The Munich Raid - 24th April 1944
By John Chatterton
 
We landed at 0632. We were first back, as we had promised the ground crew we would be.

We knew it was our last trip as the Wg Cdr had taken me on one side after briefing and told me so. This was far better than announcing it publicly where superstition reigned supreme. The Wg Cdr shared Y-Yorker with us, which was a great advantage since he only operated about once a month and his actual words were “Make sure you bring MY aeroplane back safely, as I’ve got most of my second tour to do on her.”

The ground crew got to know somehow - they were the most dedicated bunch you could ever have come across - spot on professionally but also always trying to improve our comfort wherever possible. For instance, in place of the crude and totally inadequate devices that Avro saw fit to issue with the Lancaster, our rigger had fitted up the Superior Mk I Pee Tube, complete with funnel, that saw a lot of use during the nine and three quarter hours to Munich. I was pleased to hear from the last skipper of Y-Yorker, who took her on her last trip, the 123rd, that it was still being appreciated, 16 months later.

As we clambered aboard to start the engines the crew chief, Sgt Alan Rubenstein, one of the few Rhodesians left on 44 Sqn, said “Damned if I won’t see you in myself in the morning!” and Wee Jock, the rear gunner piped up wit “And don’t forget the beer!”

Nine and three quarter hours later we were taxying smartly round the peri-track to dispersal, Wee Jock complaining as usual about the slight bump on landing and I promised to do better when we gathered again in six months time for our second tour. We turned a corner and could see our dispersal ahead. The Bomb Aimer said “The whole bloody lot have turned out to see us back!” Sure enough, instead of a lone airman with a couple of torches, there was the whole ground crew: engine fitters, riggers, electricians, wireless mechanics and armourers, together with the odd bowser driver. ‘Hope there’s still some beer left!” said Wee Jock. He needn’t have worried, they hadn’t opened a bottle.

This was soon remedied however. Beer and banter flowed freely. My throat was too full of words but I managed to get a few mouthfuls down, all the time wishing it was hot coffee. Many toasts and responses were made, amid a lot of leg-pulling. The armourer said it will be a damn sight safer on dispersal now you lot have finished!”, referring to the time when our Canadian Mid Upper had inadvertently loosed off about 20 rounds over everybody’s heads, severely frightening the rooks in the spinney half a mile away. There was more in this vein and then the crew bus dragged up with a squeal of brakes and clatter of loose objects. It was our favourite WRAF driver. “High Carol, have a beer and come back in ten minutes.” “All right then.” she said, fishing out from behind her seat one of the RAF-issue white enamel pint mugs. She knocked back the beer and left, letting in the clutch with her usual gay abandon. She came back in 10 minutes - and again 10 minutes later, accepting the odd half pint each time - and finally decanted us at interrogation.

We heard later that the party round Y-Yorker went on for some time, gathering in the neighbouring dispersals. Carol was busy picking up the other 15 crews, the last of whom landed at 0735, so she contrived to pass Yorker’s dispersal several more times - and each time the enamel mug was deployed. We enquired about her the next day and learned that she was found back at the MT Section, immaculately parked between two other trucks. She was sitting at the wheel, a beautific smile on her face, eyes closed and singing softly to herself ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’ - most appropriate!

At ‘Interrogation’ we found our favourite Intelligence Officer, Henry Treece, an ex-schoolmaster from Humberside, who became a well-known author after the war. I looked round at my crew, sitting at this table for the last time. The crew that I had taken for granted for the last eight months. The crew that had never let me down. I felt quite humble that they called me ‘Skipper’ and that, night after night, they put their lives in my hands. I was very proud of them.

In my euphoric state I just went through the motions answering Henry’s questions but the navigator, meticulous as ever, filled in the details:
‘Munich attacked 0148. Height 19,000 feet. Heading 155º magnetic. IAS 180. Weather clear - some cirrus haze at 20,000 feet. One red spot fire in bombsight.’
People came over to congratulate us. Crews in the 27/28 ops, very warmly (they were our mates of course). Crews in the 15s and 16s, a little bit enviously; the new boys looked at us with a certain degree of awe.

Then suddenly it hit me - it was all over. No more gritting my teeth to face the miles of Berlin flak. No more desperate manoeuvres to try to escape the coning searchlights. No more sitting on the edge of my seat waiting for “Corkscrew Port - Go.” No more groping through the clouds on instruments, worrying about the ice … and … no more FEAR.