‘dumb luck’ by craig mackenzie - nlis.canlis.ca/cmack/shortstorys/mystories/dumbluck.pdfwhile...

‘Dumb Luck’

by Craig Mackenzie

‘Dumb Luck’

by Craig Mackenzie

Author’s Note: The following ‘snap shot stories’ were inspired by the recollections of my

father who was a RCAF navigator stationed in England during the Second World War.

While I have attempted to be as accurate as possible with respect to technical

specifications, events and locations this is a work of fiction.

Hughie

“Mom, I would like you to meet a gentleman that you have read about in my letters over

the last three years. This is Wing Commander Hugh Richard Ford Dyer.”

My mother, being a rather short woman, looked up at the nondescript man who had been

my pilot and crew captain. We were standing on the front porch of our home on Furby St. in

Winnipeg, Manitoba. It was one of those fine fall days. The warmth of summer was lingering but

prairie folk knew that a bitterly cold winter could be just around the corner. The leaves of the

mature Elms bordering our street were making the transition to their brilliant yellow autumn

cloak. Fall seemed to be particularly beautiful this year. This might have been, in part, because

Canada was again at peace and our lives were starting to return to a semblance of normality.

Fathers, wives, sons and daughters were returning home, with the hope of getting back to the

routines that they had abandoned years before. ‘Hughie’ had just been repatriated and had

stopped by for a visit on his way home to his wife Sally in Minnedosa. Hughie and I had served

with the RCAF 419 Moose Squadron in England. He was not only my very good friend but a

person who I had entrusted with my life time and again. He had not let me down. Here we were –

back home and ready to get on with our civilian lives. Hughie was returning to the help out with

the family farm and I had just started what seemed to be a promising career with Veteran’s

Affaires.

“Hughie, I trust that I can call you Hughie as I feel that I have known you for a long time.

Please accept my gratitude and the gratitude of my family and all of Rod’s friends as well.

Welcome to our home”

“Gratitude for what Mrs. Mackenzie?” Hugh replied in all sincerity and displayed some

discomfort and embarrassment. He was shifting from one foot to the other and it was apparent

that he did not know what to do with his hands.

“Why, for bringing my son home of course!” exclaimed my mother.

“Mrs. Mackenzie that is not right! Your son brought me home!” Hugh replied

emphatically.

Despite Hughie’s objection, I agreed with my mother. Hughie had brought me home. We

had survived thirty-three operational sorties together. Hughie had been our Captain, the person at

the helm of our bomber. The person entrusted with the responsibility of controlling a complex

aircraft on mission after mission. These missions required him to have excellent skills as a pilot

and to handle the knowledge that tons of bombs would be dropped on strategic targets in the

effort to thwart the enemy. Each member of a bomber’s crew was fully aware that there would be

collateral damage but it was the pilot who had to instill the confidence in his crew to see each

mission through and accept the responsibility for delivering a bomb load to the designated target.

Hughie had carried this weight without out faltering and had received a Distinguished Flying

Cross for his gallantry during these operations. He had also risen through the ranks to that of

Wing Commander which in itself was a reflection of leadership skills that impressed his

superiors.

Yes, I had been the lucky one. My younger brother Doug had not been as fortunate so I

could understand my mother’s reverence for the shy man who stood before her. Doug was more

typical of the prairie kids who had joined the RCAF. Earlier in the war, he had been trained at

one of the many British Commonwealth Air Crew Training bases that had sprung up across

western Canada. My kid brother had only survived a few missions. I had completed my tour of

thirty-three primarily night raids over France and Germany with Hughie at the helm and we had

come through without a scratch … at least without a physical scratch.

♦

Paris

“Okay to go Mac?” My headphones crackled with background radio static as Hughie

checked in with each of his crew. The leather flight helmet that held the headphones to my ears

was already becoming sticky and clammy with sweat … sweat that was no doubt from state of

my nerves and not heat or humidity. I had started to question my decision to leave the army for

the air force. It seemed like a good idea at the time and the RCAF was desperate for volunteers.

Flying the Anson’s at St. John’s, Quebec had been fun and there had been lots of leave to visit

the attractions in Quebec City and Montreal. Learning the rudiments of aerodynamics,

navigation, meteorology and photography had been in another world. Now we were heading into

harms way. I adjusted the scarf that Winnie had given me. I had placed it around my neck and

tucked inside my bomber jacket as we prepared for boarding.

“Ready when you are.”

I listened as each member replied to our pilots query. This was my twenty-sixth flight as

a navigator in a ‘Wimpy’ or Vickers Wellington medium bomber but this mission was

particularly unique. This was our first ‘official’ operational mission and was the culmination of

over a year of training for me that had begun at the Air Observers School in St. Johns, Quebec

and continued at Denton, Jurby and Pershore in England. As missions go we all knew that this

first one was to ‘wet our whistles’ and to give us the experience we needed to be cut free from

our Operational Training Unit. On the completion of this mission, and it was a mission and not a

‘Cross Country’ training outing, we would be transferred to a Conversion Unit where we would

be prepared for heavy bombers. As Canadians, we fully expected to be assigned to Bomber

Command’s Number 6 Group to join the RCAF 419 Moose Squadron.

Earlier in the day, our pilot, Hughie or Flying Officer Hugh Dyer had learned that his

crew had an ‘Op’ or Operation. At the ensuing briefing, we had learned that we were to fly to

Paris and had been given our course, altitude, weather forecast and all the other bits and pieces

we needed to know for the operation. We were to take some photos and drop ‘moral boosting

leaflets’. These were intended to reassure the Parisians that ‘the allies were coming to free them’.

After the briefing, a crew bus had taken us out to our dispersal point or ‘pan’. These were spread

around the periphery of the triangular runway layout. ‘Don’t put all your eggs in one basket’ was

the defence strategy. Theoretically, fewer of the ‘dispersed’ aircraft would suffer damage from

an aerial raid. Our Wellington, lucky M for Mac, was getting its last minute prep from its ground

crew. I noted that some of the ground crew were Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. a bit of a

distraction.

While Hughie chatted with the ground crew and did his walk-around, I had gone to my

‘Nav’ station immediately behind the wireless operator’s station on the forward port side of the

aircraft. I double and triple checked to insure that I had all of my gear, charts, etc. and that my

oxygen and intercom connections were working. From my cramped work area, I could not see

what was going on but I knew the routine. Hughie would signal the ground crew that he was

ready. They would connect the ‘accs’ or battery booster. The port engine would cough and

sputter to life followed by the starboard engine.

Hughie proceeded to run up and test each engine.

While the aircraft was being prepped for take off, I squeezed into my navigation station

and reviewed my course information. I knew that as soon as we were in the air Hughie would

need a course to steer or compass heading to get us to our ‘start point’ for the operation and from

there the course required to get us to Paris. It was my job to guide us there and back again and I

was anxious about my first real test. As our guide, I had the ‘exalted’ distinction of being the

most valued member of the crew. I was expected to know where we were at all times and would

be absorbed with calculating fixes from observations from the astrodome with my sextant or

from the displays on my Gee set. The Gee Radio receiver was an electronic marvel and it was

one of the Allies secret weapons. It would fix our position by triangulating radio signals from

three different bases in England. This new electronic wizardry had greatly improved the accuracy

of the Bomber Command missions. I was glad to be busy. I would constantly calculate fixes and

factor in drift for wind to keep us on course. Providing this information for Hughie would keep

my mind off the potential risks throughout our mission. The Germans had installed massive

numbers of anti-aircraft batteries and had developed an improved system to predict bomber

streams. Some of their twin engine fighters like the Me 110 and the Ju 88 were also being

equipped with airborne interception radar. Yes, there was much to think about. We were flying a

slow out-dated aircraft with a ceiling and airspeed below that of the newer bombers.

“Are you ready for take off?” My headset crackled. Again, each member of the crew

responded. We had taxied to the down wind end of the runway and Hughie was waiting for the

‘go ahead’.

The aircraft began to vibrate as Hughie revved up the engines. He was sitting on the

brakes. The twin Bristol Pegasus engines were begging Hughie to let them take us into the air.

As the aircraft in front of us lifted of a green flash from an Aldis light signaled that it was our

turn. Hughie released the brakes and the aircraft began to move forward. Hughie held her on

course with slight adjustments to the two throttles and the brakes of the jumbo balloon wheels.

The throttles were advanced to full open. The speed increased and Hughie would be holding the

control column forward. I could feel the rear wheel lift off the runway. We were now on

effective rudder control. As lift-off speed was reached, Hughie eased back on the control

column. We were airborne. I could here the landing gear grind up and I knew that Hughie would

be slowly returning the flaps to a neutral position as we gained airspeed. We would climb to a

cruising altitude of fifteen thousand feet. As we passed ten thousand, I made sure my oxygen

mask was snug to my face. The wheezing of the oxygen supply became noticeable over the

intercom.

“Give me a course Mac.” I was ready. We had climbed to our designated cruising altitude

and were approaching our ‘start-point’. As it was a clear night, I took advantage of the

opportunity to use my sextant to take a celestial fix. I used my Gee receiver to confirm our

location while we were still in range of the transmitters.

“Your heading is 135 Hughie. We’re making about one eighty knots ground speed. If we

don’t drift too much with that wind we should be at our target around 2300 hours.” I had become

quick with my hand held Dalton Calculator. I used it to calculate rate of fuel burn, ground speed,

corrections for wind and so on. As I busied myself with these duties, I found it hard to believe

that a little more than a year ago I had been keeping books for the city of Winnipeg.

There was little banter over the intercom. Those that could see out would be scanning the

sky. This would be the first time our nose and tail gunners would be on the look out for Gerry

fighters. We did not have a flight engineer on a Wellington so Hughie was also monitoring the

engines and watching our fuel consumption. I kept busy tracking our course and providing

Hughie corrections as required. We were about to fly over ‘enemy territory’ for the first time.

♦

The “Wimpy” seemed to know her way. She was nicely trimmed and as she flew across

the English Channel, the moonlight shimmering from the sea below highlighted her features. She

was a conventional twin-engine monoplane with a single fin and horizontal stabilizer. Her cigar

shaped fuselage and control surfaces were encased in a fabric skin painted in camouflage. The

pattern was intended to confuse enemy fighter pilots and those manning ground to air defences.

This cloak was also intended to make her difficult to pick out from the ground by marauding

enemy bomber crews intent on crippling the Allied Air Force. Her designer, Barnes Wallis, had

endowed the Vickers Wellington with a rather unique quality. The aircraft’s structural

framework was a geodetic maze of alloy trusses. This made her a very tough bird.

The clear sky was not a welcome condition for those us. We were about to fly over

enemy territory. In addition to German radar, ground spotters would easily be able to pick out the

medium bombers. Fortunately, the forecast of low stratus cloud cover did move in, thank God for

us all. We flew on… No flak! No fighters! Our propaganda mission of just a few aircraft had not

attracted the attention of German ground defences. There may have been an Allied bombing raid

scheduled for this night that was drawing attention away from us. Paris, the city of light, was not

a city of light but was cloaked in a wartime blackout. I was somewhat relieved that we did not

have to wreak hell on this city renowned for its art galleries, historical buildings, museums and

so forth. My mind had had already started to block the potential toll on the human population

that our war machines could deliver as predicted by H.G, Well’s ‘Things to Come’ and James

Hilton’s ‘Lost Horizon’.

“Give me a course to get us home Mac.” I had the reverse course ready.

“Turn to bearing three fifteen. Ted will give you the QDMs when we near the channel.”

Ted was our Wireless operator. He looked after general communication and most importantly

would receive the QDM’s or the radio signals that would give us our heading to get us back to

our base.

♦

We were on our way back to the English Channel coast. The tension had started to ease

and it looked like this operation was going to turn out to be a milk run.

“I think we have a problem with our port engine. Oil pressure’s dropping dramatically.”

Hughie came over the intercom. “I’m going to shut her down and save her for our approach.”

I popped my head up into the astrodome and scanned the port engine. Oil was streaming

from the rear of the cowling.

“We must have blown a seal.” I contributed.

“That must be it. This just happened suddenly. I could keep pumping oil into her but we

don’t want to exhaust the reservoir.”

Hughie shut the port engine down and pushed the feathering switch to reduce the drag on

the prop. He then increased power to the starboard engine and adjusted the aircraft’s trim to

compensate for the imbalance.

We knew that the aircraft could stay airborne on one engine, especially with our current

load. However, these Wellingtons had been in service for some time and had been relegated

primarily to training and other lower risk combatant duties. We were confident in our ground

crew but with the demands on these aircraft, it was to be expected that there could be some

maintenance problems.

I became aware of Hughie’s calm but assertive voice being directed at me. “Mac we’re

going to need a new course. With the extra strain on the starboard engine I would like to put her

down as soon as possible. Give our current position to Ted so he can radio it in.” We were all

beginning to learn that our pilot was as ‘cool as a cucumber’ regardless of the pressure on him.

The bomber’s starboard engine provided the electrical power for our electronics. Good thing -

Ted could continue to communicate with the outside world.

“If our starboard engine goes we may need to ditch over the Channel boys. Put on your

parachutes and clip your inflatable dinghy’s to them. I found mine and made sure that Hughie’s

chute and dinghy were close by. It was good policy to plan for the worst but hope for the best.

“Any ideas for a base we could use for an emergency landing Mac?” We had flown lots

of ‘Cross Countries’ in the last couple of months so I wracked my brains for something that

might do the job. I knew that we would be crossing the coast near Le Havre and there would be

quite a bit of ‘Channel’ to cross. Nobody wanted to ‘ditch’. The water was freezing and German

patrol craft could be looking for us.

“Thorney Island has a Coastal Command air station. It’s just northeast of the Isle of

Wight. We should be able to get in there.”

“Let’s try for it. Give me a course?”

We crossed the coast at three thousand feet miraculously avoiding anti-aircraft batteries.

Hughie did not try to restart the port engine as he felt that he could hold our current rate of

descent and we didn’t need an engine fire to contend with. It was black as coal outside. Nothing

could be seen. With Gee to help me, I was able to keep Hughie on course and give him updates

on our position.

A beacon appeared that flashed the two-letter ‘pundit’ code for Thorney Island. We were

on our approach. Runway lights mysteriously came on at half power. They knew we were

coming in - thank God for that. Hughie was able to set our venerable aircraft down. As we

slowed, a ‘follow me’ van appeared to guide us to a vacant ‘pan’. A crew bus was waiting to take

us from there to what I hoped would be a hot breakfast, a shot of rum to calm my nerves and then

maybe a shower.

The following day Hughie and I went for stroll knowing that we had a bit of time before the

ground crew would have our ‘crate’ ready. We came across a little cottage pub. On entering an

elderly gent, who we assumed was the landlord, beckoned us to a couple of seats by the fire. His

locally brewed ale was on the house. We each sipped a mug of his amber elixar while reflecting

on the events of the night before. It had been quite an initiation for a new crew.

Winnie

The sound of the Glenn Miller ‘ersatz’ band echoed throughout the cavernous interior of

the hanger. Young men in RAF and RCAF dress uniforms were clustered here and there

throughout the recently swept concrete floor. Most had made an attempt to be presentable with

their grey-blue wool serge uniforms pressed and shoes gleaming from a recent spit and polish.

The station commander realized that it was important for these young people to get to know each

other. The aircrew trainees were going to depend on each other’s support in the immediate

future. Most were in their late teens or early twenties and were about to embark on a road that

they could never have imagined. Many were from Canada but there was also a good

representation from other members of the Commonwealth and her allies. They were recent

graduates of one of the many Elementary Flight Training Schools or Air Observer Schools that

had sprung up over night as part of the British Commonwealth Aircrew Training Program. It was

now time for their Operational Training. No. 23 Operational Training Unit Pershore, England

was ready for them. Many were boys that had not yet finished school. Others were farmers,

clerks, teachers, mechanics and so on, each trying to get established in a trade, business or

career. Some had yet to graduate from college. Their lives had been put on hold. Volunteering to

join the air force had seemed like the honourable and patriotic thing to do. Many of the youths

naively saw it as a bold adventure. The station commander knew, however, that they were

putting their lives on the line and the odds of their surviving a complete tour were not good. He

wanted the young men to feel comfortable and welcome in his homeland and had made the

arrangements for the dance including an open invitation to the young people from the

surrounding communities.

Kegs of local brew were being eagerly tapped at the temporary bar set up on trestle

tables. This was England and having a pint while socializing in the local pubs was part of the

culture. It was apparent that the young Canadian flyers were quite familiar with raising a few

mugs. A few loud voices and some forced laughs could be heard above the strains of the band.

The more out going men had already invited some of the local girls onto the dance floor. Others

were tapping their feet and swaying to the music, hoping that one of the flyboys would approach

them. Swing was king and these young people were ready to swing and sway.

Rod Mackenzie was chatting with his new friend Hughie Dyer. They had recently met

and discovered that they were both from Manitoba, Canada. More importantly, Hughie was a

pilot looking for a navigator. Rod was impressed with Hughie’s aura of self-confidence. He was

also aware that he had accumulated over a thousand flying hours as an instructor. Hughie needed

a navigator and was getting the feeling that this skinny kid from Winnipeg might just do the job.

He had a tendency to mouth off, especially after a few drinks but Rod seemed to have the no

nonsense dedication and commitment he was looking for. The two had learned that they had each

lost a brother to the war. Rod’s brother Doug had been shot down while flying his Halifax

bomber over Holland just a few months earlier. Only one of the crew, the tail gunner, had

survived the assault by the FW 190. He had parachuted to safety. The Dutch resistance had

helped him find his way back to the coast and ultimately across the North Sea on a fishing

trawler to be picked up by a Royal Navy coastal patrol boat. Hughie did not know what had

happened to his brother, John, other than that he was missing in action and presumed dead. His

sister, Bessie was a nursing sister working at a hospital in Basingstoke, England.

Rod was eyeballing an attractive girl with curly dark brown hair and a slim but well

proportioned figure. He had been drawn to her warm smile and occasional outburst of laughter as

she chatted with her companions.

“ Come on Mac ... ask her to dance. You’ve been staring at her for the last fifteen minutes

and if you don’t somebody else will.” Hughie encouraged. Rod drained his mug and handed it to

Hughie. “Okay, here I go.”

“Excuse me ladies.” Rod approached the group and there was a twitter. He swallowed

then blurted out. “I’m looking for a dance partner and was wondering if I you would care to join

me?” He turned to the girl he had been observing. She looked at him with a sheepish grin then

replied, “Blimey! Sure, why not. Oh … I’m Winnie.

“Pilot Officer Rod Mackenzie at your service mum.” Rod was proud of having recently

earned his commission and thought he would put on a little pomp.

Rod took Winnie’s hand, guiding her to a clear area of the dance floor. ‘In the Mood’ was

just ending so they waited for the band to begin it’s next number. Rod recognized the intro to

Benny Goodman’s ‘Fascinating Rhythm’ and they were away. He was a natural on the dance

floor and was immediately impressed by Winnie’s effortless responses to his lead. He also

reflected on how well this Brit band was doing with these American pop tunes. One great tune

after another followed - ‘Stardust’, ‘Take the A Train’, ‘I’ve Got Rhythm’… Rod and Winnie

continued to glide effortlessly around the dance floor attracting the attention of many on the

sidelines.

“Where are you from Winnie?” Rod tried to come up with the appropriate small talk.

“I live with my parents in Worcester (pronounced Wooster) which isn’t too far from here.

You should know that I’m doing my bit for the war effort too. I joined up with the WAAF’s and

I work on this base”

“What sort of things do they have you doing Winnie?” Rod was relieved that the ice was

broken and they now had something to talk about. He knew that he wanted to see this girl with

the wonderful smile and the great dancing legs again.

“I have a very important job. I may even save your life someday.” Rod raised his

eyebrows and looked at Winnie in amusement and maybe with a bit of arrogance. Winnie

continued defensively. “You’re darn right. If you have to jump out of your airplane someday you

better hope that us girls have packed your parachute properly - that’s what I do. I’m a parachute

packer.” Winnie stated emphatically.

Rod was impressed. “Well I am pleased and relieved. You seem like the type of girl to do

a neat and tidy job of it.” Rod was hoping that he hadn’t insulted Winnie and was laying it on a

little thick. He was also trying to suppress his amusement with Winnie’s English Midlands

dialect. He was sure that his Canadian accent sounded strange to the locals. After all, his mom

and dad had emigrated from Scotland and Northern Ireland to seek out a better life in Canada.

♦

“Say, I’m trying to find 10 Wyld’s Lane.” Rod coasted the bike he had borrowed to a

stop. “I know its in Worcester but these directions don’t make sense. The streets and roads wind

every which way around here.”

The elderly gentleman in the tweed jacket and grey baggy pants looked quizzically at

Rod. “Where are you from young man? You’re not from around here … that’s for sure.”

“I’ve just peddled over from the RAF

Station at Pershore but I’m from Canada if you

really want to know.” Rod really wasn’t

familiar with small town nosiness.

“Ah now … Welcome to ‘Wooster’ …

and my hat is off to you for all the brave deeds

you and the other lads from the colonies are

doing. So what brings you to our little village?”

Not really wanting to fuel the local

gossip mill Rod cautiously replied. “A young

lady from the base, Winnie Bundy, invited me

to dinner with her family. We aren’t scheduled for a flight today so I thought I would pop over.”

“That’s a common name in these parts. The family you are looking for are not far from

where we stand - and mind your p’s and q’s around the missus. Now let’s see. Just continue on

along this road then make a right at …

♦

Rod wended his way along London Road looking for the Wyld’s Lane intersection. He

was attentive to the many features of this quant historical town dominated by a magnificent

cathedral. The bucolic nature of the rolling countryside and its quant farmsteads that he had

noted on his journey were right out of a Thomas Hardy novel that he had been required to read

while attending Daniel Mac back home in Winnipeg.

♦

Winnie’s dad Percy seemed like a good chap but her mom seemed to have her ‘knickers

in a knot’ most of the time. Rod couldn’t imagine what she didn’t like about him and was

relieved when Winnie had suggested they go for a stroll and maybe stop for a game of darts at a

local pub … and that crazy pet squirrel monkey … what a pest.

“Dad’s a vet. He took a ‘Gerry’ bullet in the shoulder at Dunkirk. It was lucky for him

some kids from Dover picked him with a few other wounded men right off the beach. Those

youngsters sure had guts. I’m sure that when the two lads set out in their little sailboat to cross

twenty miles of ‘Channel’ they didn’t think they were being especially brave – but then their

story is not unusual. We Brits will do whatever it takes to keep the ‘Boch’ out of our county. My

Dad can relate to what you’re up against. He’s pretty easy going and is quite content to let mom

make all the big decisions around our place.”

“What’s your mom got against me? I don’t get it. I thought I was pretty polite and all

that. I even brought her some real coffee from the Officer’s Mess and some smokes for your Dad

and your brother Burt.” Rod had no shortage of smokes and other luxuries. His family back

home kept him well stocked and he was more than willing to share his bounty.

“My Mom’s pretty moody. You never know what side of the bed she will get out of.

Some days any little thing can get her goat. I think in your case it’s two things. One - you’re

aircrew. Your chances of coming back aren’t very good and she doesn’t want my emotions

played with by someone who may be here today and gone tomorrow … if you know what I

mean. I think her main concern though is that you’re a Canadian. She’s just down right

prejudiced against you because you’re a colonial. She’s a stupid idiot. To her your just not good

enough for me.”

“Well what do you think? Do you agree with your mom?”

“Of course not but it would probably be better if you didn’t come around here much. That

doesn’t mean we can’t see each other. I’m on the base most days and although its not appropriate

for officers to have anything to do with us of the lower ranks we can work something out I’m

sure.” There was a look of mischievousness behind Winnie’s infectious grin.

♦

The English Midlands countryside

flew by. Winnie’s arms encircled his waist in

what felt like a death grip. He could barely

hear her screams of excitement. The thump of

the single cylinder engine was deafening as it

propelled his ‘recently acquired’ Ariel Red Hunter motorcycle down the country lane. The tank

mounted Smith speedometer displayed a maximum speed of one hundred miles per hour. “I’m

sure she’ll do it too.” Rod mused. “But I don’t think these brakes will stop us fast enough if one

of those hay carts appears over the next hill.” Rod shifted down to third and let the engine

compression slow them down for the next corner. He and Winnie were on their return from an

outing to Stratford – on – Avon. The two of them had been able to get leave at the same time.

Rod’s operational training was complete and he and the rest of the crew were waiting for their

transfer to a conversion unit. Heavy four engine bombers awaited them along with the daunting

tasks for which they were designed.

Rod loved his motorcycle even though he felt a slight pang of guilt as he whisked Winnie

along the lane. Its previous owner had been an English chap. He was quite tipsy throughout the

poker game and shouldn’t have put his prized Ariel ‘one lunger’ on the table. Of course, he

thought his four aces were pretty good and didn’t know that Rod was holding an unbeatable

royal flush in Spades. In addition to learning navigation in the service, Rod had also honed his

poker playing skills. He did admit to himself that this particular game had gotten quite out of

hand. He would normally withdraw from a game when the stakes got as high as they had.

Rod eased off on the throttle and kicked the bike into second as he approached the stone

bridge that crossed the Avon River on Honeybourne Road. I guess this is Bidford-on-Avon he

thought. He became aware of Winnie pounding on his back and screeching “Rod stop this

bleedin’ thing!” He pulled off, cut the engine and rested the bike on its kickstand.

There was an agonizing groan from behind. “What’s up Winnie?” and then he realized

what she had been going through for he didn’t know how many miles. Although he had lashed a

cushion to the pylon seat on the rear mudguard of the Ariel it was nowhere to be seen. He

couldn’t imagine how many miles Winnie’s rear had been pounding up and down on the little

patch of leather that was supposed to pass for a passenger seat.

“Winnie, I feel horrible. I had no idea.”

“My rear end is black and blue. I don’t think I’ll be able to sit for weeks.” Rod winced

and tried to display the proper empathy. This must be embarrassing and painful for the poor girl

and he had really hoped that she would enjoy this countryside tour on an open bike.

“Can you walk to the little pub we just passed? We can see if they will put a brew on for

us and maybe prepare a bite to eat.”

Rod swore to himself as he pushed his bike along side Winnie on the way to the pub. The

poor thing… How will I ever make this up to her? She must think that I’m an insensitive fool.

‘The Ruhr Valley Express’

Although midsummer, it was a dreary day. The mottled grey ceiling of stratus hung over

the thick, damp and chilly air that shrouded Bomber Command’s Operational Station at

Middleton, St. George in County Durham. The hanger line of hastily constructed half moon

shaped “airplane garages” was not far off. An isolated Control Tower held vigil. This was our

new home.

Before us was a Halifax bomber. The ‘Halibag’ was designed and built by the Handley

Page Corporation well known for its many bomber designs. The Halifax had become, along with

the Avro Lancaster one of the primary workhorses of Bomber Command. The aircraft had

evolved through several incarnations. This aircraft was a Mark II 1a was powered by four Rolls

Royce Merlin engines that developed 1220 horse power each. It was configured specifically for

night bombing. Its drab camouflage covering was a perfect compliment to the atmospheric

conditions at the time. German ground defences and fighter pilots that would attempt to bring us

down as we flew across the North Sea on our way to Germany’s industrial heartland. Hence the

name – ‘The Ruhr Valley Express’. A mid lower gun turret had replaced the upper dorsal which

was quite unique for this aircraft. Forward of the cockpit was the Perspex dome for the bomb

aimer. There was nothing exotic about the Halifax. Some might even call it ugly, with its

combination of box like rectangular shapes intersecting to give the machine the aeronautical

capability to lift thousands of pounds of devastation to over twenty thousand feet and convey this

to distant targets. The profile from the stern quarter revealed the twin vertical stabilizers common

to many bombers of this era. The wings were broad, providing the heavy lift required for the

bomb loads. Two huge balloon-like tires supported the wings and fuselage. The tail assembly sat

on a single smaller wheel that could be swiveled to assist maneuvering on the tarmac. Most of us

would refer to our craft as the ‘old crate’ or ‘kite’ but those who flew the Halifax came to

appreciate the ruggedness of the design. We would learn that our ‘Halibag’ could take a lot of

damage and still get us home. The Brits did scrimp on amenities. The cockpit did not include a

co-pilots position and there were no de-icing boots on the leading edges of the wings. Yet, this

particular aircraft would turn out to be our best friend time and time again.

We had been converted from the Wellington to the Halifax at Topcliffe over the previous

weeks and were now deemed ‘qualified’ for operational sorties. What would it be like to spend

hours aboard this ugly duckling of a war bird?

As we sauntered across the field, I could already see where I would be confined to

‘perform my duty’. The small Perspex dome aft of the cockpit would be near the navigator’s

station. We were to become intimately familiar with this specific aircraft. The majority of our

sorties would be flown in her. This was ‘part in parcel’ with the crew getting to know and

support each other. We would fly as a team and we came to expect each other to do our jobs

flawlessly. Although the pilot was officially the commander of the aircraft, Hughie had made it

clear to all of his crew that rank was of no significance. Each of us had expertise that would play

a critical role in accomplishing our mission and assuring our safe return to base. We had learned

how to do our jobs from a technical perspective but we all knew that it would be our respect and

support for each other that would assure our survival. Regardless of whether we were here as

loyal patriots or on what we thought was a bold adventure we had to be loyal to each other first

and foremost.

My domain on the ‘Ruhr Valley’ was cramped to say the least. I would carry out my

duties confined to a meter square work area sandwiched between the Bomb Aimer and the

Wireless Operator on the lower level. The pilot and flight engineer stations were above me. My

job, simply put, was to get us to our target and back using the navigational wizardry of the day.

This cramped space provided me with a G-Set and later an H2S display, the airspeed and ground

speed indicators, a compass and dead reckoner. There were plugs for my oxygen supply and the

internal intercom. I had a little Formica table and a place for my pencils, charts, my mechanical

calculator and so forth. When my G-Set was working properly, I would be able to verify my

fixes enroute, at least on the shorter missions. My little cubbyhole would be shut off from the

rest of the Halifax by curtains so that I could read my instruments and do my calculations under a

small fluorescent light. It would be fair to say that everything that I needed was within reach

without exaggerating.

The bomb aimer lay for most of a mission prone in the in lower half of the Perspex dome

forward of Hughie’s command post. This glass dome gave him a view of the landscape below.

He needed to be wary of the searchlights that could blind him which and make him ineffective

when approaching the target. The bomb aimer would lean on a shoulder rest to steady himself

while peering through his Sperry Bomb Sight. At the most critical part of our mission the bomb

aimer would take over the command of the aircraft. He would order the bomb bay doors opened

and direct the pilot along a track until it was time to drop the bombs either in sequence or as a

salvo. Our course would be maintained while automatic cameras recorded the destruction below.

These would be analyzed back at our station to determine the effectiveness of the raid. We would

also need to provide evidence of the destruction that had been done.

Hughie had to keep us on course based on the corrections that I would give him

throughout the mission. He would be maintaining elevation and the correct flight path with little

margin for error, especially as we got closer to the target, a point on a chart that we knew

hundreds of aircraft above, below, in front and behind us were converging on with us.

Our tail gunner was ever ready to spot and ward off night fighters from the stern with the

four Browning .303 machine guns in each turret. Our ‘Hali” had been modified to reduce drag.

We did not have a mid upper or forward gun turret. The Browning’s did not have the effective

range of the armament of the German fighters but they could keep them at a distance. The rear

gunner would also direct Hughie in the evasive maneuvers that would help us stay out of the

fighter’s sites.

We had a crew of specialists who needed to work together as a well-oiled machine

throughout each mission just as we needed to depend on the myriad of mechanical components

within our aircraft.

♦

The Raid

Note: This story was inspired by the ‘Montzen Raid’. Forty-seven Halifax and eight

Lancaster bombers participated in the Montzen raid of April 27/28, 1944. This attacked

was considered moderately successful with only half the yards damaged. The bomber

stream was attacked by German night fighters. Ten crews did not return which

represented eighteen percent of the aircraft on this mission. The Montzen Raid was the last

time 419 Squadron flew Halifax II bombers. The Halifax was replaced by the Lancaster.

The raid was also the last operational sortie flown by Flying Officer Rod Mackenzie and

his pilot Squadron Leader Hugh Dyer.

The airmen shuffled into the squadron operations room. Most were quiet, with only a few

chatting in hushed tones. I could read the myriad of moods and feelings from their facial

expressions. Some seemed to be looking over their shoulders for the grim reaper, conveying their

fear that this might be their last sortie. Others were just weary – here we go again - let’s just get

the job done. Many were bleary eyed from a night of drinking and carousing at one of the local

pubs. They had the resilience of youth however, and would be quite able to perform their duties.

There were a few that were just down right scared, they had been on a few sorties but were not

yet battle hardened. Yet, they did have the experience to appreciate how poor their odds were.

Nonetheless, there was not one of us who wanted to be labeled with having ‘low moral fiber’ so

we would do our duty. We were patiently waiting for the station commander to appear with his

entourage. The curtains behind the podium would be drawn back to disclose the huge wall maps

of England and Europe. He and the others would then provide us with the bits and pieces of

information that we would need for tonight’s mission.

♦

Part of Hughie’s morning routine was to check in at the flight office to see if there was a

battle order for the evening and if so was his crew was on the roster.

“Well Mac, we’re on for tonight. Do you think you can handle another one? Hughie

didn’t need to ask me that but he understood that with each sortie everybody’s nerves became

more frayed.

“Number thirty-three for my log book. ‘The powers that be’ have squeezed quite a bit out

of us – don’t you?”

“You’re right about that but I’ve also been informed that this sortie will be our last. We

will have completed our tour.” Hughie waited for my reaction. This mission would make it three

more than the normal tour of thirty. Many did not come close to completing a normal tour.

“Amen to that!” The previous ten months on operations had taken its toll on all of us but I

now had added responsibilities. Winnie and I had married last fall, much to her mother’s dismay.

Winnie’s Dad, Percy, had given us his blessing behind his strong willed partner’s back. He had

often met us for a few cool ones over a game of darts at one of the local pubs in Worcester. We

were expecting our first child within the next two months. If Winnie delivered a boy, we would

name him Douglas, after my brother.

♦

“Gentlemen, the target for tonight is the rail marshalling yards near Montzen, Belgium. A

success tonight will hamper the German supply lines to the coast. The 405 Pathfinder Squadron

will be ahead of the main bomber stream to light things up for you. Look for yellow flares at the

target. Lancaster and Mosquito crews will be pinpointing your target area using their H2S radar.”

The station intelligence officer was getting into the substance of the briefing. Heads were turned

and pencils were at the ready to take down pertinent information.

“Wing Commander Lane will be your Master Bomber for tonight. He will give you an

additional hand with finding your target.” This was a responsibility that I didn’t envy. Master

Bombers had tremendously improved the accuracy of our missions. Acting as the sheep dog of

the bomber stream the Master Bomber crew would circle the target and fine-tune our bomb runs

over VHF radio. All we wanted to do was get in, drop our ‘sticks’ and get out of there as fast as

we could. Our route would be heavily defended. What worried me most was the Luftwaffe night

fighter base near Montzen at Sint Truiden. To add to this threat, we would be over the target

between 13,000 and 15,000 feet, which was a little low for us, and well with in the range of anti-

aircraft batteries as well as potentially being in the path of bomb loads dropped from the

Lancasters above us.

♦

Hughie taxied to our take off position. There was radio silence as usual at the station. We

were an experienced crew. All preliminary preparation was completed thoroughly. Our rear

gunner James had loaded his ammunition boxes, tested and adjusted his turret. Hughie checked

in with each of us over the intercom while we waited our turn. After our traditional supper of

eggs and bacon, we had donned our flight suits. I adjusted Winnies tattered scarf one more time,

tucking it down inside the heavy sheared wool of my flight jacket. The heavy sheep skin flight

suits could be uncomfortably hot while we were on the ground. At cruising altitude, they would

be essential for our survival. A gunner dare not remove a gauntlet for fear of loosing a finger to

the extreme temperature of the exposed gunmetal. A crew car had taken us to our dispersal point.

The ground crew had been informed that this was to be our last mission in ‘Ruhr Valley’. They

had done an amazing job of keeping the old kite airworthy. The fuselage and wings were a

patchwork of riveted panels that hid the flak and bullet damage from our many raids. Who knew

how many time’s they had replaced or repaired the engines. There was a great deal of back-

slapping, well wishing and ‘forced’ laughter as we prepared to embark. I tossed my flight kit

through the forward hatch and followed it in for one more time.

♦

Hughie revved the engines enough to bring the bomber onto the runway. The tail swung

around and the aircraft began to shudder and rattle as he held back the growling beast while

applying more power to the Merlins. We had a full bomb and fuel load and he needed every

ounce of power he could muster to get us into the air. He was anticipating the green ‘go ahead’

light and would want to get into the air as quickly as possible. We had some low cloud to pass

through and a mid air collision was to be avoided. This was a real risk. There were forty-seven

Halifax and eight Lancaster bombers in this raid. We would be milling about while waiting for

the assigned start time of the mission. I would then give Hughie the heading that would take us

along the first leg of our journey. This was not a ‘follow the leader exercise’. Each bomber crew

found their way to the target and back independently trying to stay oblivious to the fact that the

sky was quite crowded.

A few months back one of the pilots from our squadron had witnessed a horrific mid air

collision. A Halifax had materialized like a ghost from a stratus cloud bank and clipped the nose

and wing tip of a Wellington on a ‘cross country’ training exercise. Miraculously, the pilot of the

Wellington had been able to maintain some control of his aircraft. The Halifax lost most of a

wing and crashed to the ground in a ball of flame. The pilot of the Wellington had been able to

make an emergency landing despite of the damage to his plane. The rugged geodetic

construction of the Wellington combined with the skill and steely nerves of its pilot had enabled

the crew to walk away. I am sure that a few pints were raised at the local pub that night.

Interestingly, little was said about the Halifax crew that had met such a horrible death. They were

not from the squadron…

♦

This was not just another mission. It was our last. Over the last ten months, most of us

had become somewhat desensitized to the risks attached to each mission. Crews did not return

but we tried to believe that it wouldn’t happen to us. Hughie was a great pilot and would never

let us down. Each sortie became just another aspect of our work, which we performed as

professionals. This state of mind probably was entrenched during our first month on operations.

Our raids over the industrial heartland or Germany throughout August of 1943 had been like

being hit in the face with a ball peen hammer compared to the time spent at the Operational

Training Unit near Pershore in the English Midlands. Our first raid on July 29, 1943 out of our

operational station at Middleton, St. George in County Durham had been a follow-up to a

massive raid on Hamburg a few days earlier. The result was an inferno that consumed huge areas

of the city with a considerable toll on the population. On several occasions, we had returned from

a mission to find that we were on the roster again for the following night. These were long

distance raids of up to nine hours in duration with most of this time being over enemy territory.

Much of August, 1943 was a blur…

♦

“Am I clear to test my guns?” James came over the intercom. We had flown southeast

hugging the east coast of England and were now over the channel heading for the Rhine estuary

of Holland which we would cross on the way to our target in Belgium. James wanted the

additional reassurance that his precious guns were ready for any action that might come along.

“Roger that.” Hughie responded.

I could hear and feel the short bursts that came from the Browning’s in the rear gun

turret. Our gunner was in his own world during these raids. Isolated in hi turret, the James

continuously peered into the night sky for the approach of enemy night fighters. And they would

be out there – with two bomber streams en route tonight, the German Freya and Wurzburg radar

installations would be tracking us and passing on information to coastal and inland anti-aircraft

batteries as well as night fighter bases. Some of our Halis were equipped with the new Mandrake

jamming equipment. Hopefully, the new counter measures would work. We were aware that

most German night fighters had now been equipped with Schrage Musik, two twenty or thirty

mm cannons that could fire upwards at sixty degrees. These fighters could sneak up from below

into a bombers blind spot. Initially they had fired into the bomb bay areas but had subsequently

learned that this wasn’t too healthy as they were vulnerable to the exploding debris from the

aircraft they had just attacked. Their strategy now was to fly up slightly behind and below a wing

and blow it off. Of course, the result was the same for the bomber crews.

♦

Flak was light as we crossed the coast. I could sense the occasional shudder and thump as

a shell from an ‘eighty-eight’ or a ‘one-oh-five’ exploded nearby but no shrapnel shards

penetrated our bomber’s skin. Bombers in the raid had dropped their radar jamming aluminum

foil or ‘Window’ so radar installations would be having trouble homing in on individual aircraft.

The intermittent low cloud also made it difficult for search light crews to get the bombers into

their ‘cones of death’.

♦

“Bomb doors are open …”

“Right, Steady, Steady, Left, Steady, Steady …” Swenerton, our observer and bomb

aimer, now had control of our aircraft. We were making our bomb run. He would be lying over

his bombsight working in concert with Hughie as we approached the target. We were not the first

ones in. The Pathfinders had done their jobs well and bombers preceding us had already wreaked

havoc on the rail yards below. Even behind my black out curtains, I could sense what was

happening. We were below the clouds. The loose formation of bombers was much tighter now as

we converged on a common point on our charts. No rush hour traffic jam created this kind

tension. Searchlights probed the sky, attempting to lock onto a bomber as it approached the drop

zone. Once a bomber was trapped in the blinding beacon of a search light others would converge

to create a cone that was almost impossible to escape. The bomb aimer was blinded. The pilot

would need to take immediate evasive action, usually rolling into a dive to port or starboard and

then pulling back to climb away. We did not have flak tonight. This meant night fighters!

“Steady, Left, More Left, Steady… Bombs are away!” ‘Ruhr Valley’ surged up as

Hughie tried to keep us on our track. “We’re outa here!” Swenerton had checked to make sure all

the bombs were gone. The bomb bay doors were closed. Thank God we didn’t need go around

again. Hughie held us on the heading for a bit longer while the automatic camera took its snap

shots for the Intelligence boys back at base.

“Okay, Mac. Give us a course so we can get the hell out of here.” Hughie did not need to

ask a second time. I could feel the aircraft bank to port as we came around to the bearing that I

had given him.

♦

“Corkscrew right!” James blurted over the intercom. A night fighter must have found us.

Pencils, calculator, charts, everything was flung to my right. I was literally in a tight spot, my

‘nav’ station, and was strapped in. I wasn’t going anywhere. ‘G’ forces gripped my chest and

threw me back against my harness. I became aware of my heart beating like a trip hammer and

my heavy breathing inside my oxygen mask and tasted a little bile. I was also aware of a liquid

dripping from above that I soon realized was urine. How would we get out of this dive? This

‘Halibag’ could only take so much and was almost impossible to get out of a spin because of a

tail fin design flaw.

“Billy! Give me a hand!” Our flight engineer would be in the ‘dickie’ seat next to the

pilot. I could hear Hughie grunting as he wrestled with the control column. Hughie did not have

the physical strength to pull us out of this dive by himself. The engines screamed as we

descended … and descended. My heart was now in my throat. Ever so slowly, I could feel the

aircraft level off then start to climb. As we climbed, we rolled to the left. Clack, Clack, Clack!

James was able to get off a few bursts at the ME 110 that followed us down but not before the

German air gunner had strafed us with his four 7.92 mm machine guns. The port outer engine

coughed and smoke and flames began to stream from the engine.

“Billy cut the fuel to the port outer!” Hughie commanded. Billy must have been like a

contortionist as he scrambled back to his instruments after having wrestled with the control

column. Hughie stabbed the feathering switch and the fire extinguisher. I couldn’t help but take a

peak through the my triangular portal and was grateful to see that the fire had been extinguished.

The remaining three Merlins could get us home.

“Sorry about that Mac. What was that course again?” Why didn’t the pilot of that 110

come after us again? He must have seen that we were like a wounded dog, whimpering home to

lick its wounds!

♦

Furby Street “Would you like another cup of tea and how about another oatmeal cake?” Mom prodded

Hughie. She loved to serve tea to her guests and she thought everybody would love her oatmeal

cookies. The cookies were always rock hard. When she served the cookies to my friends, they

would lick off the marmalade spread and then surreptitiously feed the biscuit to Duzzy, our

Cocker Spaniel.

“No thanks Mrs. Mackenzie. It’s about time I headed out. I need get down to the CP Station to

catch the 3:45.” The humble giant of a man looked around for his topcoat and started to work his

way towards the front entrance of our home. I could see that this had been an awkward

experience for him but I was very happy that he had taken the time to stop by.

I walked with Hughie to Portage Avenue where he would take a trolley bus to the CP station.

The train that he would catch would take him back to Minnedosa, his wife, family, friends and a

life that I knew that he had pined for.

“I guess it was just ‘dumb luck’ wasn’t it?” Hughie mused half out loud.

“Luck, fate, what every you want to call it. We had a lot going for us though.” I interjected. “It

was kind of you to suggest to mom that I brought you home but really – I was just doing my job

as we all were. Also, I had faith in you and you never let any of us down. We saw you maintain

your nerve and focus when many others would or could not.”

“But we were fortunate. We had a good crew. We got along well and everybody knew his job.

Our ground crews kept us in the air with minimal mechanical problems. Look at all of the guys

that never made it back because of equipment malfunction or mishaps while training. These were

things that were out of our control.”

“Harris was smart too. He knew that his bombers were fodder for the fighters and ack ack crews

so he just sent more planes. They could only nail so many of us and the rest would get through.

That was the plan with the North Atlantic naval convoys too. Put a bunch of ships together and

the odds are that lots will get through. The U-boats only had so many torpedoes.”

I waved goodbye to Hughie. We would see each other from time to time over the years but the

occasions became less frequent. His farm near Minnedosa made a good destination for a Sunday

road trip. Winnie and I would often take our boys; Doug, Craig and Alan out for a visit. Our

daughter, Laurel would never get to meet Hughie. Then Hughie moved out to Vancouver Island.

A few cards were exchanged at Christmas …

♦

Author’s Commentary Bomber Command’s primary task was to destroy Germany’s economic, industrial and military

strength. Bomber Command was actively involved in the Allied war effort from the first to

almost the last day of the war. Air and ground crew came from throughout the British

Commonwealth as well as including many who had escaped from occupied countries. There

were approximately 125, 000 men and women serving in Bomber Command. 55, 888 were

killed in action or while on active service. Another 9,162 were wounded.

‘dumb luck’ by craig mackenzie - nlis.canlis.ca/cmack/shortstorys/mystories/dumbluck.pdfwhile...

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