For King and Country

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO - Part One​

Through adversities we'll conquer.
Blaze into the stars,
A trail of glory
We'll live on land and sea
'Til victory is won.
Men in blue the skies are winging
In each heart one thought is ringing.
Fight for the right,
God is our might,
We shall be free​

RAF Kimbolton
Huntingdon
Cambridgeshire, England
June 14, 1940
0945 hours Greenwich Mean Time

The aircraft commanders walked into the briefing room that was normally a hanger, past armed Air Police troopers who grimly checked the identification tags of each man before allowing them past their checkpoint. Once inside, greetings were exchanged between those who knew each other while respectful nods were given to those who were known only by face. The atmosphere warred between the a school like jubilation prior to a important sporting event and the solemnity found inside a quiet church just prior to the beginning of the opening hymn. The men knew something big was in the works, if not for the simple presence of not only Bomber Command’s Air Marshal Sir Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt but both Command Chiefs, Air Vice Marshal Arthur Tedder and Air Commodore Sir Thomas Walker Elmhirst, Escort Command’s Sir Arthur Harris, than for the simple fact that every aircraft within Strategic Command was being swarmed over by every available ground crew on the huge aerodrome.

After taking a quick glance at the slightly shrouded map that dominated one end of the converted hanger, the pilots would slowly take a seat take out a grease pencil for notes and waited to begin scribbling on the big celluloid pads strapped to the knees of the thermal flight suits. Sitting near the back as was his custom, Flight Lieutenant Jackson Dysart glanced about and wondered just where he and his fellow pilots were headed this evening and just how many would not make it back. Only twenty-four years old, Dysart was already a veteran of thirty combat missions flying the old Armstrong Whitworth A.W.38 Whitley over Germany, all of them within Strategic Command, and had been well respected enough by his Squadron Commander to be elevated from simple aircraft commander to Flight Commander for the squadron’s third flight of bombers, Blue Section. As both pilot and Flight Leader he had enjoyed the successes of the RAF’s heavy bomber raids against Germany’s industrial heartland, and while intellectually understanding that the Whirlwinds in AC Harris’ Escort Command could not keep up with the tempo of Bomber Command’s operations, the young Flight Lieutenant still had reservations about Air Marshal Ludlow-Hewitt AVM Tedder and AC Elmhirst switching Strategic Command’s missions from daylight to night raids. While not afraid of flying by night, Dysart knew that it would only be a matter of time before the Germans developed a better defense that would take away the bombers’ veil of darkness, and the thought of that time approaching did send icy tendrils of fright down Dysart’s back when he lay in his bed.

The room grew quiet when the Air Police guards closed the doors and a bantam sized Wing Commander strode up to the top of the dais that had been erected in the hanger. Dysart smiled at the sight of the officer, recalling the same officer a little over ten months ago delivering the briefing on Operation MAELSTROM. Barred from participation in that operation due to an injury that occurred slightly before the war had started, the Wing Commander had transferred out of Tactical Command and had come over to Strategic Command and was now Dysart’s Squadron Leader. Waiting a few seconds for the last of the muttering to quiet, the Wing Commander stood with fists on hips, one leg planted and the other resting on the heel of his foot, the toes of his flying boots pointing upward toward the hanger’s rafters. Judging the time to be right, the officer began.

“Good morning, gentlemen, my name is Wing Commander Lewis St. Nylan,” he boomed from the stage. “We are here this morning to discuss the combined raid conducted by both of Bomber Command’s combat commands, namely you chaps in AVM Tedder’s Command A and the lads like myself who are flying in AC Elmhirst’s Command B. The code name for our mission is Operation PERSECUTION, and the target for tonight’s raid is Berlin.”

Recovering from the shock of all five hundred seventy-six aircraft of Strategic Command bombing one single target location, and recovering quicker that the majority of the other pilots within the hanger turned briefing room, Dysart glanced around to gauge the reactions of those men who would be flying with him through the dangerous night air. Seated to his left was the big Canadian with the slow, easy grin from 586 Squadron that was in Command B’s second wing, Douglas Mackenzie. With slow deliberate strokes, he had printed "Berlin" at the top of his pad and then embellished it with a scroll before looking up at Dysart and winking slowly. “Old Adolph’s not going to be getting much sleep tonight, eh?”

Dysart was about to make his own joking reply when St. Nylan’s voice echoed forth from the front of the hanger again. “Alright gentlemen, cut the chatter, there’ll be enough time for that later. Now pay attention. Seeing as this is going to be the first full force raid we’ve attempted, there are going to be some changes to our flight operations.”

At the groans and catcalls that erupted at the Wing Commander’s comments, the officer simply raised his hand and spoke in a voice that had to have been borrowed by some regimental sergeant-major from the British Army. “That will quite enough, my lads or I’ll arrange for your transfers to flying Albatross’ over at Air Transport Command!”

“I thought you would all feel that way,” St. Nylan continued in the suddenly quiet hanger. While there was nothing overtly dangerous at being a transport pilot, each man in the hanger room would freely admit that at least flying a Halifax, even if it was over Berlin, as much safer than flying an unarmed Albatross whilst ferrying Paras behind enemy lines. “As you all know, or should, Handley Page included the AMES Type 7000 radio navigation system in the Halifax, and we will be using that tonight to assist us in our little jaunt over Jerry land.”

The AMES Type 7000, or GEE, was a recently developed radio navigation system that had been proven to greatly increase aircraft navigation accuracy and thereby increase the destructiveness of Strategic Command’s bombing raids. The system had three stations, one master and two slaves which sent out precisely timed pulses. The master station would send a pulse followed two milliseconds later by a double pulse. The first slave station would send a single pulse one millisecond after the master's single pulse, and the second slave would send a single pulse one millisecond after the master's double pulse, with the whole cycle being repeated on a four millisecond cycle. On board the RAF’s heavy bombers, the signals from the three stations were received and the slaves’ signals would be displayed as blips on an oscilloscope. As the scope timing was controlled by the pulses from the master station, the scope gave the difference in reception time of the pulses and thereby the relative distance from the master and each slave, from there a navigation charge with several hyperbolae plotted on it, with each hyperbolic line representing a line of constant time difference for the master and one slave station, would be consulted by the bombers’ navigator. Said navigator simply had to find the intersection of the two hyperbolae representing the two slave stations and an accurate rendering of the aircraft’s location was able to be determined, something that was quite useful for a bomber flying in the dark of night over enemy territory.

“Now, with the inclusion of the AMES, we’ve determined that rather than each Wing fly a separate route to the target, and face Jerry’s night fighters alone,” St. Nylan continued, “each Wing will fly a common route at the same speed to and from tonight’s target. Within that route, each squadron of each Wing throughout both commands will be allotted a specific altitude band and a time slot to be within that band. The boffins up at RAF Uxbridge are calling this tactic ‘the bomber stream’, and thanks to a series of flight tests, it has been proven to reduce the risk of collision between our aircraft."

Stepping to the edge of the dais and clasping a pointer behind his back, the Wing Commander paused and glanced throughout the pilots. “I know that there are quite a few of you out there who are questioning right now the rationale if not sanity of Command for changing tactics. And while normally I would tell you that you can keep questioning so long as follow your orders, Command wanted this to be stressed to you all. This mission is the first step in a massive deployment of the Empire into the war again, hence every single bomber available participating in this mission, and London wants this raid to inflict the maximum amount of damage upon Jerry with a minimal amount of loss to we lucky bomber sods. So, keep that in mind, and push your questions on the sanity of the tactic out of your heads.”

At the soft chuckles that echoed in response to St. Nylan’s words, the Wing Commander turned the briefing over to meteorologist and intelligence officers. While the weather boffin began his briefing, young Flight Lieutenant Jackson Dysart listened with only a portion of his mind. He remotely heard of the forecast for over the target was to be the kind prayed for by night flying bomber, namely cloudy with very limited moon light, and even noted it on the pad attached to his leg, but his main thoughts were on what sort of impact upon the war this raid was going to have and if this would be the mission that he would fail to be able to bring his crew back home safely. Squirming in his seat in an attempt to hide the shakes that struck his body when he began thinking along those lines, Dysart was brought back from his fears when a different voice began to speak. “Gentlemen, I am Squadron Leader van Breedenkamp,” the distinct South African accented voice announced, “and I’m here to apprise you on what you can expect from Jerry’s aero-defenses tonight.”

Able to square his mind with learning of what he would be facing, Dysart was able to qualm his shakes, which he knew he should speak of with his squadron’s medical officer even if that meant the M.O. would ground him. Confident in his young mind that he could handle his bruised nerves, the pilot listened intently and scrawled notes across the pad on his knee. “You lads all know about the ack-ack, varying from 20 mm. on the light end of the equation, up through the 37 mm., the 40 mm. quad guns, and finally reaching Jerry’s favorite, his 88 mm. monsters. With the advances they’ve been able to make through Belgium and into France, they have been able to lace the southern avenue into Germany with several bands of their guns. Our northern approach over the North Sea is more viable despite the roaming collections of flak ships the Kriegsmarine likes to send out in the evenings.”

Raising his hand calmingly at the angry muttering that arose from the mention of the German flak ships, van Breedenkamp continued, “The Royal Navy has made it a priority for their motor torpedo boat squadrons to seek out and at the very least disrupt Jerry’s flak ships and it will improve your moods to know that two days ago our brethren in the Senior Service managed to sink one of them, “Herman” as a matter of a fact, and put some serious damage upon another, “Fritz”, so that should put a serious crimp in that threat.”

“Don’t become all that overjoyed,” the South African officer continued after the cheers raised at the news diminished, “you still have to deal with Jerry’s spotlights, which have become numerous enough to make pre-blackout Piccadilly seem somber, as well as his night-fighters. For the spotlights we have no counter save the night sky itself, you’ll just have to use your skills to evade the light as best you can… the night-fighters, however, we have come up with a counter. I cannot go into very much detail, but suffice to say that Jerry will not be alone in the night, not tonight.”

Stepping down and being replaced by Air Marshal Ludlow-Hewitt, Dysart and the other pilots barely had time to contemplate the cryptic words spoken by the South African. The Air Marshal allowed the speculative buzz to burn about for several seconds before he began speaking. “Gentlemen, while there will be individual Wing briefings held prior to lunch and your departure, I want to stress to you that the success of this raid will be dependent upon you pilots maintaining your squadron concentrations. If you keep your kites in formation, each one of you will be able to assist in the defense of your fellows. This is an important raid, symbolically and in regards to the amount of material damage you will be able to inflict upon the Germans. This will be the largest bomber raid ever conducted in the history of aerial warfare and if it proves effective, it may greatly shorten the war. I wish you good luck, and God speed.”

“Lunch for all flight crews will be served promptly at 1145,” a loud Scottish brogue barked over the murmuring that broke out following the Air Marshal’s brief words, “with final Wing briefings beginning promptly at 1230 hours. Until then, DIS-missed!”

**

Up Next: Into the air with our intrepid airmen of the RAF! Stay tuned!

Actually, game wise its six wings, but story-wise, I've done some "constructive" re-orgainization of the RAF command structure, hence almost 600 bombers going on this little soiree. What sort of impact does this raid have game wise... well, I actually found it and my previous strat bombing runs to but a small hurting on the German AI's infrastructure and resources, but more importantly, it forced the Germans AI to pull fighter and interceptor units off the front lines to defend Germany. That allowed me to more easily control the air over the front lines... with devestating impact. But more of that later...

Update perhaps today, depending on the amount of work I get done. But I'm thinking you'll all like it.... I hope.

Thanks again, one and all, for your words of encouragement and kindly stopping by to take a gander at my little work ( ) here.