Squadron Leader Johnny Johnson longed to give Hitler a bloody nose

The oddest thing, thought Johnny Johnson—once it was nose up, and they were racing for the Dutch coast—was that there had been no one there. They had set off late on this mission, on May 16th 1943, well after the two other formations of Lancaster bombers in 617 Squadron had gone. But at their target, the Sorpe dam at the heart of the German Ruhr, the skies were empty. In the brilliant moonlight the dam shone, intact. Not only was no one else attacking it at the time, but clearly no one had started.

Of course he had been busy in his “office”, lying on his stomach on a padded bench at the front in that sweet aroma of engine oil and aircraft fuel, eyes switching from markers to target to the ground that tore past under him beyond the Perspex nose-cone, ready to shout to the pilot “Right—right—steady” if the perfect spot appeared. At that point, the pilot would throw the master switch; the bomb-release button in his own hand became live; when he pressed it, the bomb would fall. All through, he could concentrate only on the job he had to do.