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308 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2010
There were clouds this evening in Bomber County, and at 1800 the meteorological station at Mildenhall, north-east of Cambridge, recorded a temperature of 73 degrees and a firm southerly breeze. The squadron log notes: ‘Conditions on take-off anything but ideal,’ but at twenty-two minutes past eleven Lancaster [bomber] 5686 lifts up, third in the stream.
Along the runway, the Lancaster leans to port, and my grandfather counters in a push upon the throttle; a last shaking, a shrug of metal upon rubber, rubber upon tarmac, and up at ninety-five miles per hour. At 500 feet he raises the flaps and the nose pulls down. The take-off rhythm rattles out and smoothes now. They are climbing at close to 150 miles per hour, and he clicks off the fuel booster pumps. The cloud is thick with other planes so this must be precise and now the plane is smaller for a moment, one among the crowd. Inside the plane are one 4,000 lb bomb and eight bundles of incendiaries, each a dozen skinny sticks. The big raid tonight is on Dusseldorf, with 783 planes, but they had flown out forty minutes before. My grandfather’s plane is one of seventy-two on Munster and they gather just north of Southwold, on the English coast, at half past midnight, and turn south-east.
. . . at nineteen minutes past one and 15,000 feet a Messerschmitt prowls past a Halifax from my grandfather’s bomber group; rear and mid-upper gunners shoot back and the German plane sheers off. Just to their north, twelve minutes later, another night-fighter is seen and vanishes . . .