We flew steady and straight, and soon the flak was directly below us. The flak looked like a cigarette lighter in a dark room: one that won’t light – sparks but no flame – the sparks crackling just above the level of the cloud tops. There was a quarter moon on the starboard beam and Jock’s quiet voice came through the intercom, “That’ll be flak ahead.” We were approaching the enemy coast. For a while, the eight of us in our little world of exile moved over the sea. The talk on the intercom was brief and crisp. Dave, the navigator, asked Jock if he couldn’t make a little more speed. Down to the southward, the clouds piled up to form castles, battlements, and whole cities, all tinged with red. The sun was going down and its red glow made rivers and lakes of fire on the top of the clouds. As we came up through the clouds, I looked right and left and counted fourteen black Lancasters climbing for the place where men must burn oxygen to live. The wheels came up, and D-Dog started the long climb. The green light flashed and we were rolling … ten seconds ahead of schedule. Jack, the tail gunner, said, “It’d be nice to fly like that.” D-Dog eased around the perimeter track to the end of the runway. A lone hawk hovered over the airfield, absolutely still as he faced into the wind. Up in that part of England the air hums and throbs with the sound of aircraft motors all day, but for half an hour before takeoff the skies are dead, silent and expectant. We went out and stood around the big, black four-motored Lancaster, “D for Dog.” A small station wagon delivered a thermos bottle of coffee, chewing gum, an orange, and a bit of chocolate for each man. Walking out to the bus that was to take us to the aircraft, I heard the station loudspeakers announcing that that evening all personnel would be able to see a film: Star-Spangled Rhythm. As we dressed, a couple of Australians were whistling. Late in the afternoon we went to the locker room to draw parachutes, Mae Wests and all the rest. The red-headed English boy with the two-weeks’-old mustache was the last to leave the room. I noticed that the big Canadian with the slow, easy grin had printed “Berlin” at the top of his pad and then embellished it with a scroll. He said that concentration was the secret of success in these raids that as long as the aircraft stayed bunched, they would protect each other. Then, Jock, the wing commander, explained the system of markings, the kind of flares that would be used by the pathfinders. The intelligence officer told us how many heavy and light ack-ack guns, how many searchlights we might expect to encounter. The pilots were reminded that Berlin is Germany’s greatest center of war production. The atmosphere was that of a school and a church. The crew captains walked into the briefing room, looked at the maps and charts and sat down with their big celluloid pads on their knees.

Vice grips