The Night Lights of Berlin (Short Story, fictional)

Hi everyone, here is one of my first short stories. I am a pure amateur so please forgive any virgin writing errors. This is a fictional mix of actual war stories I heard from WW2 RAF/RAAF pilots, so please enjoy.

The Night Lights of Berlin

The bitter cold October night started to set in, it was 6:12pm. Jerry was pounding London hard and we were itching to return the favour. The new Prime Minister, that joker, Mr Churchill calls it the Battle of Brittan, but strewth, hasn't Jerry been bombing us since '39. The warmth of the operations shack bars some of the frisky cold, and my crew huddle close, as close as 7 men would allow themselves to get. The C.O. calls us to attention and gives us the pickings for the night. “Lads, Fritz has stepped up the shenanigans in order to soften us up for an invasion.” grumbles circulate the room. “After the successful hit on the oil tanks at Rotterdam, Bomber Command wants to put you Stirling boys to a harder task”, looks of both joy and suspicion and lots of head bobbing flood the room. The new Stirling Bomber was a beast of a machine, making our Hampdens look like moths! Though slower, they carried a big punch, a 14,000 pound punch. “Bomber Command wants to put an end to Fritz's plans by taking out two key targets. The plane factory here at Augsburg...” the C.O.'s pointer raps the map with too much enthusiasm, that it threatens to pop of its nails. “and the Stendal Airfield outside Berlin, here!” a short cheer waddles up from the men.

“You will fly in formation till the French coast, then split in two and head for your designated targets.” The rest of the hour was the relevant information for both drops. Our Pilot, Captain Pendal jotted his information, as did myself, flight engineer, and Piglet and Stumpy the bomb-aimer and navigator. The obligatory solutes were given and we headed to the door. “And chaps!” the C.O. Stops us at the door, “Come home...... Crumpets and cream for breakfast, you know how the cook hates having leftovers!” His dry humour brings a hardy throng of laughter from the crews but we all leave through the door with thoughts of those already lost and whether we would be the next ones to “buy the farm”. Once settled in our Stirling, the captain and I fire up the engines, “Firing number one”, “Firing!” I yell back. The spluttering thuds of the Bristol shudder the plane, number three and four roar in time soon after but two is slow and chuggs in a different tune, Captain Pendal looks to me, exasperation etched his brow, “I thought the mechanic fixed that two!” “He did, said it was singing like a soprano” I replied. A coy smile comes over Captain, “Well I think number two soprano is singing Das Lied der Deutschen, because it sure doesn’t sound like God save the King!”.

We taxied to the runway and waited for our turn, checking and double checking everything, every second waiting, building the tension. A “Here we go lads” from the Captain springs my head up, Stirlings 5 and 6 sprint away and our throttle gurgles the motors on full, two whimpers then complies, leaving me to wonder if it will last the take-off let alone the flight. The rumbling roll tightens my gut. I want to close my eyes, not wanting to see death head on, as the silhouette of the tree line looms closer, but juggling the power and watching the gauges keeps my attention from the full thought. The behemoth lifts, swaggering over the barrier and into the night sky. To our left is the buzz of a fellow Stirling, Gergan's crew, giving us the lead so as not to collide. Blind bats into the heavens and beyond to the Fuhrer.

The miles slowly clock behind us, the English coast gone beneath our feet. Eyes wearily searching for the vultures of death, the Luftwaffe. Their steeds of choice were the Ju 88 or the Bf 110, both deadly in the right hands. Watching for anything to tell us their there, an exhaust flash, a shadow passing the star-field or even a careless crewman waving their light around. Unseen is the French coast, but we know its there, we feel it's borders wash over us as we alter course to our target, Stendal Airfield. Captain Pendal starts to get chatty with the crew, a habit he started in the early days of the war flying Whitleys. Pendal lost two crewmen, both were tail gunners, and never knew till he landed. The turrets had been shot right off the plane. Being killed was scary, but plummeting to your death, not the best way to go.

Fear fills us as we see ahead the flash of Berlin flak bursts trying to down the planes ahead, prays are whispered, loved one's photos kissed, Pendal chatting on. We enter the gauntlet of flak, feeling the percussion of the bursts, the closer, least deadly ones pelt harmless shards at our hulk. A Gerry has his eyes on and lobs a few good shots in our direction, bursts fill our vision and rock the plane like a mad bull being spurred. Piglet curses loud from the front gun port, as he rides the bull from right between the horns. “I'm going to kick that Gerry in the googlies if he keeps that up!” retorts Peter “Piglet” MacCootty. Our smiles are quick wiped as engine three grinds its final regards. Worry slinks in as the remaining engines take up the slack but two starts whistling a ditty to chill the soul. We look ahead to our fate and the mission, the drop zone coming fast.

The Sterling is bounced around the sky by the heavily concentrated flak, so much so that Piglet is hard pressed to keep his eye to the bomb sights. He scans the city below through his gun port to spare his eye any more bruising, “Bay doors open!” as he spots the target closing. The rush of air, flak and engine noise fills the cabin loudly as the doors creep open. He waits, then springs to the bomb sights, Piglets eye and sights meet as flak unite the two with a thud. “Away!” screams Piglet in both pain and excitement. The click of clamps and then the fading wails of many bombs falling to their death. A blinding flash and we are thrown like a rag dolls in our seats.

We gain ourselves and Pendal slowly slides the Sterling into a wide left to avoid clashing with the other bombers behind. Our load is gone but Jerry still fills our path with as much determined, hateful flak as he can muster. After a northward exodus we round our nose to home and the Berlin fireworks fall behind our plane. The excitement of the raid left our ears deaf to the scares of our plane. A mocked frown crosses Captain Pendal's face and turns to me, “Jocky, nobody is talking to me, go see what's happened”. Without hesitation I've jumped from my seat, and turned to go. My foot and body realises before I, that there is something wrong with the floor of the Sterling and I froze there and then. I look down at my feet and instead of a sturdy floor, I see my foot hanging half over the darkened void that is the german countryside as it slides below me. In turn I look up to see stars fill the equally large hole above my head. Now logic hits that a jerry flak shot has ripped a path through the plane just behind our seats, a foot or two closer or even if the flak went off in the cabin, we all would have been kissing german dirt. I return to my seat as quick and Pendal looks flabbergasted at me for returning so quickly. I point behind and to the floor and yell to hear “Jerry built a new window for us”, Pendal gawks then returns his reply, “Well, how nice of Mr Hittler, I was getting a little hot and bothered, but the stupid bastards put it in the wrong place!”

As we glide closer to the french coastline and home Pendal and I hear someone call from behind us, Its Jacob “Stumpy” O'Shead the navigator. “I think we have a night-fighter on our 5 o'clock high” as he finishes the words a roar of engines rush over the cockpit, “DAMN! He's confirmed us, man the guns” yells Pendal. Stumpy dashes back the order as Pendal steadies the bomber to make her a solid gun platform for his men. But they can not let their guns lose until the night-fighter opens fire first. Eyes strain away at the darkness, waiting, waiting for the night-fighter to give away his position in the night with tracers and a hail of death. Seconds felt like minutes, sweat runs in little marathons across vigilant eyes, patience wears away like layers of paper in the wind.

A trail of tracer bullets whiz past the canopy from behind, the plane erupts into a vibration of retaliated gunfire. More tracers zoom on by the wings, some catch an already dead number three, others stray deadly close to number four. The tracers, like geese turning in flock formation, indicate the change of direction of the German. The Sterling is peppered and Pendal is now shuffling feet and juggling the yoke just to keep the plane steady as her aerodynamics are rearranged by jerry bullets. Night-fighter tracers swing in and upwards from a lower altitude, again the bomber retaliates, guns barking, spitting their own night lights of death. A raps of bullet hits litter the bomber and wings, engine one explodes into a ball of metal and flame, and the cockpit is filled with shards of propeller, engine and unused flaming fuel. Our silent world now becomes a symphony of hellish noise as men, guns and plane sing in it's choir. Engine one betrays us to Jerry, no longer dose he need to guess where we are in his attacks, as it paints whimsicality with it's flaming brush through the sky.

Pendal ignores his facial wounds, as he struggles to keep his Bristol flying. Two engines now fighting gravity to keep them all aloft and a night-fighter stealthily circling to deal more death and destruction. Tracers litter the sky and plane in confidence as Jerry zeros in on us, his target. But a new array of tracers join in on the attack. “Good god another one?!” grits Pendal as his steering of the Bristol has now gone from formed flying to more of a frantic juggling act. “It's Gergan!” comes a shout from behind us, I turn to see Stumpy, a little bloody but smiling from across our impromptu void. “He's come in to give us support!” Stumpy yells again before returning to his post. Pendal scans around to find Gregan's plane. “He must be staying back a bit so as to not give himself away to Jerry!”. True, the dying glow from engine one would reflect off of the glass of Gregan's plane if he came in too close, or even silhouette him as Jerry moves around to get a better shot. Then a chilling thought strikes me. The most frightening death of all, a night time collision. With his tactic of coming to our aid, Gregan has also signed his and his crews own death. Gregan is now an unseen wall to the Jerry night-fighter and in Jerry's weaving to and fro to attack us he could inadvertently collide with Gregan.

A splatter of tracers buzz past the cockpit, then Gregan's tracers and then our own join in, lighting up the night sky to a point that one could imagine these all being little glowing flies frolicking in the moonlight. Jerry breaks off quickly, sobered to the thought that he is now a target to two planes and risking twice the amount of gun fire. Everyone waits for another pass of tracers, none come, minutes tick by, edgy patience strains, then nerves beguine to calm as the chance of another attack ebbs slowly away behind us. “Jerry must have thought the odds were not in his favour!” pips Pendal in a cherry tone, still fighting the plane, but now with more grace as if he was dancing the samba with the Bristol than a wrestling match with a bear. Despite my eyes ever looking for more attacks I am surprised to find that it is the break of dawn and the coast of Britain is ahead, over to our right and a little above, Gregan's Bristol starts to gleam like a guardian angel as the rising sun comes up behind us.

A strange noise snaps both myself and Pendal around to engine four. A strings of smoke start to flit from under its cowling, but the engine struggles on. “That's not good, lets hope it gets us home or we will be landing in the Kings palace yard instead of the airfield. How is two looking?” I glanced across the wing to it. There number two still coughed, rattled and vibrated, not as if to die but now with the enthusiasm of a grey hound straining at its leach readying for a rabbit, any rabbit, to fly past it at any moment. The coast falls behind us and farmlands glide by as we slowly descend from the lack of airspeed. I scout the lands ahead for possible landing spots just in case. Most farms start or end with tree lines, giving us an impossible if not dangerous landing. Others look promising, but once down, there could be holes, drainage trenches or unseen wells that could end us on the spot. But if an emergency landing was needed, we had to do it. Gregan's bomber still escorted us and as we spot the tell tail signs of the airfield not being not much further, he zooms ahead to get his Bristol down before we turn the landing strip into a disaster zone. I ready the plane for our landing, while Pendal still busies himself with the steerage. The wheels pop down with little fuss giving us a sense that this will be a good landing. Four starts to splutter, but its all irrelevant as we close in, almost gliding a few feet from the ground. Our concern now is if the superstructure of the cockpit will hold as we bounce to a stop, or if we three, Pendal, Piglet and myself, snap off and roll under the rest of the carriage. Our faith now falls into the hands of God and the makers of the bomber as inches clock away to touchdown.

A jolt, and then a firm bounce, as the bomber gains purchase on the airfield. The rumble of ground passes beneath, prayers are answered, and number four dies a smoky death. The plane slows to a halt at the end of the runway, and then taxies on one engine to its designated parking area. Pendal now relaxed, starts the post flight checks, the crew sounds out their status, no-one lost but a few injuries from bullets and shrapnel. Pendal and I glance across to number two, there it idles, vibrating and rattling it's sickly engined song, like a dog wagging its tail waiting for approval for a job well done. We give it a minute, enjoying it's off key notes, then a smile crosses my face and I give the engine a nod of 'Good boy' before Pendal shuts it down. “Looks like the runt of the litter proved to be the thoroughbred of the race Lad?!” tones Pendal as he pulls from his seat and works his way to our new exit hole. Piglet sits the edge of it, looking down to the ground, “Knowing my luck, I'll survive the bombing and landing only to break my neck getting out of the plane”. We chuckle as ground crew scurry to erect a ladder for our departure from the plane. We clamber down and join the rest of the crew on the field, as we walk Pendal stops to look back once more upon his Bristol and shouts back to the head mechanic, “I expect to see her clean and polished when I get back... Oh and make sure the ashtrays are emptied! That's a good Chap!” And turns to rejoin the crew.

The End