Page 28 Daily Mail, Monday, August 19, 2019
Steely confidence: Guy Gibson (circled) with his Lancaster bomber crew before the raidroutes to the Ruhr valley were
marked with red tapes. The hum
of chatter was stilled, and the men
rose to their feet as Gibson and a
group of high-ranking officers
marched in to give them their
final briefing.
Gibson gazed at his men with a
pride that was wholly justifiable,
reflecting upon what he had made
them in a few short weeks. They had
been ‘rather tousled and a little
scruffy... But now they were experts,
beautifully trained, and each one
knew his job as well as any man had
ever known any job he was to do’.
His confidence was an
overstatement: some would
struggle, and indeed die, that
night, because Chastise demanded
from them more than they were
capable of giving.
It is a deeply moving aspect of
the operation that, in an age when
the concept of duty meant much
to many people, the aircrew of 617
would strive to the limits of their
powers, and beyond, to do what
was now to be asked of them.
Gibson began by introducing his
principal guest, the white-haired,
studious-looking engineer
Barnes Wallis.
This naturally gentle man
assumed the fervour and convic-
tion of a missionary priest as, with
the aid of blackboard and chalk,
he explained the evolution and
workings of his extraordinary
Weapon — the cylindrical bouncing
bomb (codename Upkeep) that
could be dropped on the water,
spinning as it went, and skip like a
stone across the surface to crash
into the dam wall and explode.
The pilots and navigators were
hearing of something so
remarkable, so far beyond their
experience and — for almost all
those present — a literal matter of
life and death, that Wallis was
never in danger of losing his
audience. Bomb-aimer Jim Clay
later observed he thought it
incongruous that such a gentle,
kindly-looking figure ‘should be
involved with devastation’.
Then it was Gibson’s turn to
rehearse the operational details
for the three successive waves of
bombers that would do the job.
They would fly 500 miles to the
target area at a low level of 100ft to
escape the attentions of enemy
radar. Accurate map-reading was
vital; so too was sticking tightly to
routes and turning points
painstakingly plotted to sidestep
known enemy concentrations of
anti-aircraft guns. But light flak
would pose a threat throughout,
he warned.
When — and if — they reached
the dams, the really dangerous
work would begin.
The briefing broke up, leaving
every man thoughtful, some more
bullish than others. At 1930 the
fliers adjourned either to officers’
or sergeants’ messes for the usual
pre-flight meal.
Security had billed that evening’s
activity as merely another round of
training, but those with eyes to see
noticed that bacon and eggs were
being served, luxuries in wartime
Britain which were readily
accessible only to men not unlikely
to be dead before morning in their
country’s service. At 2000, ninety
minutes before the first take-offs,they drifted towards the crew
rooms to strip themselves of
personal possessions, don flying
kit, collect parachutes, flight bags
and flying rations –— chocolate,
sandwiches, fruit juice, an orange,
chewing gum — and escape
equipment, consisting of Dutch
and German currency, miniature
compass and silk maps.T
Hen they lay on the
grass chatting, smoking,
in the beauty of a fine
summer’s evening. Men
solemnly shook the hands of
friends and said goodbye.
Gibson later described his own
sensations at such moments, when
almost every flier’s anticipation
was at its most acute: ‘Your stom-
ach feels as though it wants to hit
your backbone. You can’t stand
still. You laugh at small jokes,
loudly, stupidly. You smoke far too
many cigarettes, usually onlyhalf-way through, then throw them
away. Sometimes you feel sick and
want to go to the lavatory.
‘The smallest incidents annoy
you and you flare up on the slight-
est provocation... All this because
you’re frightened, scared stiff.’
He had learned how to conquer
it, however, and sometimes showed
himself harshly unforgiving
towards others who were
less fortunate.
For all the breezy confidence that
most men exuded when among a
crowd, Flt Sgt Bill Townsend, a
veteran of 26 operations, was
convinced that they were all ‘for
the chop’.
John Hopgood told Dave
Shannon: ‘I don’t think I’m coming
back.’ Lewis Burpee, whose wife
was expecting their first baby,
shook the hand of fellow-Canadian
Ken Brown, saying ‘Goodbye Ken’
with undisguised finality. One rear-
gunner spoke confidently about
the occupants of other aircraft who
shared their bus to the dispersals:‘You know those two crews aren’t
coming back, don’t you?’
Thirty minutes later, Gibson gave
the word: time to go. Buses and
trucks bore the airmen to their
planes, and they clambered
aboard. At 2100 a red light soared
from the Very flare pistol of
Gibson’s Lancaster, G-George, to
signal them to start engines.
An airman on the ground gave a
thumbs-up, signalling that the
wooden wheel stops had been
dragged clear, followed by a hiss of
air as brakes were released.
One by one the big aircraft began
to bump across the field.
The Reserve Wave crews watched
almost in disbelief as the first
planes lifted off ‘with this enor-
mous thing, almost like a garden
roller, hanging underneath’.FOR Me, the so-called Dam-
busters represent an emotional
journey from my own childhood,I
n THe smoke-filled briefing room, front
gunner Fred Sutherland, 20, gazed in
dismay at the model of the Möhne, took
in the fact that they would be flying at
night by just the light of the moon andconcluded: ‘We didn’t have a hope.’
The next evening — May 16 — the crews assembled
at 1800 hours, seated on lines of benches.
On a dais was a large map of europe on which their
Countless words have
been written about the
Dambusters raid. But a
new book by historian
MAX HASTINGS — who,
since childhood, has been
transfixed by the airmen’s
skill and heroism — brings
it to life as never before...
hour by nerve-jangling hour
by Max
Hastings
Picture: POPPERFOTO / GETTY / PAAT EXACTLY 9am on May 15, the Air Ministry
sent a ‘most immediate, most secret’ order
to High Wycombe: ‘Op. CHASTISE. Immediate
attack of targets “X”, “Y”, “Z” approved.
Execute at first suitable opportunity.’
It was the go-ahead for one of the most
audacious raids of World War II.
X, Y and Z were the Möhne, Eder and Sorpe
dams, holding back millions of gallons of
water. If breached, it would pour through
the Ruhr valley, Nazi Germany’s industrial
heartland, and ruin Hitler’s war machine.
From High Wycombe, Bomber Command
dispatched the order to 617 Squadron at
RAF Scampton in Lincolnshire.
There the crews of 19 Lancaster bombers —
133 men in all — were let in on the ‘Big
Thing’ as their skipper called it, the mission
behind the past eight weeks of training.
They’d carried out hours of gruelling low-
level flying, skimming the countryside at a
death-defying 100ft, under the critical eye
of 24-year-old Wing Commander Guy
Gibson, veteran of 72 bomber operations
and 99 sorties as pilot of a night-fighter.
Small in stature, he was tough, demanding
and peremptory in manner. As one gunner
said sourly, he was the sort of ‘little bugger
always jumping out from behind a hut and
telling you your buttons were undone’.
When the targets were finally revealed to
the crews, some sighed with relief. They’d
feared having to attack heavily defended
submarine pens.
The dams seemed easier — until they heard
about the steep wooded terrain protecting
them, the anti-torpedo nets strung across
the surface and the near impossible
approach run. In a thrilling extract from his
book, MAX HASTINGS recounts the tension
of those raids in 1943 in amazing detail...