Photoshop Illustration by Dave O'Malley with Richard Allnutt photograph

In the seventy years since the night of 16–17 May 1943—the night of Operation Chastise—the events that transpired on that moonlit spring night have been made into feature films, documentaries, novels, non-fiction books, magazine articles, dramatic paintings, computer games, marches and comic books. For all of you who read this, there is not much one can say to add to the reportage of this stunning attack deep inside Germany on targets long thought to be unassailable.

On that dark night, lit only by the moon, 133 very young men of 617 Squadron took off in 19 specially modified Avro Lancaster bombers, formed up and flew extremely low over the English Channel across the Dutch coast. Having trained for months to deliver a very special weapon, the young men were headed for a date with destiny. The aircraft were to fly low, beneath radar coverage, navigate deep into Germany, locate and attack a series of massive dams on tributaries of the Ruhr River. Behind each of these dams, the Möhne Dam, the Sorpe Dam, the Eder Dam and the Ennepe Dam, were massive reservoirs of water which, it was hoped, would flood factory sites downstream and bring much of Germany's industrial production to a standstill.

The attacks would be carried out using a special explosive device which, when released from a Lancaster bomber at exactly 60 ft AGL, at exactly 240 mph and at a specific distance from the reservoir-side face of the dam, would fall to the water and then bounce like a skipping stone, in decreasing bounces, until it fell exactly at the face of the dam. The bombs would then sink down the face of the dam to a specific depth where a hydrostatic sensor would detonate the bomb like a depth charge. And like a depth charge, the bomb would use the power of compressed water to deliver a devastating blow deep beneath the surface, weakening the dam's structural integrity. The massive weight of the stored water would then breach the weakened dam wall and roar down the valleys, flooding industrial complexes downstream.

The squadron was made up of hand-picked crews under the leadership of the charismatic 24-year-old Wing Commander Guy Gibson, a veteran of over 170 bombing and night-fighter missions. These crews included RAF personnel of several different nationalities, as well as members of the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF), Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) and Royal New Zealand Air Force (RNZAF), who were frequently attached to RAF squadrons under the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan. The squadron was based at RAF Scampton, about 5 mi (8 km) north of Lincoln. The crews found their targets and, facing heavy flak and cannon fire from the dams' batteries of anti-aircraft guns, they pressed home their attack, with only the moon to guide them. Of the 19 participating aircraft, 8 were shot down. Of the 133 men involved, 53 were killed. Of the 53 killed, 15 were Canadian. There was one Victoria Cross (Gibson), as well as five Distinguished Service Orders, 10 Distinguished Flying Crosses and four bars, two Conspicuous Gallantry Medals, and eleven Distinguished Flying Medals and one bar given out for service on that one night alone. 17 members of the Royal Canadian Air Force survived, 16 of them were Canadians and one was an American.

The story of the DamBusters is well told, in every form. But we ask that, on 16–17 May, you take a moment to imagine you're one of 7 young Canadian men hunched in the dark, thundering down a flat expanse of cold, black water, deep in the heart of an evil empire on a moonlit night. The hills around you are filled with armed men who wish to kill you. Imagine the roaring sound of four Merlins thundering at 240 mph, just 60 feet from death. Imagine the flash of tracer fire, the hellish vibration of the Lancaster, the icy air, the explosions, the grim determination, the shaking hands, the stench of sweat, gas, oil and death, the sound of the bomb spinning up beneath you and then releasing, the gut wrenching pull up, the shells and hot metal shrapnel smashing through the thin aluminium skin all around you. Imagine the steady voice of the bomb aimer in your headset, muffled yet high-pitched from fear. Imagine the Lancaster in front of you exploding as it passes over the dam. Imagine swimming upstream against a flow of deadly tracer, trained on your face, on your body, on your friends. Imagine your family 6,000 miles away. Imagine it was you in the front of that fragile, thin-skinned, yet screaming Lancaster.

Then ask yourself if you have thanked those men enough.