishmen who had the guts of a horse’, despite being often airsick. George Deering, the Canadian front-gunner who was a veteran of thirty-five operations, was ‘pretty dumb, and not too good at his guns, and it was taking a bit of a risk taking him, but one of our crack gunners had suddenly gone ill and there was nobody else’. If pilot and bomb-aimer had ever caroused together, there is no record of it. For all the ‘wingco’s’ leadership skills, to most of his comrades, and especially to subordinates, little Gibson – on the ground, it was impossible to fail to notice his lack of inches – was a remote figure, respected but not much loved, especially by humbler ranks. A gunner said sourly, ‘He was the sort of little bugger who was always jumping out from behind a hut and telling you that your buttons were undone.’ By the time Gibson wrote his book, however, both he and Chastise had become legends. Thus, he described a close relationship with his crew as a fitting element of the story.

      Reality was that five of the six young men sharing G-George with their squadron commander that night were bleakly aware that they were committed to one of the most hazardous missions of the war, in the hands of a pilot with whom they had never flown over enemy territory. More than that, he was an authentic hero; and heroes are immensely dangerous to their comrades.

      Now they were over the North Sea: ‘Our noses were going straight for the point at which we had to cross the Dutch coast. The sea was as flat as a mill-pond, there was hardly a ripple … We dropped lower and lower down to about fifty feet so as to avoid radio detection … After a time I tried to light a cigarette. In doing so we again nearly hit the drink and the boys must have thought I was mad. In the end I handed the thing to Pulford to light for me.’ Gibson was flying in shirtsleeves, wearing a Luftwaffe Mae West, spoils of war that he had picked up in his fighter days. Although they were operating far below the height at which oxygen was necessary, they were still obliged to wear masks, because these contained microphones for the intercom and VHF link between aircraft – Gibson hankered in vain for throat mikes such as the USAAF employed.

He wrote in 1944, looking back to that unforgettable night: ‘One hour to go, one hour left before Germany, one hour of peace before flak. I thought to myself, here are 133 boys who have got an hour to live before going through hell. Some of them won’t get back … Who is it will be unlucky? … What is the rear-gunner in Melvin Young’s ship thinking, because he won’t be coming back? What’s the bomb-aimer in Henry Maudslay’s ship thinking, because he won’t be coming back? … One hour to go, one hour to think of these things, one hour to fly on a straight course and then it will be weaving and sinking to escape the light flak and the fury of the enemy defence.’ A few months later, he chose as one of his favourite records on BBC radio’s Desert Island Discs Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’: ‘it’s exciting, it’s grandiose, it’s … rather terrible. It reminds me of a bombing raid.’ Then Guy Gibson thought about his dog, which was newly dead; and about the epic experience ahead, which would make him one of the most famous fliers in history. ‘This was the big thing,’ he wrote. ‘This was it.’

1

       Grand Strategy, Great Dams

      1 THE BIG PICTURE

      In May 1943 the Second World War was in its forty-fifth month. While it was evident that the Allies were destined to achieve victory over Germany, it was also embarrassingly obvious to the British people, albeit perhaps less so to Americans, that the Red Army would be the principal instrument in achieving this. The battle for Stalingrad had been the dominant event of the previous winter, culminating in the surrender of the remnants of Paulus’s Sixth Army on 31 January. The Russians had killed 150,000 Germans and taken 110,000 prisoners, in comparison with a mere nine thousand Axis dead, and thirty thousand mostly Italian prisoners taken, in Montgomery’s November victory at El Alamein.

      Day after day through the months that followed, newspapers headlined Soviet advances. To be sure, British and American forces also made headway in North Africa, but their drives from east and west to converge in Tunisia embraced barely thirty divisions between the two sides, whereas in the summer of 1943 two million men of Hitler’s and Stalin’s armies would clash at Kursk and Orel. Axis surrender in North Africa came only on 13 May, months later than Allied commanders had expected.

Almost four years after Britain chose to go to war, and eighteen months after America found itself obliged to do so, the bulk of their respective armies continued to train at home, preparing for an invasion of the continent for which no date had been set. The Royal Navy and the Royal Canadian Navy, assisted by the Ultra codebreakers and latterly by the US Navy, had performed prodigies to achieve dominance over Dönitz’s U-Boats: the Atlantic sea link was now relatively secure, and a vast tonnage of new shipping was pouring forth from American shipyards. But this was a defensive victory, its importance more apparent to Allied warlords than to Churchill’s and Roosevelt’s peoples.

      Among the latter, even after its North African successes the standing of the British Army remained low: memories lingered, of so many 1940–42 defeats in Europe, North Africa and the Far East. Many Americans viewed their Anglo-Saxon ally with a disdain not far off contempt. A July 1942 Office of War Information survey invited people to say which nation they thought was trying hardest to win the war. A loyal 37 per cent answered, the US; 30 per cent named Russia; 14 per cent China; 13 per cent offered no opinion. Just 6 per cent identified the British as the hardest triers. ‘All the old animosities against the British have been revived,’ wrote an OWI analyst. ‘She didn’t pay her war debts for the past war. She refuses to grant India the very freedom she claims to be fighting for. She is holding a vast army in England to protect the homeland, while her outposts are lost

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