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Christmas 1944.(Flying through the air)

"I’m the pilot not you. You were the pilot last time you are the rear gunner"
"No I’m not I’m the bomb aimer an, I’m sittin’ on that branch cos that’s were ‘e sits" —No ‘e doesn’t. He sits near the pilot because he has to tell ‘im when to drop the bombs"

‘F’ for Freddie slowly fills up with the crew on this cold Saturday afternoon before Christmas and the lads (all experienced fliers) ready themselves for a special mission over enemy territory.
When it’s full, that is, when there is a pilot, a tail gunner, a bomb aimer, and another gunner.( The navigator is usually left out because there was a big argument once and someone fell off his branch.----That is, he bailed out over enemy territory.----Well actually he was pushed. So nobody wants to be the navigator any more.) When it’s full the others will have to be happy with a place in one of the aircraft further back in the formation.

It begins to snow and there is some discussion as to whether it is possible to fly in snow. "You can’t see the other Lancasters so you might crash into them, so you can’t" says the pilot. "You can. I can see ‘em from ‘ere" shouts the rear gunner from his precarious perch well out on a branch which puts him nearer to the following tree than anyone else. " The pilots got snow on ‘is glasses" ---Somebody starts to laugh, and with this shift in spirit it is decided that we should take off.

Engine noises are made by all, and the brakes released, we speed down the runway until everyone is getting fed up with growling and then just when the crew are about to start complaining the pilot calls—‘Take off effected’.
He had remembered ‘Takeoff effected’ and he smiled to himself.

Twelve thousand feet now, a good height, the navigator had ‘bailed- out’ at six feet- er- thousand feet, ‘On an earlier opp’. The maximum height on this ‘opp’ was Fifteen thousand feet.
We watch in silence for a while as the white thumb nail clouds we are flying through sail easily down onto the runway that is so rapidly disappearing, as we gain height. Tufts of grass and small shrubs become snow magnates and melt into the runaway earth and all becomes white.
Scarves are tightened and collars pulled up, peaks on leather helmets pulled down, and as we fly the snow flakes increase to maximum size—‘August Mushroom’--- late afternoon ones.
The biggest one I ever found weighed a quarter of a pound.

Strangely the pilot’s glasses no longer collect snow, and the two gunners no longer shoot at the following Lancaster.
Quite suddenly and as from a distant place the bomb aimer calls —‘Bombs Away’.

The crew cheer, and the whole aircraft shakes de-snowing it’s self as we turn for home. And as we watch the august mushrooms become sparkling frosted flowers as they reflect the dim yellow light of a paraffin lamp that spills out from behind the half closed shutter of the railway signal box near by. Tiny spots of light shine out and are gone to appear again near-by and lower down. We watch in the special silence that comes with snow.

"Number one engine broke" calls the ‘other’ gunner (as if trying to bring us back to earth) "Broke?" "What do you mean ‘Broke?’ you can’t say ‘Broke’ it’s daft" says the pilot whose glasses are now covered again. "Number two engine dead" shouts the rear gunner to prove the point, and at the same time almost, the bomb aimer shouts the demise of number three engine.
"You can’t have three engines broke at once" the pilot shouts forgetting himself. "You can fly about with one engine for hours" some one covered in snow calls from somewhere aft. "My auntie makes them at Woodford and she says you can" Nobody seemed to want to argue the point so the pilots landed there Lancaster Bombers safely in the snow and the crews tramped off arguing amongst themselves.
When I got home my Dad is there in his RAF uniform. Home on leave for a week.

Cliff Hill. ‘When I was Nine’.

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