We will go to London, my father had said before the war. You will like it. We never went, but his frequent mention of the city made me think of him every time its name cropped up. Now I was about to have my first view of it, from 14,000 feet, and he would want a full report. As we left the mess and headed across the grass, I told Werner how my father had talked about his youthful visits to London, once when the Kaiser’s aunt was celebrating her diamond jubilee (You will never see so many splendid uniforms) and once at the opening of Tower Bridge, which particularly impressed him (You will wonder at such engineering). In reply, Werner said that his own father had always wanted to visit St Petersburg – and he might yet, as he had just been posted to the Eastern Front where both his brothers were fighting. We were light-headed, excited; the adrenalin was already beginning to pump, and perhaps it was the mix of fear and elation that contributed to my stomach cramp. The weather was hard to predict without access to any data further west, and we had been up since dawn waiting for the go-ahead from our meteorologists. Anticipating a perfect midsummer day, an early mist was now clearing and the air was still. The sun was getting up, glinting on Ghent’s spires and no doubt lighting our targets in London, too. On more than one occasion Werner and I had seen two dawns: the first when flying at altitude, then, on landing in the dark, seeing the sun come up in the east again. It is a fact, Lieutenant, he said as we crossed the grass, that Germans wake up while the British are still sleeping. Today some of them will wish they had not woken up at all. He was from Mannheim, his father had been a teacher at the technical college and we had been together on the first two, aborted raids on London. Third time lucky, we said. Johannes, our rear gunner, loped along a few yards behind. A farm boy from Saxony, he didn’t have much to say, and what he did say wasn’t always easily understood, his accent was so thick. The squadron of battle planes was stretched out over two airfields a few miles apart. Hauptmann Brandenburg’s Gotha V, painted red, was at the head of our squadron and already on the runway. Climbing aboard our plane, I settled into the pulpit seat in front of Werner and checked the instruments, lights, machine gun, ammunition drums, bomb racks and levers, maps, oxygen, pigeon. We were wheeled out on to the runway, and as the plane in front of us moved forward, I raised my hand and through the communications flap shouted to Werner to stand by for take-off. The soft cooing in the cage by my feet was lost beneath the roar of the Mercedes engines. The two giant wooden propellers began to push us forwards, feeling the weight of the bombs, gathering speed until that energizing moment when the earth left our feet, and the bi-plane’s wings – each more than a dozen metres long – took us into the clear blue sky. Soon we were joined by battle planes from the second field, flying in two v-formations, wondering if our engines might let us down again, or if the weather would force us once more to turn back. In thirty minutes we were over the sea at Blankenburge. People would be bathing later in the day, just as they would be in Margate and Southend and other resorts around the German Ocean. In our fur-lined leathers, we looked overdressed. I remembered summer holidays in Nordfriesland with the family, naked on the beach, and my father teaching me to swim, throwing me into the sea so I had to learn to stay afloat. You will be a good swimmer. And the games of tennis he would never let me win. He was down there somewhere now on the Western Front, barking his orders at the poor lads in the trenches. Wisps of smoke and a couple of specs in the sky to the south could have been reconnaissance planes from either side. The front line seemed to have been getting closer in the past month or so, since the Americans had joined in. If we could hit London in daylight, our bombs would really shake the enemy; never would they feel safe in their homes again. Following our red leader, we headed northwest, taking the same route as before, heading out across the sea to Essex. This was the sea my father had crossed on the ferry from Bremen to Harwich: You will enjoy the voyage. We will stay on deck and breathe the sea air. It is good for you. As we neared the coast, a flare went up from Hauptmann Brandenburg‘s plane, a signal for one of the Gothas to break free and head south to Margate, to draw defending fighter planes away from us. We kept our eyes out. Though we both had machine guns, Johannes, with two, would be busier than me. His second gun was aimed out through a hole in the floor of the fuselage: only Johannes could protect us from enemy planes approaching from below. Winds were light and we were making around seventy miles an hour, but by the time we reached the coast two planes from our squadron had been forced to turn back with engine problems. The rest of us had climbed to 14,000 feet, much higher than the Zeppelins had ever reached, and taking us out of range of the anti-aircraft guns that had put paid to their night raids. I took regular breaths from the oxygen cylinder, which helped my stomach cramps. Though the heaters were on, it was getting cold. The pigeon was huddled in the corner of its cage. A few nips of brandy also eased my stomach pains, and I added a drop to the bird’s drinking fountain: we would need him to send a message if we landed in the sea. It had been only eight years since an aeroplane had first succeeded in flying across any stretch of water. Stratocumulus was forming at around 7,000 feet, but south-east England and the Thames estuary were quite clear: the islands, creeks and marshes edged with brown mudbanks disolving into a bright blue sea. Inland were green and brown squares of ripening summer fields, and easily identifiable towns with roads and railway lines to follow. Occasional flashes of hopelessly optimistic artillery fire came from forts and blockhouses around the slippery snake of the river. Maps and briefings had made the landscape familiar. We will take a Baedeker, my father had said. It is the best guide. You will read it before we go. I will test you. Well, I was going to be tested now. At 11.25 two red flares from Hauptmann Brandenburg sent the left wing on course along the Thames for the first attack, and soon high explosive bombs were falling earthwards, activated by their spinning fins. Some of them worked. In a few minutes white smoke began to rise around the east side of the city and in the Royal Docks. We could only imagine the effect it was having on the people: bombs in broad daylight coming out of the sky. Our right wing came in from the northwest, keeping Epping Forest on our right and heading for Liverpool Street Station: ‘…terminus of the Great Eastern Railway, 18 platforms, 1,000 trains a day,’ according to Baedeker. My father knew it well. We arrive here on the train from Harwich and we will stay at the Great Eastern Hotel. It is the best hotel for us. The stomach cramps were worsening. Crouched over the vertical telescope, I tried to concentrate, identifying landmarks: the River Lea, Hackney Marshes, Victoria Park. Timing the distance between them with the stop watch, and using a calibration chart to determine our height, I set the bomb sights. At 11.40 another flare from Hauptmann Brandenburg and I lined up the first target, a factory just outside the railway terminus. The first of the six 50kg bombs fell from the racks beneath me. I pulled the levers at two-second intervals. Each time a red light came on to say a bomb had been discharged, and Werner adjusted the plane to the weight loss. My stomach heaved. The third and fourth bombs dropped at the same time, aimed at the Terminus and Great Eastern Hotel. All six bombs must have hit an area of less than a mile radius around the station. I peered into the telescope to try to see if they had met their targets. Johannes, looking through the floor in the rear cockpit, might later confirm our hits. My stomach was really bad, and I suddenly wondered if I wouldn’t faint. We still had a dozen 12.5kg bombs in the bomb chamber in the fuselage, and I looked for further targets. The red plane was leading us south over the city to head back along the left bank of the river. Fighter planes would be in the air by now, climbing towards us. I could make out The Bank Of England, Mansion House, the Monument and London Bridge. I let four bombs go, but my stomach had become unbearable. Doubled up, I gripped my waist and started crawling along the tunnel in the fuselage. Werner wanted to know what was going on. Had I been shot? It was just altitude sickness, I said. Reaching the rear cockpit I ordered Johannes to take my place, manning the gun in the pulpit. He didn’t seem to understand but he obeyed my command and manoeuvred around me. It wasn’t easy pulling down my trousers in this space. My arse nearly froze over the yawning hole, but the relief was enormous. When it was over, I looked down. We had just passed over the Tower of London. You will wonder at such engineering… When the bridge is raised we will cross by the overhead walkway: this is the largest port in the world and you cannot have a better view of the river… Afterwards I crawled back to the pulpit, ordered Johannes to return to his post and took several breaths of oxygen. We had regrouped over Woolwich, and there were still plenty of targets along the river’s sunny banks. We will see Greenwich, visit pubs by the river and take a paddle steamer to Southend... As Johannes began to rain bullets down on a British fighter plane trying in vain to climb up to reach us, I started to let loose the remaining bombs.
© Roger Williams
• Extract from Father Thames by Roger Williams, to be published by Bristol Book Publishing in 2012
