Berlin Again
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Berlin Again
31st August 1943: A rear gunner's grand stand view of the illuminations across the night sky over Germany - as the RAF once again visits 'the big city'
Berlin was the target again for RAF Bomber Command. The almost complete destruction of Hamburg had given confidence to the view that bombing alone might win the war. Another shattering blow must surely persuade the Germans that they faced ever more destruction across their homeland if they let the war continue. The German capital was the obvious target to get the message across.
… a truly awesome sight of pure wanton destruction of a city with brilliant white incendiaries starting the fires, the tall spindly searchlight fingers groping here and there like a spider waiting for its prey to enter its net and seldom to release it, red and yellow shell bursts leaving the smoke blobs of black and grey of the spent shells.
The RAF had been targeting Berlin since August 1940. A lot had changed in three years. The course of the progress from those early days to the new heavy bombers with their much heavier bomb load, much-improved navigation and well-developed target marking is charted in the recently released The Berlin Blitz By Those Who Were There. Martin W. Bowman once again brings together a collection of first-hand accounts, this time not only from the men in the bombers but also from Luftwaffe night fighters crew and from Berliners who were targeted.
The following account comes from Sergeant William F. Trivett, a rear gunner on a Halifax bomber of 77 Squadron. On Tuesday, 31st August 1943 he was among hundreds who made the trip to Berlin:
The clouds were illuminated by the searchlights beneath them and we in Halifaxes, Stirlings and Lancasters were like black birds of prey moving across this light background. The sky seemed full of red darting lights, some bursting yellow - some orange. The lazy way tracer shells had of climbing to the heights then shooting past at incredible speed – it was all so uncanny. Sitting in my turret and scanning all around, it seemed as though I wanted to look in a dozen directions at one time. My eyes seemed to be on extended spring wires, rigid in concentration. The quiet voice of the flight engineer came through on the intercom as from somewhere afar.
“Lanc coned in searchlights over there Skipper.” A laconic “........ his luck,” ended that informative conversation.
‘The bomb aimer was next on, his breathing laboured and come to think of it, I was not doing too bad myself. The flak was a bit heavy now and I heard the “whomp”, “whomp”, through the open turret window more often. Pathfinders had put down their Target Indicators - red flares dripping green; they were brilliant in colour. The mauve sky was now tinged with pink as the raging fires below reflected on the clouds.
As I carried out my search I could see a Lancaster and Halifax emerging from sinister black shadows to having tail fins and wing edges tinged as though having been touched with an artist’s brush and here and there a glint from a Perspex cover as a searchlight swept over it.
‘The bomb aimer had taken over. A series of “Left - Left” - “Right a bit” - “Steady, steady”: that agonising ten second run seemed like eternity. We were so vulnerable on this run.
A Lancaster was high above us on the near port quarter, his bomb doors were open and I was looking up into a cavernous bay with a neatly laid out armoury. It worried me. SURELY he could see us down here? He couldn’t be that stupid - could he? And suddenly like someone bringing back a plateful of peas the deadly cargo was spewing out and falling with the precision of lemmings going over a cliff.
I didn’t suppose I was the only one muttering, “Come on - sod the bombing picture – let’s get out of here!”. In the middle of my muttering I heard “Bombs Gone Skip”. The time was 2342 hours.
Ten minutes later, we turned to port on our first leg home that would take us clear of this conflagration. As we turned, I was sitting on top of the world with a grandstand seat apparently sailing through space in a glass bubble. As I surveyed the scene before me during the course of my search I was left speechless with awe. It was like a hornet’s nest.
The searchlights had almost been subdued, the part cloud cover kept the searchlights down. At times I felt I could have put out my hand and cast rude shadows in the beams, but other aircraft weren’t so lucky.
I saw a Halifax caught by a few searchlights who froze on it. The Halifax was doing a series of corkscrews; the pathetic aircraft surrounded by bursting flak and lay twisting and turning like a silver moth around a flame. He could elude his captors no longer and his end was a short matter of time as cannon shells from fighters set him ablaze. Parachutes were seen to emerge and descend into the target area, but during the aircraft’s final dive tracer fire was still answering the challenge of the fighter from the gun turrets. But I don’t suppose they could get out anyway. Not for them a decoration - or even survivors leave, but they were reconciled to their fate when they compared the reception that awaited the parachuted descent of their fellow comrades into that bombed and burning target area.
We were in darkness again with the target fifty miles back. Suddenly we were bathed in a brilliant white light. I could see from above, possibly a mile either side of us, two rows of hanging white flares. It had turned night into day and they were cascading right along our track home.
The clouds were now awash with a crimson glow. From my position of looking out of my turret, I am confronted with a truly awesome sight of pure wanton destruction of a city with brilliant white incendiaries starting the fires, the tall spindly searchlight fingers groping here and there like a spider waiting for its prey to enter its net and seldom to release it, red and yellow shell bursts leaving the smoke blobs of black and grey of the spent shells. They disfigure the panorama yet are an essential part of it, mingling with the invisible hanging of the brilliant red and green target indicators and rising to meet all the drifts of smoke that can be smelt through the clear open view panel of my rear turret all helped to colour this moment. There in the middle of it all, Stirlings, Halifaxes and Lancasters, who so far have survived half the journey, scudding for the beckoning cover of darkness and home. We have seen an ugly head of war.
We were through the target area now on our long-leg return. The click of the intercom - the roar of the engines amplified in my ear galvanised one instantly. “Fighter below crossing to starboard gunners.”
I recognised the bomb aimer’s voice. Looking out to starboard I see the single-engined fighter. He had seen us and came up level, slightly behind the starboard beam. He flew parallel for a few seconds - enough time to give my skipper standard evasive procedure. Prepared to turn to starboard and then his wings flipped up giving a plan view. He was turning in and I concluded starboard: GO!
The next second my stomach went into my boots as the Halifax went into a tight turn. I didn’t see the going of him but coming back on course we never saw him again. However, the time taken to relate far exceeded the time of action. I don’t think the enemy pilot worried too much in missing us - his pickings tonight were plentiful.
We were in darkness again with the target fifty miles back. Suddenly we were bathed in a brilliant white light. I could see from above, possibly a mile either side of us, two rows of hanging white flares. It had turned night into day and they were cascading right along our track home.
All around us four engined aircraft were zigzagging along. We had never experienced this tactic before. There were aircraft all around us in this almost daylight sky. I was standing up in my turret but leaning forward to get a view below. All eyes in those aircraft must have been hanging out. After what appeared a very long 15-20 seconds the flares burned themselves out and darkness descended once more. I was alone with my very private thoughts of that incident. God, there must have been some very frightened men in those bombers.
We were now in and out of cloud and mighty thankful at times for the relief from constantly staring from darkness to light and back again to darkness. My eyes were beginning to feel like two balls of fire, searching the sky as I had for this last five hours and base was still almost four hours away.
Looking directly astern, the glow of a red spot could be seen far into the distance. I thought it must have been sheer hell there in Berlin; 2,000 tons of HE and incendiaries in forty minutes by 700 aircraft.
This excerpt from The Berlin Blitz By Those Who Were There appears by kind permission of Pen & Sword Books Ltd. Copyright remains with the author. NB: The above images are not from this book.
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