Per Ardua

By now it was early evening, with the sun setting over the fens. I watched from the Control Tower as the Lancasters of 617 Squadron set off for Germany. Tomorrow night would be my time, my 30th sortie. That was quite an achievement, reaching the big Three-Oh. It was something to be admired by the rest of my Squadron. Nobody in the Squadron, and only a few in the RAF, had managed to reach that milestone. Many had died trying, obviously, and many more had been invalided out as a result. If I my luck held, and I returned, it would be my way out of this hellish campaign, freezing to death in the skies whilst delivering death and destruction to those below. Maybe I would even get a suitable command or even a nice cushie desk job at Group Headquarters.

I heard a slight cough from behind me and saw Flight Lieutenant Henderson standing there. Henderson was my co-pilot, shorter man than me only standing at about 5”9’.

“Henderson, everything okay for that party tonight?” I asked.

Someone, probably Wing Commander Thorpe-Davis, had decided to organise a gathering in celebration at my impending accolade. I was not very keen on the idea. The more sorties I completed, the more the odds went up that I was never going to return. On 29, my odds were decidedly dodgy. In outlook I’m quite a fatalist, a pessimist of the worst kind. Was it therefore not too much to ask that one of my final nights alive could be spent in peace? Apparently so.

“No, sir. I’m afraid not. Some of the invites are unable to attend,” replied Henderson.

“Who?” I asked, inhaling deeply on my pipe.

“Wing Commanders Johnson, Williams and Harwood, sir. They were killed over Cologne, night of a thousand bombers,” explained Henderson.

“Who wasn’t?” I replied dryly, turning around to walk to the NAAFI van for a cup of tea.

This was my way of coping. A dry and dark humour, designed to maintain my bravado throughout the harshest of times. And if it ever was the harshest of times, it was this month, May 43. The Germans getting clever their nightfighting and us getting a little too stupid and overconfident in our nightbombing. Still, at least we weren’t American. My view was this; if I brushed away the reports of death, seemingly ever present these days, they couldn’t really affect me. It gave my bomber crew confidence too, a confidence I thought was misplaced.

“Also, Squadron Leader Daniels and Flight Lieutenant Skander are recovering from injuries, sir.” finished Henderson.

He was matching my fast pace as we crossed the grass to NAAFI and then onto the small brick building that housed the cantina were we ate our meals. That cantina was a bloody nightmare, a terribly dark place despite its lighting and white washed walls. There was a new space at every table almost daily, a constant reminder of the cost of our sorties over Nazi skies.

"Burns?” I asked dejectedly.

“Yes, sir,” answered Henderson. I shook my head.

“All of my first aircrew. I can still remember Skander as nothing more than a Wopog. Good chap. Tell me Henderson, is anyone coming tonight?” I asked sarcastically.

“All off-duty staff, sir. That’s including the WAAFs,” began Henderson.

“That’ll give Corporal Tippett something to smile about.” I stated, interrupting Henderson again. I had a rather unfortunate habit of doing that. If I get back, I’ll have to remind myself not to. That’s if he gets back too for that matter.

“And Wing Commander Thorpe-Davis thought it would boost Anglo-American relations by inviting the Americans from down the road.” finished Henderson.