Free Mosquito Squadron by Robert Jackson Page A

roved over the faces of the men in front of him. ‘You must therefore see,’ he continued, ‘that any effort to disrupt the enemy’s fighter defences may have a telling effect on the outcome of these two raids. If all goes well, your attack will take place some thirty minutes before the leading Fortresses cross the enemy coast, and we hope that you will be able to create enough confusion to keep a substantial proportion of the enemy fighters on the ground at the three designated airfields during the crucial period after the American fighter escort has turned back.
    ‘By attacking half an hour ahead of the Fortresses, it is hoped that you will catch quite a number of enemy fighters being readied for take-off, out in the open and with their pants down. And remember this: every fighter you knock out could mean one more Fortress, and that means ten men will come back safely. That is all, gentlemen. Good luck to you all.’
    Davison stepped down from the platform and the crews rose as he made his exit. As the door closed behind him, Yeoman said: ‘Right, chaps. Now let’s have a close look at those target photos.’
    For the next twenty minutes, the crews pored over the photographs of their assigned targets, discussing the best methods of approach and attack. Yeoman decided to lead his four Mosquitos straight in from the north-west, at right-angles to Twenthe’s main runway. They would attack in two pairs with a hundred yards between them horizontally, the second pair about four hundred yards astern of the first to give covering fire in case the leading aircraft were ‘bounced’. The other two section leaders adopted a similar procedure.
    They synchronized their watches; it was now 0450. All of them had already breakfasted, so there was nothing to do now but wait.
    *
    It was strange how, in the last minutes before taking off on operations, the grass always smelt sweeter, the air clearer. Small, insignificant things — the slow, unsteady flight of a bumble-bee, the call of a bird, even the trickle of a drop of moisture down a window-pane — all assumed a new importance, for always there was the knowledge, thrust deep into the recesses of the mind, that one might never see them again.
    It was always so, even on a morning like this, when the air was chill and dank and the mist clung stubbornly to the ground, as though reluctant to yield to the rays of the rising sun. Yeoman, standing in the door of the dispersal hut, was worried about the mist; contrary to the Met people’s predictions, it showed no signs of lifting. Visibility was barely sufficient for take-off, and no more — sufficient, that was, for a Mosquito. Yeoman, however, was not worried about his Mosquitos, but about the Flying Fortresses for which they were to breach a gap in the enemy’s defences, for the Fortress needed a far longer take-off run than the Mosquito and he knew that the mist, which covered all Norfolk and Suffolk, was still too dense to allow the big American bombers to take off in safety. Laden as they would be with maximum fuel and high-explosive bombs, the Fortresses would need every available inch of runway.
    For the fourth time Yeoman rang the Met office to find out the latest situation, and received the same reply from the harassed duty officer: the mist would clear slowly as the sun came up. There might be a short delay in getting the main bomber force airborne, but nothing serious.
    The pilot looked at his watch. He had already delayed 380 Squadron’s take-off by ten minutes, to compensate at least in part for any hold-ups the Americans must be experiencing, but to delay any longer was to invite disaster, for by the time they arrived over enemy territory the Luftwaffe would already be wide awake.
    He made up his mind and turned to the others. ‘Well, lads,’ he said simply, ‘I suppose we might as well get on with it.’
    Two by two, pilots and navigators, their parachutes draped over their shoulders, walked out across the damp