L.M.F.

By Matthew Bin

If a soldier today is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, he or she gets counselling and therapy and treatment. In World War II, it was a different story. Bomber crews were especially horribly treated, in a system that used threats and psychological bullying to make the airmen - many of them not yet twenty years old - climb the ladder again and again to do their almost impossibly dangerous job.

 

At twenty years old, with twenty-seven missions as a Lancaster bomber pilot under his belt, Del Aucoin is a seasoned veteran of the Second World War. But the strain of flying a bomber over Germany night after night has taken its toll, and Dell chooses to stop flying before he gets himself and his crew killed.

 

Del's superiors give him his orders: fly again, or face humiliation, imprisonment, and disgrace. Del has to choose between his own sanity and the safety of his crew, between his closest friends and his own life. And once he makes his choice, the long, slow train ride towards his ultimate fate begins.

 

Based on real accounts of the bomber war, this psychological thriller offers a unique understanding of the airmen who fought one of the most devastating battles of WWII.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Bin
• Release date: Apr 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497771925

Matthew Bin

I am a writer from Oakville, Ontario, Canada. I write both fiction and non-fiction, and have published one book of each so far. I do a lot of stuff for other writers, too; for example, I am the national president of the Canadian Authors Association, and I've helped to run their conferences and events, and am working on a number of other projects for them.

Book preview

O for a voice like thunder, and a tongue

To drown the throat of war! — When the senses

Are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness,

Who can stand? When the souls of the oppressed

Fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand?

When the whirlwind of fury comes from the

Throne of God, when the frowns of his countenance

Drive the nations together, who can stand?

When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle,

And sails rejoicing in the flood of Death;

When souls are torn to everlasting fire,

And fiends of Hell rejoice upon the slain,

O who can stand? O who hath caused this?

O who can answer at the throne of God?

The Kings and Nobles of the Land have done it!

Hear it not, Heaven, thy Ministers have done it!

William Blake

Chapter 1

Mission 23: Stuttgart

March 20, 1944

Del shoved the stick forward and to the left, even before Bobby had finished shouting Corkscrew port, go! in the intercom. Fighter, four o’clock, and Del was flipping his Lancaster bomber over on its back and diving off into the night.

Del pulled up and levelled off, but he had barely glanced at the compass before he heard Bobby again. Still there, Bobby said, his voice controlled at first but going up at the end. Del heard gunfire through the intercom while Bobby spoke. Bobby was the tail gunner, with the massive turret and four machine guns. On our six. Corkscrew port, go! Del pushed the stick and the great bomber turned over again.

They levelled off. Five seconds of silence on the intercom. Del’s heart almost stopped when Bobby shouted Our six, go, go, and Del pulled the stick in the opposite direction. The plane was spinning on its wingtip, straining to tighten its turn, degree by excruciating degree.

Fanny, he’s gonna be on our eleven, get ready, Del warned, trying to sound calm and in control, but barely able to draw enough air to shout into his mic. Suddenly he pushed the stick to the other side, the plane righted itself like a boat finding its balance on the water, and Del could see the flashes of Fanny’s gun turret at the front of the plane.

Got him! Fanny screamed. He was there, he was there!

Del strained but couldn’t see the fighter in the gloom. You sure?

I saw chunks come off his tail!

Okay, Fanny. Look for him. Gunners always thought they hit their targets. In the moonless night over Germany, there was no way to know unless the fighter miraculously burst into flame in front of you. Del knew it was important to play along, though, to make the gunners feel appreciated; he knew Fanny had fired his guns exactly twice, in four or five hundred hours of flying. Great shot, too.

I got him, Skip.

I know. Del scanned the sky. At this point, if the fighter had turned and was coming to find them again, they’d never see him in time. On the other hand, if Fanny really had hit him, maybe he would leave them alone and look for less vigilant prey. Suddenly, Del remembered something. Neil, you mark the contact? Neil Etherington was their navigator, and would—supposedly—be able to mark on his map where they had encountered the fighter.

—my fucking pencil, came Etherington’s reply on the intercom.

Just mark it down.

Rota’ll never believe it anyway.That was Billy, another gunner. He claimed a kill a few missions ago and the intelligence officer, Captain Rota, had refused to log it.

Del felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to look at Gord, his flight engineer. Gord didn’t speak, but he pointed out the windshield where Fanny had fired, pointed to Del, and gave him a thumbs-up. Del nodded and turned back to his control panel.

They flew along for a few minutes, Del fighting the tension in his arms, trying to stay loose and comfortable on the controls. They still had two hours to go. He wondered if he had left the main bomber stream, or if he was still with them; there was no way of knowing, depending, as they did, on the black secrecy of the sky to protect them. Soon after they crossed the English Channel, the bombers lost contact with their radio beacons, and each crew was left with only their instruments and their wits to guide them to the target and back.

Without warning, Bobby shouted again, and Del pulled into yet another corkscrew. He could faintly hear Etherington swearing into the intercom, having accidentally keyed his mic.

Del’s mind drifted back to when he had first met Neil Etherington—Thick Etherington. Although they had both come from Canada, they didn’t meet until they arrived in Liverpool after their long trip across the Atlantic. When they started their final training course, Del and his flight engineer, Gord, were already a pair. As flight engineer, Gord would be the next best thing to a co-pilot to Del—Lancaster bombers had no room for a real co-pilot. Del was relieved that he already knew Gord; there was no doubt that they would crew together.

As the course went on, they talked quietly for hours in the evening about which of their fellow trainees they wanted in their crew. Everyone knew the navigator was the most important crew member after the pilot, and against all odds there were two navigators named Etherington on their course. Sharp Etherington was born to be a soldier; Thick Etherington left his cap behind in lecture rooms, dropped his plate in the mess, and in one famous incident had spilled a pint of bitter over an officer at the pub.

Gord thought Sharp Etherington was the better navigator, but Del saw something in Thick Etherington. He always had the answer first when the instructors put the navigators through their paces. He had a way with angles and numbers, never hesitating before giving a bearing, and he was never fazed by the curves that the instructors threw. Del was satisfied that Thick Etherington was the best dead reckoning navigator in the RCAF, and he overruled Gord. Since then, Etherington’s flawless navigation had kept them safe more than once—this mission would make it twenty-three times, so far.

Del’s mind snapped back to the present, feeling like he had been roused from a deep sleep by a sudden noise that was now gone. He waited expectantly, but there was nothing; it was still dark, and the bomber thundered on. Was the fighter still there? God, had Bobby said something and he had missed it? Gord was looking at him curiously.

Where is it, Bobby, Del said over the intercom, trying to sound his usual controlled self.

I still can’t see him, Bobby replied immediately. Honest, Skip. I can’t find him.

Okay, Del answered, slipping back into command. Neil, give me that heading again.

Thought you’d never ask, Thick Etherington answered. One-oh-niner, and don’t spare the horses, eh?

Del wondered how long his mind had been wandering. It was not normal for him, even when they made the nine-hour trip to Berlin. He had to pull himself together. All right, he said in his calm, confident captain’s voice, a voice that was harder to find each time. Billy, can you see him?

No, Skipper. Billy manned the mid-upper turret, in the middle of the great beast’s back. I think he was low on us.

Yeah, Bobby cut in, before Del could reply. Both times, he was trying to swing in low.

Okay, good job, Del answered quickly. Keep your eyes open.The intercom was silent again for a few minutes, or hours.

One of ours down, low and two o’clock.That was Fanny, up in the bomber’s nose. Etherington was supposed to log that sort of thing, but Del craned around to try to see it. There it was, a tiny, ragged smear of flame, now far below them. Poor bastards.

Perched on the seat beside him, Gord looked over. Drop a quarter? he shouted, without using the intercom. This always cheered Del up. Just a nickel—I’ll find it later, Del bellowed back, and Gord grinned, reassured. Del settled back in his seat with a smile.

GORD AND DEL HAD MET on the second day of their three-week cruise across the Atlantic—that’s what they called it, a cruise. They found themselves the only passengers who had made it to breakfast, the other forty men on the transport having succumbed to seasickness. Del sat alone in the cavernous mess hall the first morning—it was large enough for thirty men. Del tried to eat quietly so the clatter of his utensils on the tin plate wouldn’t echo in the vast, empty space.

He watched another man enter the hall and move down the food line. Four cooks and two customers. The other man surveyed the hall, tray in hand. Then he laughed and strode over, and Del couldn’t help grinning.

Gord Adams, he said, sticking his hand out. Del shook it. Del Aucoin.They ate their breakfast together, and the ship’s crew, having nothing better to do, waited on them hand and foot.

After breakfast, they wandered around, exploring the deck. It’s so hard, Gord commented, to find a cruise line with adequate shuffleboard equipment.

What line do you normally take?

Kensington Princess Express Whatsit, usually. Booked solid this time of year, though.

Such a drab little ship, this. Del pointed at the anti-aircraft gun bolted to the deck. Look at this Bofors. Not what you’d call a la mode.

Not when the eighty-eight is the style this year. Honestly, I’ve a good mind to complain to the purser. I say! Gord had spotted a crew member. Swabbie! Get me the Times. I need to know how Luton Town fared in the Cup.

Is this a Cup weekend? Del asked quietly.

No idea. Is Luton Town a team?

In the mess at lunchtime, they had already fallen into a routine. I say, are these the same beans as last night? Del asked, having picked up the I say from Gord already.

They’re the soddin’ beans. Eat ’em, replied the cook.

Delano, please calm down, Gord cut in. If you harass the staff, we’ll never get to sit at the captain’s table.

Quite. Do you know if there’re any seats open at captain’s table tonight?

You’ve got yer beans. Move along, the cook replied. It was all Del could do to contain his laughter.

Every morning they watched the sun rise between the tall hulls of destroyers chugging along in front of their steamer. The other ships had been the only scenery since they had boarded in Halifax, where Del walked up the gangway and saw Halifax harbour from above the water level for the first time. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of ships sat high up on the calm, flat water, pale sunlight dancing between the grim steel hulls.

As they crossed the ocean, there was bright sun and strong wind in the morning, and cool, calm cloud in the evening. Leaning on the railing, wrapped tightly in his wool coat, Del felt happier than he had ever been, talking with Gord about the war, their training experiences, their schooling—they would both have been in university already if the war had not come along.

During the day, they delighted in visiting the berths in the bowels of the ship, where seasick passengers gasped and groaned desperately with every swell. Del and Gord tried to lead cheerful sing-alongs, to keep up the spirits of the men.

Knees Up Mother Brown, Del suggested earnestly, skidding slightly in a slippery mess on the deck.

That’s exactly what this lot needs, Gord answered. Lower bunks, with me! Knees up—

Bugger off, a low, tired voice croaked between heaves.

"You know the best cure for seasickness,