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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/193/30990/BYeomanHTYeomanHTv1-01.1.pdf
8262794404d2ef0dfee19a3f5bd97a8e
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/193/30990/BYeomanHTYeomanHTv1-02.2.pdf
7e6e96679a1915a0c9b98fb636e9cf11
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Title
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Yeoman, Harold
Harold Yeoman
Harold T Yeoman
H T Yeoman
Description
An account of the resource
31 items. Collection concerns Harold Yeoman (b. 1921 1059846 and 104405 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a pilot with 12 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, a memoir, pilot's flying log book, 26 poems, a photograph and details of trail of Malayan collaborator.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Christopher E. Potts and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2016-10-28
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Yeoman, HT
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
Start of transcription
[underlined] LOOSE ON THE WIND [/underlined]
Harold Yeoman
[page break]
To those who never came back.
[page break]
Their voices, dying as they fly,
Loose on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,
My fellows’ and my own.
A.E. Houseman,
“A Shropshire Lad”, XXXVIII.
“And how can a life be loved that hath so may embitterments, [sic] and is subject to so many calamities and miseries? How too can it be called a life, that begetteth [sic] so many deaths and plagues?”
Thomas a Kempis,
“The Imitation of Christ”.
[page break]
[underlined] LOOSE ON THE WIND [/underlined]
Author’s foreword
Never no more
We would never fly like that
Lennie
It makes you think
‘Yes, my darling daughter’
Crewing-up
Images of mortality
Tony
Mind you don’t scratch the paint
Rabbie
Letter home
Low-level
A boxful of broken china
The end of Harry
Silver spoon boy
Intermezzo
Overshoot
First solo
The pepper pot
Approach and landing
Knight’s move
A different kind of love
Sun on a chequered tea-cosy
Photograph in a book
Glossary
[page break]
[underlined] AUTHOR’S FOREWORD [/underlined]
During the years of the Second World War, some 90,000 men, from the British Isles, from the great Dominions overseas and from the countries of Europe overrun by the German enemy, volunteered as aircrew in Bomber Command of the Royal Air Force. Of these men, over 55,000 were to lose their lives and, to this day, more than 20,000 of that total have no known graves. In one particular operation there were more Bomber Command aircrew killed than there were casualties during the entire Battle of Britain.
There were many men whose names will bear for ever an aura of unfading brilliance, men such as Leonard Cheshire, (whom for a brief time I was privileged to know) such as Guy Gibson, or John Searby. There were also the thousands who could not aspire to the greatness of those remarkable men, to their almost unbelievable heights of courage and achievement. To attempt to assess what we in Bomber Command did achieve is no part of my aim. Much greater minds and more highly skilled pens than mine have already done this. This small piece of writing is solely an attempt, through the window of personal recollection, to tell of a few of the incidents which affected me and of a few of the splendid young men whom I was fortunate enough to know and to call my friends. Many, all too many of them, alas, gave their lives as part of the price of our freedom, the freedom from an unspeakable tyranny, that freedom which we now so casually enjoy and take so easily for granted. If, in this small book, I have planted their names like seeds in the garden of future years for even a few eyes other than my own to read, for a few other minds to remember, then I shall have done what I set out to do.
An eminent air historian has recently quoted some words which I wrote to him, words which I now venture to repeat. I said, “We simply had our jobs to do and we tried to do them as best we could.” I believe that sums it up.
Harold Yeoman
November 1994
[page break]
[inserted] [underlined] Never no more [/underlined] [/inserted]
“….. And through the glasse [sic] wyndow [sic]
Shines the sone. [sic]
How should I love, and I so young? …..”
(Anon.)
[page break]
[underlined] NEVER NO MORE [/underlined]
There was something icy cold running down my face and a brilliant light was shining into my eyes.
“What on earth?” I heard myself mutter.
I came to rapidly out of a deep sleep and tried to wriggle away from the cold wetness which was finding its way down my pyjama collar, but I could not escape it, nor the blinding glare.
“What’s going on?” I half-shouted, then I saw her hand holding the dripping sponge. Bright sunshine was pouring through my window that winter morning.
A pale, laughing face framed in jet-black hair behind the hand. She was sitting on the side of my bed.
“Betty!” I shouted, “Stop it! What the heck are you doing?”
“Saturday,” she answered brightly, twisting the sponge away from my hand, “Saturday, and it’s your day off. We were going for a walk, do you remember?”
Her dark, lustrous eyes shone with mischief. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my pyjama jacket and shuddered with the cold. I tried to pull the blankets back around me, but she pulled them firmly down again to chest level. What on earth would my parents think, I wondered, a young girl coming into my bedroom – they’d have a fit. It was almost too much for them when I’d insisted on volunteering for aircrew when I was nineteen, but this - !
“I’ve brought you a cup of tea; now hurry up and drink it, ‘cos it’s breakfast time.”
Betty got off the bed, handed me the cup and made for the door.
“Don’t be long now, and if you don’t take me for that walk, I’ll never speak to you again, never no more.”
“What, never, never no more?” I mimicked.
“No, never no more.”
She grinned, but pretended to be in a huff and flounced out, tossing her shiny black hair which gleamed like coal in the morning sunlight. It became a silly, affectionate catch-phrase between us.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
We had arrived at the Knight’s home at almost the same time; Betty from Coventry, after the air-raid, I from Initial Training Wing, to start my flying training at Sywell, a few miles from the centre of Northampton. We had seen the bombing from a safe distance, out of the train windows, on the way up from our I.T.W. at Torquay overnight. We had stopped, miles from anywhere, for hours, it seemed, while the raid progressed. We could hear the Jerries droning overhead and saw the fire on the horizon.
“Someone’s getting a hell of a pasting,” we had said.
Betty, then, was a refugee. Near misses from H.E.s had decided her parents to evacuate her from the shattered and blazing city to the safer home of her aunt and uncle; the R.A.F. billeting authorities had decided to send me to the Knights at the same time. So we quickly became friends; we were both of an age and of similar dispositions, light-hearted, fun-loving, undemanding and contented by nature. Two of a kind, I thought.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
We walked in Abington Park. It was brilliantly sunny but bitterly cold, a wonderful December day. There was snow on the ground, the bare trees were black and stark against the clear winter sky. With my white u/t pilot’s flash in the front of my forage cap I swaggered a little. Why not? I was very proud of it. My buttons gleamed, my boots shone like glass.
“Bags of swank!” our drill Corporal used to shout at us as we marched through Torquay, and we obeyed that command, always. I was proud of myself and I was proud to be walking out with Betty. She was a lovely girl, her face in repose calm and radiant as some Italian Renaissance Madonna in a painting.
“No, I haven’t gone solo yet,” I was saying as we walked, “but I’ve only done nine hours up to now, you know”
“How long will it take you, do you think?”
“Oh, any minute now, but my instructor puts me off a bit, he is rather bad-tempered.”
(‘Can you see that other aircraft?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well then, are you going to fly round it or through it?’)
“That’s not very nice, is it?”
“No, not very, but I try not to let him put me off.”
[page break]
“Will you be getting any leave at Christmas?”
“Don’t suppose so, Betty; I mean to say, I’ve only been in three months altogether and we did get a 48 hour pass from Torquay, you know.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The Knights had a radiogram in the lounge of their comfortable semi-detached house.
“Look what I got for Christmas,” Betty exclaimed, holding out a blue-labelled record in its cardboard envelop, “would you like to hear it?”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Hutch.”
I had little or no idea who or what Hutch was, then.
“Yes, please,” I said.
She put the record on and straightened up, standing before me in her simple, grey dress. The creamy, brown voice came out of the loudspeaker and I was immediately seized by some emotion which I had never before experienced.
“That certain night, the night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air,” sang Hutch, and Betty was humming the tune along with him.
“There were angels dining at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”
To this day, when I play that on my hi-fi and hear Hutch’s lovely velvet voice and perfect diction, I am back with Betty at Mrs. Knight’s, falling beautifully and adolescently in love with her from the exact moment that she played me that song. I find it, still, an unbearably moving experience, one which brings a lump into my throat and tears to my eyes.
“Did you like that? Do you want to hear the other side?”
“Oh, yes, please, I’d like to.”
On the other side was “All the things you are,” and it couldn’t have fitted my mood better, either. She was all the things which Hutch was singing about.
“That’s a wizard record, Betty,” I said. She smiled happily.
. . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
“Gosh, I’ve never had champagne before, Mr. Knight,” I said.
“Well, you went solo on Christmas Eve, when we were away and now you’ve done your first solo cross-country today, so you can try some, to celebrate, apart from the fact that it’s New Year’s Day, of course.”
“Well, thanks very much, and – cheers!”
“Cheers,” from Mr. Knight, “and happy landings.”
“Chocks away,” Betty said. Now where had she learned that?
“Would you like to hear another new record?”
“Oh, yes, I would, very much. What is it?”
“’You’d be so nice to come home to’, it’s called,” she said, “do you know it?”
“No, I’ve never heard that one.”
She put the record on and I listened as I sipped the unfamiliar but strangely disappointing wine. I thought, “Yes, you would be so nice to come home to, Betty darling.” Maybe it was the wine after all.
But I really didn’t know how to say that sort of thing to her. How did one start? Besides, my mind was still full of the voice of Flying Officer Lines from earlier that wonderful day.
“You don’t need me, do you? I am going to have a sleep. Wake me up if anything goes wrong.”
And pulling out his speaking tube he had wriggled down into the front cockpit, out of the slipstream, that New Year’s morning, as I set course, droning over snowy Sywell in the bitterly cold sunshine. He was a Battle of Britain Hurricane pilot, instructing for a so-called rest, and trusting me, with only thirty hours in my log-book, to fly from Sywell to unknown Cambridge, land, and come back again. If you did the trip without assistance from your instructor it counted as solo time, and I had done that. My cup of happiness was full, that day.
“You’d be paradise to come home to and love”, went the song as the record ended.
I sighed.
“Yes, she would be,” I thought, “but how on earth do you go about actually saying things like that to Betty?”
There were all manner of things I undoubtedly wanted to say to
[page break]
her. But I hadn’t even kissed her yet, and you couldn’t say some things without kissing somebody first, could you? Besides, she might not want me to. So how, and when, did, or could, one start? It was very difficult, rather like trying to do a perfect three-point landing.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Every other Friday we were paid. I was rich beyond my wildest imaginings. From the two shillings a day at Torquay I had progressed to no less than five pounds four shillings each fortnight. That was as a mere Leading Aircraftman. What I would be paid if ever I became a Sergeant pilot the imagination simply couldn’t tell me. I used to split the money carefully into equal parts and with one half burning a hole in my pocket and the Friday evening feeling joyously pervading my system my little world was at my feet until Monday morning. I would go into Northampton, to the “Black Boy” in the main square, for a mixed grill and a pint of black-and-tan, sometimes with Len or Eric, sometimes alone. It became the high point of my week.
We would sit and talk flying to our hearts’ content, comparing notes on our experiences. In retrospect how limited they were and how naive we were, and yet how miraculous and other-worldly it seemed to me to know the unutterable thrill of open-cockpit flying in the freezing winter air, strapped tightly into the fragile machine whose engine purred bravely in front of me; the wonder of the view of the blue-green and white hazy landscape spread out below, the icy slipstream on my numbed face, the thrill of the response, under my hands and feet, of the aircraft to small, smooth movements of the controls. There was the magic of the rising, tilting and falling of the snow-covered, mottled, dim countryside, blotched with the smoke of towns, the dazzling red disc of the sun as it set in the haze, the ecstasy of sideslipping [sic] in over the hedge and of smoothly straightening out the glide to set her down for a perfect three-pointer on to the frosty grass near the other Tigers, while a few fellow-pupils watched critically, and while over at the Vickers shed the engines of a great black Wellington rumbled ominously.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
“Are you coming down to the Y.M. tonight, Harold?”
My head was down over my books, in the dining room. I wasn’t finding the theory of flight too easy.
“Oh. Yes, I’ll be along; are you going to be there?”
“Well, I work there there [sic] three nights a week now, you know. Auntie thought I should do something to help the war effort until I’m called up.”
(Called up? I hadn’t thought of that; somehow I couldn’t imagine Betty in uniform.)
“O.K., I’ll see you down there later, then, I’ve got just about an hour’s work to do. Keep a chocolate biscuit for me, will you?”
She waggled her fingers, crinkled her nose smilingly, and went out.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I landed for the last time at Sywell in a Tiger Moth, sideslipping [sic] off the height and greasing her down on to the grass. I let the aircraft rumble to a halt, then I taxied carefully to the dispersal tents, faced her into wind and switched off. The prop juddered to a stop. An erk ducked down to chock the wheels. Dusk was beginning to fall; I could see Alex Henshaw, Vickers’ Chief Test Pilot, on the circuit in his Spitfire. Everyone always stopped whatever they were doing to watch him fly, it was part of our education. But my eyes always returned to the huge black bulk of the Wellington by their hangar. I pulled out my harness pin and released the straps carefully, so as not to damage the aircraft’s fabric. I sighed and reluctantly, as one would part from a girl, I climbed out of the cockpit. A chapter had ended.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“I don’t know exactly where, Betty, except that it’s overseas. The lads are all saying Canada, but no-one ever tells us much. I suppose we’ll not know until we get there. There’s a few posted to S.F.T.S.s in England, Hullavington, Cranfield, places like that, but ten of us are definitely on the boat.”
She looked down at her cup of tea. We were sitting together in
[page break]
the Y.M.C.A.; she had an hour off duty. The place was full of uniforms, but I scarcely notice them, I only had eyes for her.
“Will it be soon?”
“Next week, they think.”
“Harold - ?”
“Yes, what?”
“Oh, well, nothing. You will write, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, Betty, yes, I’ll write to you as often as I can.”
“What will you be flying?”
“Harvards or Oxfords, I suppose, I’m not really sure.”
“What do you want to go on to, fighters or bombers?”
(Strange, how civilians thought there were only those two categories of pilot, but I suppose the news the press and radio gave concerned mainly those two. After all, they were the types mostly at the sharp end of things. But I thought of Betty, huddled fearfully in the shelter, that night of the Coventry raid and I felt a sudden and great anger that she should have had to endure that. And I thought of the Wellington over at the Vickers hangar at the aerodrome, sinister, powerful, black, and from then on I was never in any doubt.)
“Bombers,” I said firmly, “definitely bombers.”
. . . . . . . . . . .
It is strange that I don’t remember saying goodbye to Betty, nor to the Knights, if it comes to that. I must have done so, of course, but sadly, I cannot bring the occasions to mind.
I did go to Canada. Once we got out west we worked hard and we flew hard, by day and by night. We got no leave, very little time off. We didn’t particularly want any. Things were getting rather urgent back home. Besides, I wanted to hurry back to Betty, and to my parents, too, of course.
I wrote to her as often as I could. She sent me her photograph, smiling and lovely in that grey dress, but I’m afraid I haven’t got it now. I got my wings a few days before my twentieth birthday. In the late summer, after a stopover in Iceland, I was back in England, and with a couple of Canadian chaps, splendid fellows whom I had
[page break]
met on the boat, I was posted to a Wellington Operational Training Unit at Bassingbourne, not too far from Northampton. Most of my buddies went on to fighters. As it happened, they had a little more future than us bomber boys. Not much, but a little. Of course, I was longing to see Betty again.
As soon as I had settled in I phoned the Knights one evening. It was an interminable business, repeating their number to different operators, waiting while the line buzzed and crackled, while disembodied and unreal voices spoke unintelligibly to one another in hasty, clipped syllables. In the end, a man’s voice spoke up.
“Is that Mr. Knight?”
“Yes, who is that?”
“It’s Harold.”
“Harold! How are you? Where are you speaking from?”
I told him Bassingbourn. We were allowed to do that so long as we didn’t give the name of our unit.
“How’s Mrs. Knight?”
“Oh, she’s fine, she’s down at the Y.M. this evening, on duty.”
“I see. And Betty, is she still with you?”
There was a slight pause. I thought we must have been cut off. Then he said, “No, she went back home a little while ago. Things are a bit quieter now, you know.”
“Yes, I understand. But how is she? I’d love to see her again.”
“Well, actually, Harold, she’s fine. But look, did you know – did she mention that she’s getting engaged?”
I felt as though I’d flown slap into a mountainside in the dark. I swallowed with difficulty, the perspiration had broken out on my forehead and my hand holding the receiver was trembling.
“No,” I said, “I didn’t know that.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”
“No, I hadn’t heard that.”
“Yes; he’s quite a nice chap, a bit older than she is, works in a car factory, I believe.”
We didn’t talk long after that; I was too stunned to think very straight. I’m afraid I never saw the Knights again, and I am truly sorry, for they were good, nice people and they were extremely kind to me. I made a mess of my flying during the next few days.
[page break]
I still think about Betty. I have quite a substantial record collection and after years of fruitless searching I finally got the record of Hutch singing what has become for me a poignant song, that song about the nightingale. And when I play it I can see Betty’s lovely face, pale and calm, like the Madonna, and I can visualise the gleam of the firelight on her jet-black hair, that winter afternoon in Northampton.
I wonder, often I wonder, what became of her. Dear Betty, I shall never forget you for you were my first love. What happened? Where did I go wrong? I don’t know why I should feel so very sad when I think of those days, for they were truly among the happiest of my life.
Sometimes, too, I think of the way she used to laugh, and of her words; I can almost hear her voice speaking to me, as though she were in the room here. But I know I shall never see her again and now, the touching little phrase sounds only like a cry of despair in the night – “Never no more, never no more.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
[inserted] [underlined] We would never fly like that. [/underlined] [/inserted]
[page break]
[underlined] WE WOULD NEVER FLY LIKE THAT [/underlined]
After I had described the incident to him, with inevitable, automatic use of a pilot’s illustrative gestures of the hands, he thought briefly about it, then looking directly at me, “You ought to write about it,” he said, “Why don’t you put it on paper?”
The following day I awoke early in the morning, earlier than usual, even for me, with his words still sounding in my ears. And remembering the words with which I had described the events of almost sixty years previously still fresh and vivid in my mind, I took up pencil and paper.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Now, in the dying days of the twentieth century, almost every summer week-end, all over the land, you may buy your ticket for some air display. You may sit in your car with the doors open to admit the pleasant breeze, the warm air, the chatter of the crowd, the over-emphatic loudspeaker announcements, or you may lounge upon your hired camp-chair, your sunglasses shading your eyes as you look upwards into the limitless blue clarity of the sky, and watch, to the accompaniment of the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the hundreds of spectators, the improbable antics of the ugly, purpose-built, monstrously-powered aircraft, meretriciously decorated with advertisements, performing their violent and ugly aerial manoeuvres. To me, the vicious use by their pilots of stick and rudder palls after only a few seconds, and I think, perhaps nostalgically, that I would much rather watch fewer and simpler aerobatics performed by pilots in standard military aircraft. And as I ponder this my thoughts are led back to a day on a Northamptonshire aerodrome when I was beginning my elementary pilot training in the R.A.F.
The time was the sever winter of 1940-41. The Battle of Britain had just been won; Coventry had only very recently been devastated by the Luftwaffe in one catastrophic night raid. I was one of twenty or so young men on our course. Most of us had never seen an aircraft at close quarters until we arrived at No. 6 Elementary Flying Training School. Here, there
[page break]
were Tiger Moths – biplanes, gentlemen’s aeroplanes, as I heard them many times described. They were docile, forgiving, vice-less, sensitive to both hands and feet, a sheer joy to handle once the initial strangeness of the sensation of controlling an aircraft in three dimensions had worn off. Most of us, I fancy, could see ahead no further than going solo on them, then completing the course with the required fifty or so flying hours before we went on to the next stage in our training, a Service Flying Training School. But we did not look far into the future; we did not know nor could we imagine what was coming to us. Perhaps, in many cases, this was just as well. All we knew was that we were, each one of us, filled with an unquenchable desire and zeal to qualify eventually as pilots in the finest Air Force in the world, to become – and we thought this and spoke of it without embarrassment or apology to any man – the elite of all the armed forces, an opinion which I will hold with pride today.
So we flew and we studied flying and talked of little else but the theory and practice of flying. We questioned one another. We pored [sic] over pilots’ notes and airmanship notes and navigation books and the Morse Code. We questioned our instructors and our peers on the senior course. And we kept our eyes and ears open, sensitive and receptive to anything, however small, which would assist us in any way to obtain those wings which we longed to be able to wear on our uniforms.
Here at Sywell, the Tiger Moths were, during the day, dispersed around the perimeter of the grass aerodrome, standing in their training yellow and earth-camouflage paint, their R.A.F. roundels standing out bravely, awaiting their next pupils to take them up on whichever exercise they would carry out. We were divided into three Flights, six or seven of the boys on my course in each, with six or seven of the senior course. Each Flight had its ‘office’ in a camouflage-painted bell tent near the hedge. But what drew my eye almost hypnotically when I was standing there, not flying, perhaps watching other pupils performing their ‘circuits and bumps’ until it was my own turn, was the occasional sight of a Wellington, a twin-engined bomber, at that time the biggest we had, standing outside a hangar on the far side of the aerodrome – the Vickers shed, as it was called. It fascinated me constantly and unfailingly, massive in its matt-black dope with its very tall single rudder, standing squat, silent and menacing outside its hangar, contrasting against the snow-covered ground,
[page break]
never approached by anyone except the Vickers personnel. What was taking place there I have never known, but all of us well knew who flew it.
He would arrive in his Spitfire, considerately keeping a respectable distance outside the circuit while we pupils took off or landed in our tiger Moths. Then he would slip into a vacant place in the circuit and make his approach and landing, his aircraft, pencil-slim, perfect and graceful in its flight, the focus of all eyes from the ground, its appearance possessed of something of the beauty and poetry of a Bach fugue or a Mozart andante, a Shakespearian sonnet of flowing aerial beauty. The pilot, we learned from some of the senior course who were comparatively old hands on the aerodrome, was Alex Henshaw, Vickers’ Chief Test Pilot, a fact which reduced us tyros, with probably less than thirty flying hours in any of our logbooks, to awestricken silence.
He it would be who would take the Wellington from its place at the Vickers shed, taxi it, ponderously, it seemed to us, into take-off position when all Tiger Moths were well clear, and without fuss send it charging with engines howling at full boost over the bumpy grass field and into the air, leaving traces of oily smoke in its wake from the two Pegasus engines as he eased it over the trees fringing the aerodrome and climbed away. Later, he would return to land, once again showing meticulous consideration of us pupils, and would taxy the bomber to its position by the Vickers shed. I would have not believed them had someone told me that less than a year later I would land and take off here in a more powerful Mark of Wellington on the strength of having seen Alex Henshaw’s performances; I am sure that my audience, if indeed I had one, would have been quite unimpressed by the sight. I know that my own crew, in the tense silence as I scraped over the trees on take-off, were wishing themselves anywhere but with me in my inexperienced disregard for their safety. But it was watching Alex Henshaw that first sowed the seed of an idea in my head that, whereas almost all of the chaps on my course wanted to fly fighters, I thought that I would try my utmost to get on to a bomber Squadron, if only to hit back at those who had so terrified Betty, the niece of the couple on whom
[page break]
I was billeted in Northampton, and whom I was beginning to regard as someone more than a friend. A year later I would be wearing my pilot’s wings, having been half way across the world and back to earn them, having joined a Wellington Squadron in Lincolnshire and having survived a fire in the air followed by a barely controllable night descent in the darkness and the final crash-landing on my first operation against the enemy. I would also have gained, then lost, a love.
One afternoon, at Sywell, I was not flying, standing outside the dispersal tent with two or three others of my course, no doubt talking flying, and watching critically the take-offs and landings of a few pupils on circuits and bumps. (How readily I could point out their faults – a slight swing on take-off, a ropey turn, a bumpy landing, or a too-high hold-off; how slow I was to recognise my own failings and correct them, except on the sometimes caustic promptings of Flying Officer J - -, my instructor).
At this stage in our training we could detect instantly any appearance or movement of an aircraft in the sky, no matter how far distant it was – an attribute I have never lost – and we could also quickly and correctly identify it, an ability which, for obvious reasons, was essential by day or by night. But on that bright, very cold afternoon, first there was the distinctive note of the Merlin engine. Our heads turned. Here was the Spitfire with Alex Henshaw, assessing the position of the Tigers on the circuit. He would have been at about 800 feet; I had a splendid view as he cruised gently along, well outside the aerodrome boundary. Then there was a flash of sunlight off the wing as, quite unexpectedly, he rolled the aircraft on to its back and flew, straight and level, but inverted, into wind. We turned our heads and grinned at one another. This was good. This was very good. Exciting stuff. Soon he would roll back and finish his circuit normally. We were wrong. He turned crosswind, still inverted, his rudder pointing grotesquely earthwards. This was becoming quite amazing, an incredible sight. Then, still inverted, he turned again, on to the downwind leg and put his wheels down – or rather, put them up, as we saw them, rising like a snail’s antennae from the duck-egg blue under surface of the Spitfire. Then he turned
[page break]
on to the final crosswind leg, still inverted, undercarriage held high, flaps now out, and finally into wind, on to his landing approach.
Spellbound and speechless we watched as he lost height smoothly in the inverted position. What was he going to do? Open her up and roll her out, then go round again on a normal circuit? But no, he continued on his inverted final approach. I hardly dared breathe; the tension in our small group could be felt. Down and down he slipped until we were prepared to see simply anything – but surely not a crash? I could not truly estimate at what height he was, but finally, effortlessly and smoothly, he rolled her out, the engine popping characteristically as he held off at a few feet and set the Spitfire down for a perfect landing on the grass. We exhaled in unison, the tension gone, wonderment taking over.
I have never seen any piece of flying anywhere to approach the silken, wonderful skill of this, and I would be astonished if anyone else has; it was sheer unadulterated Henshaw genius, a sight that I have always remembered with awe, one I shall never forget.
There is a very fine novel, long since out of print, written by an R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant pilot who was killed in 1940. The action takes place at a civilian flying school; in one particular chapter some pupils are watching an instructor putting an aircraft through its paces on a rigorous test flight and one of them speaks some words which precisely matched my thoughts as I watched that incredible inverted circuit – “We’ll none of us ever fly like that.”
I am sure that none of us standing there on that wartime winter day ever did and I would be astounded if anyone else did, or could. It was flying by a genius; even the gods must have smiled to see it.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Lennie [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] LENNIE [/underlined]
In those days, full-backs wore number 1, right wing threequarters threw into lineouts and wore number 2, and so on, down to number 15 at wing forward. Lennie wore number 2 in my local rugby club’s first team, and also in the County side. As an aspiring wing threequarter [sic] myself, although just into my teens, Lennie, when I watched the team’s every home game, wide-eyed on the open side of the exposed pitch, in whatever weather, Lennie became one of my boyhood heroes.
He was not by any means one of your greyhound-type hard-running winger, for he carried, in retrospect, perhaps a pound or two too much weight to be numbered with them. But he was as elusive as a well-greased eel. Although in defence, and in particular, his rather feeble kicking, he was slightly suspect, with ball in hand every spectator, whether at club or County match, unconsciously sat up or stood straighter, in anticipation of his jinking, sidestepping runs up the touchline, soldier-erect, dark head thrown back, mouth slightly open. I wonder how often in his career he heard the encouraging shouts of the crowd, “Come on, Lennie!”
The recollection of a particular incident in one particular match, against the strongest club side in the county still remains vividly with me. In all but the highest grade of rugby, receiving the ball as a wing threequarter [sic] within ten or fifteen yards of one’s own corner flag meant that there was no choice. One kicked for touch, hoping to gain at least twenty or so yards. Especially so when one was pitted against the most efficient and successful team for miles around, and even more so when one was faced by the opposing winger, who in this case was an English international. But on this occasion Lennie eschewed the safe option. Perhaps it was that he himself knew that his kicking was rather weak.
About a hundred yards from his opponent’s line and faced by a rapidly advancing and grimly competent opponent, he set off to run, up the appreciable slope of his home ground. With a jink and a sidestep he evaded the oncoming International, who skidded and was left floundering. Urged on by the home crowd, myself included, he ran, sidestepped, swerved and tricked his way through the opponents’ entire team, his lately evaded marker in breathless and fruitless pursuit. He finally rounded the fullback and scored wide out to the left, after a solo effort of more than 120 yards. It brought the house down, especially as the England ‘cap’
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was finally left prone and exhausted in his wake. I have watched and played rugby for very many years and I honestly believe that I have rarely seen a finer individual try scored.
Came the war. Players and spectators alike of the necessary ages were scattered all over the world, many never again to see or handle a rugby ball. Very early in 1941, my elementary flying training – and Betty – left behind, the latter with some heartache, I and several other LACs from Sywell found ourselves en route for we knew not where to continue our training, gathered like so many shepherdless sheep in midwinter in a large and bleak Nissen hut at RAF Wilmslow, an overseas embarkation depot. There must have been fifty or so of us in the hut, sitting upon our respective beds, while a Corporal at one end lectured us on some topic relevant to our impending departure, then called us forward, alphabetically, of course – I was used to being the last in any roll-call – to hand us some sheet of instructions. Awaiting my turn I watched idly while others hurried forward to the Corporal’s desk, then about-turned and went back to their places. Watched idly, that is, until a name I only half-heard was called, and a well-built dark man trotted, on his toes, up the aisle to the Corporal. I started up with a stifled exclamation, recognising the way he ran. It was Lennie, Lennie C - - of W - - R.F.C. I could scarcely believe my eyes. For a second or two the forage cap with the white flash of u/t aircrew almost deceived me.
As soon as we were left to our own devices I walked along the hut and across to his bed-space.
“Excuse me, but you are Lennie C - -, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
He looked curiously at me.
“I thought so, I’ve often watched you play, at W - -.”
He looked surprised and pleased. I mentioned my cousin, who played in the same team. To meet someone from one’s own home town in the Service was a reasonably infrequent happening, and because of that, all the more welcome. He told me he was under training as a Navigator. We stuck together, despite the disparity in our ages – he was about ten years my senior – through our dismal stay at Wilmslow, then via Gourock and a ridiculously small ship to Iceland where we trans-shipped
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to an armed Merchant Cruiser. This was more of a morale-boosting title than anything else; the ship was a medium-sized passenger cruise vessel with two quite small guns which, at a guess, might have just about managed to sink an empty wooden barrel, but not much else. The news finally filtered down to us that we were heading for Canada. On setting out from Reykjavik we looked around for our convoy. There was none. We were to cross the Atlantic alone, with two paltry guns to defend ourselves against whatever there might be in the way of U-boats, pocket battleships or a combination of both. This was a very real threat. The ‘Bismarck’ was later to sink ‘Hood’ and itself to be sunk in the North Atlantic. We slept and lived, about 150 of us, I suppose, on the floor of what had been the Recreation Room with about twelve inches of so-called bed-space between mattresses. Half way across the Atlantic, in a February storm, the engines packed up and we tossed, helpless, for twenty four hours, a sitting target for the Kriegsmarine. Then at last we heard the welcome rumbling from the bowels of the ship.
An LAC whose bed-space was near to Lennie’s and mine then reported that he felt unwell. Chickenpox was diagnosed, and the M.O., looking for all the world like an S.S. man selecting victims for the concentration camp, ordered that several of us, including Lennie, Brian S - , who had been on my course at Sywell, and myself, were to be sent into quarantine when we arrived in Canada. Brian, as it happened, was also a rugby man, having played for Broughton Park.
We duly and thankfully docked in Halifax, Nova Scotia and after, I’m afraid, gorging ourselves on steaks and chocolate, which we had never seen since before September 1939, about twenty of us, including two or three Fleet Air Arm airmen, to our eyes bizarre in their bell-bottomed trousers and flapping collars, were put on the train for Cape Breton Island, in particular for the small R.C.A.F. Station of North Sydney.
Our quarantine turned out to be farcical. After twenty four hours on the camp we were informed, amazingly, that we could please ourselves where we went and whom we met, until further notice. We looked at one another in astonishment – then proceeded to enjoy ourselves while we could. Our duties, such as they were, consisted of one night duty in six when three of us were left in charge of the kitchen and served meals to the RCAF airmen
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who were on guard duty and fire picquet. The civilian cooks, who had never met anyone from the U.K., ensure that we were fed like fighting cocks, providing us with quantities of steaks, eggs and milk. Out of camp, the streets, cafes and cinemas of North Sydney and of Sydney itself were open to us. Lifts in cars belonging to the local people were there for the asking, and the friendly Nova Scotians, learning of our arrival, took us to their hearts and into their homes. They were astonished that despite the deep snow on the ground, we seldom, if ever, wore our great coats. The cold was so dry compared with that in England, and we were physically in such prime condition that we felt no discomfort, whereas our Canadian hosts went about muffled up in greatcoats and fur hats with ear-flaps. Our stay there was as good as an extended leave.
Off the pitch, most rugby players are determined to do their utmost to ensure that breweries never go out of business. Lennie was no exception. When a group of us were out together he drank his beer slowly but steadily, became more and more relaxed and laughed a good deal, sometimes uncontrollably. He never became objectionable or aggressive, never used bad language and was always amenable to our advice that perhaps he had had sufficient and it was time to return to camp. Being a mere tyro, at the age on [sic] nineteen I drank sparingly and with considerable discretion, my mental sights being fixed over the horizon, on the next stage of my flying training and the eventual gaining of my wings. So I took it upon myself, on several occasions, to steer Lennie, muscular but curiously boneless, laughing at only he knew what, safely into our barrack hut and on to his bed, where I covered him, still in uniform, with his blankets, where he would fall peacefully asleep. Lennie, even with several beers inside him, never did the slightest harm to anyone.
Of course, the idyll had to come to an end. After several very pleasant weeks, our posting came through. Brian and I and some others were destined for Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, No. 32 S.F.T.S., while Lennie was posted to Goodrich, Ontario, a Navigational Training School. I remember how we shook hands when we said ‘cheerio’. His smile was as broad as ever, and his hand, I recall vividly, was large and surprisingly soft.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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It must have been on one of my leaves from Moreton-in-the-Marsh towards the end of 1942 when my father, who was on the committee of the local rugby club, gave me the news. Lennie had been shot down and was missing. He believed that it had happened off the Norwegian coast. It was yet another blow to me following the loss of my own crew. I had recently had a reply from the Commanding Officer of my Squadron in response to a letter I had written him, that my crew must now all be presumed dead. I felt that the bottom had dropped out of my life and I was nearing the end of my tether. I was suffering deeply, as was my flying, and I sensed that my forthcoming Medical Board would be the end of a chapter. I went about cocooned in silent grief so intense that it amounted to permanent depression, which was only temporarily assuaged by drinking far more than I ever saw Lennie drink. From what little my father had gleaned from his informant at the clubhouse I surmised that Lennie must have been on some squadron in Coastal Command. For some reason I visualised him on Whitleys.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Years passed. I will not say that I had forgotten Lennie; occasionally some memory of those days would float unbidden into my mind and I would visualise him as I had last known him on Cape Breton Island, always smiling, playfully light-hearted, completely harmless. Then a friend gave me a cutting from a local newspaper with a photograph of the successful rugby team of the immediate pre-war years. Lennie smiled up at me from the middle of the front row of players, next to another young man who had been shot down into the sea off the Dutch coast as a wireless operator in a Blenheim on a daylight shipping strike. I was impelled to ask the friend whether any information could be obtained from the Internet as to what had happened to Lennie, and when it was he had died. Within days I knew enough to be able to consult a series of volumes of casualties of Bomber Command. For Lennie had not been on a Coastal Command Squadron as I had surmised, and he had not been shot down off Norway.
He was the Navigator of one of six Wellingtons from a Bomber Squadron at Mildenhall, (where much later, J – ended her career in the W.A.A.F. as a Base Watchkeeper), detailed to attack shipping, in daylight, on the Dortmund-Ems Canal in North-west Germany on a September afternoon in 1942.
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On reading this, I could hardly believe that Wellingtons were being used on daylight operations at that time; I had thought that the crippling loses [sic] that they suffered on such attacks in the early days of the war had meant their transfer solely to night bombing. (On my telling M – about these circumstances, she said ‘Suicide raid’. That was about the size of it.) Mr. Chorley’s painstakingly collated and amazingly detailed book gives the bare bones of the tragic story. Four and a half hours after taking off, presumably on their way back to Mildenhall, and within sight of the Dutch coast and the comparative safety of the North Sea, his aircraft was attacked by a Luftwaffe Focke-Wulfe 190, a formidable fighter aircraft. The wireless operator was killed in the attack and the aircraft was set on fire. The two gunners managed to bale out and became prisoners of war. The account says that Lennie was last seen using a fire extinguisher, bravely trying to put out the fire which was raging inside the fuselage of the Wellington.
The blazing aircraft crashed into what was then the Zuider Zee; the bodies of the wireless operator and the pilot were recovered and subsequently interred in a cemetery in Amsterdam, but Lennie’s body was never found and, having no known grave, his name is recorded on the Runnymede Memorial along with twenty thousand others whose remains were never recovered.
So died a hero who for a brief time was my friend.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] It makes you think [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] IT MAKES YOU THINK [/underlined]
“Mail up!”
We jumped off our beds and hurried towards the door at the end of the barrack hut. At least, some of us did. The majority stayed where they were, on their beds, pretending to read, cleaning buttons, pottering about. There could be almost no chance of mail for them, for they were Norwegian, and their homeland was under German occupation. They accepted this lack of mail, as they did much else, with considerable stoicism.
We who were the fortunate ones gathered around the R.C.A.F. airman who called out the names on the envelopes, and who, while looking down at the handful of letters he held, handed us our mail without a glance. There was one for me. I looked at the postmark. Coventry. My heart bounded when I saw that. There was two-thirds of the width of Canada and all the Atlantic Ocean between us; she was back in devastated Coventry, I in smaller and completely peaceful Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, under training as a fighter pilot.
I walked slowly back to my bed, savouring the sight of her handwriting, feeling the texture of the envelope smooth under my fingers. I sat down quietly, as far as one could be quiet in a hut with twenty-nine other blokes. In deference to us, the Norwegian lads did keep quiet as we read our mail. I held the unopened letter a long time in my hand, gazing at her rounded, shapely writing. I wanted this moment of pleasure to last as long as possible.
At the time I was with her, under the same roof, being so caught up in the novelty and the thrill of flying, I didn’t realise what was happening to me, or to her, and it was all too foolishly late that I had become slowly aware of it. After we had parted, when I was at the Embarkation Depot en route for Canada, and when I had time to take stock of myself, it was only then that it dawned slowly upon me that I had fallen in love with her, and that I wouldn’t see her again for the best, or the worst part of six months at least. Oh, Betty, I thought, the time I so stupidly wasted. Would I ever have the chance again?
I sighed, and looked at her photograph on my locker. She was
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smiling at me enigmatically, her mouth curving slightly up at the corners, her dark eyes holding more than a hint of mischief, the gleaming mass of her ebony hair framing the soft pallor of her calm face. Slowly and carefully I opened the envelope. I turned to the last sheet, looked at the end of the letter first, fearful that it might say only “yours sincerely” or some such. It did not. The words were there that I wanted to read. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and luxuriously, and started from the beginning.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Tim spoke up from across the gangway between the beds, his English idiomatic and only very faintly accented.
“I hope she still loves you, but come on, we have flying to do.”
“O.K., Tim, I’ll be right with you.”
I tucked the letter into my top left-hand tunic pocket, carefully buttoning the flap. Soren and Aage, next to Tim, both stood up. What opposites they were, I thought, Soren cheerful, muscular, blond, extrovert, while Aage was gaunt and rather silent, and toothy, with melancholy eyes which flickered nervously around him. We made our way up to the flights; it was going to be another hot day. Already the air was filled with the tearing rasp of the Harvards’ Wasp engines as the fitters ran them up in preparation for a long day’s flying.
We turned into ‘F’ Flight crewroom at the front of one of the hangars and looked at the flying detail pinned up on the board, next to the Coke machine. Aage was due off on a cross-country to Swift Current and back at 0900, while Tim, Soren and I had an hour’s formation flying at 1000. Lower down the list I saw that I was due on the Link Trainer at 1500 for blind-flying simulation, and to round off the day, or rather, the night, one and a half solo night-flying hours at 2100. It was going to be a long day, as well as a hot one. Aage, now bent over a map, pencilling careful lines, was to take over my aircraft, I saw, when I landed after night-flying.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
After the snowy, tree-fringed grass field at Sywell it was a novelty to have these sun-baked runways, even more so when there were two parallel ones with a narrow grass strip in between, the whole field being patterned by this double triangle of concrete strips.
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We took it in turns to lead our formation of three. Station-changing, as we had no R/T, was indicated by hand-signals from the leader. Soren was to lead first with me as his number two and Tim, three. Then I would take over the lead, and finally, Tim. I followed Soren’s bright yellow Harvard out as he taxied on to the perimeter and turned towards the end of the runways in use. He took the right-hand runway of the pair and edged across to the left of it, braked and stopped. I gave him ten yards clearance and took the right-hand edge of the same runway. Tim stopped level with me, alone on the left-hand runway. I saw Soren slide the canopy shut and start rolling, and I followed, pushing the throttle firmly up to the stop. I never got used to the tremendous feeling of exhilaration as the power surged on. I lifted the tail and kept straight with small pushes of my feet on the rudder-bar. As I chased after Soren I could see Tim out of the corner of my eye, keeping abreast of me.
Suddenly Soren was airborne, then I followed, climbing into the summer sky. To maintain station, the rules of tidy and correct flying were suspended. You used no bank on your small turns to get into position, but skidded gently across on rudder only. It felt all wrong, it was like being told deliberately to mis-spell a word one had known and used for years. When I had first practised formation with F/O Sparks in the front cockpit I had been frightened out of my wits to see two other aircraft each within ten yards of me. But one was soon conditioned to accept this, and very quickly one learned the gentle art of close formation flying, when your own wing was actually tucked in to the space between the leader’s wing and his tailplane, so that any forward or backward relative movement meant a collision. But provided you watched him like a hawk, and kept station by means of constant throttle and rudder juggling, you got by. It became great fun, and the early thoughts of comprehensive and devastating collisions were soon forgotten.
So I tucked myself right in on Soren’s starboard side and stayed there while he climbed, turned or glided. We flew four basic formations, vic, echelon starboard, echelon port and line astern. The echelons looked great and the line astern gave you a bit of relaxation, for numbers two and three were slightly lower than the aircraft in front,
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to keep out of the turbulence of his slipstream. Where we were heading was not my worry, nor Tim’s. Soren was in charge of that side of things while he was leading. He gave the signal to change leaders. I skidded away from him and opened the throttle to draw ahead. He skated in to my left and Tim crossed to my right, as number two. Back to cruising revs as they snuggled themselves in tightly against me. I looked down at the baked prairie landscape and saw that Soren had headed us back towards Moose Jaw to make it easy for me. I grinned and mentally thanked him. I started to sing loudly to myself as we flew, running through the repertoire of the popular songs we were always playing on the juke box at Smoky Joe’s cafe, just outside the camp gates, I felt on top of the world – a letter from Betty, a great day for flying and the formation going like a dream. I led them around until my time was up and signalled Tim to take it from there, over Regina Beach on Last Mountain Lake, at four thousand feet.
I slid into number three position in the vic and tucked myself in tightly into Tim’s port side. He led us around in a turn to port, back towards base. We never did steepish turns in vic formation, it was too difficult for the man low down on the inside to keep station as he had to cut his airspeed back so much. Tim tightened the turn and climbed a bit as he did so. Watch it, Tim, I thought. Still tighter; I dared not look at my airspeed. Still tighter, and my controls were starting to feel sloppy, approaching the stall; I dared not throttle back any further or I would stall off the turn and go into a spin, and a Harvard lost nine hundred feet per turn once they did spin. Out of it! I shoved throttle on as I winged over and dived out of the formation, swearing to myself as I did so. The wretch! Playing silly buggers like that!
All on my own in the bright morning sky I screamed round in a steep turn to port, with plenty of power on, nearly blacking myself out in the process. I yanked the seat tighter against the straps to bind my stomach firmly in and keep the blood in my head, stopping the grey-out. I eased out of the turn. Five thousand feet. Now, where the hell were they? Then I saw them, now about six miles away, orbiting innocently. I flew over to them and sat just off
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Tim’s port wingtip, shaking my fist at him, which only made him throw back his head and laugh as he made come-in motions with his hand. I went in, tight. We formed up again into a sedate vic and finished the detail, as usual, in echelon port, about two miles from the field, when we did our line-shoot party piece – a swift wing-over to port in rapid succession and a dive on each other’s tails into the circuit, making sure we were well clear of the more sedate pupils going about their quiet business.
When we had landed, taxied in and switched off, I collared Tim.
“Damn you!” I said, pretending to be about to sling a punch at him, “What the hell do you think you were playing at? Trying to make me spin in, were you?”
“No danger,” he replied, laughing, “you had bags of height – can’t take it, eh?”
Soren chimed in, smiling broadly.
“We thought you’d just decided to go home.”
“Wait till I’m leader, next time, you two mad so-and-so’s,” I said threateningly, “I’ll turn you both inside out!”
All the same, I threw Tim a Sweet Cap; Soren didn’t smoke. We strolled back to ‘F’ Flight crew-room where I’m glad to say that Tim bought the cold Cokes. It was a hot morning.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The Link Trainer Sergeant was a stocky little R.C.A.F. man who looked like a middleweight boxer.
“Don’t forget to reset your gyro-compass every ten minutes or so or you’ll be way to hell out at the end. Got your flight card? Do all your turns at Rate two and let’s have a nice neat pattern on my chart at the finish. Give me the O.K. when you’re ready and I’ll tell you when I’m switching on so you can punch the clock.”
“Right oh, Sergeant,” I said.
I climbed into the little dummy aeroplane on its concertina-like base. I pulled over the hood, plugged in the intercom in the darkness and propped up the flight card near the small lamp on the instrument panel. I felt the lurch as he energised the system; the instruments
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came to life with a sigh.
“I’ve put you at a thousand feet,” he said, “do you read that?”
“Check,” I replied, “turning on to 045 Magnetic, now.”
“Got you. Just watch your height as well as your timings, won’t you, bud?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
I was flying the awkward Maltese Cross pattern, the idea being to finish exactly where you started, after the completion of the twelve legs. The instructor had a wheeled “crab” which inked in the line of your track on his chart. At the end, you should have drawn a perfect Maltese Cross, but it took forty minutes, approximately, of solid, grinding concentration on your instruments alone.
“Switching on – now!” came his voice, and I hit the stop-watch.
After what seemed like hours I did my final Rate 2 turn on to my original course. I straightened it up, timed a careful one minute, then called out, “Finish – now!”
He acknowledged and switched me off. The needles sagged to their stops. I took off my headphones and opened the hood and side door.
“O.K.,” the Sergeant said, “come right over here and have a look-see. Not bad at all.”
I went over to his glass-topped table. My pattern was about ten inches across and I had finished about an eighth of an inch from where I had started. It looked pretty damn good to me, and for an instant I thought about Tink’s brother in his Hampden.
“Yes,” I said, feeling rather pleased, “just a bit out, Sergeant.”
He grinned.
“You’re doing O.K., buddy,” he said agreeably, “now how’s about seeing if L.A.C. Briggs is outside, eh?”
“O.K., Sergeant,” I said.
He had just made my day.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I lay back on my bed after the evening meal and read the letter once again. The hut was quiet. Those who weren’t night flying had gone to Smoky Joe’s or into town for an evening meal. The few of
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us on the night flying detail were reading, writing letters or dozing on our beds, waiting for the darkness. There was no sign of either Tim or Soren, while Aage was actually sound asleep.
She wrote, “I miss you here, I miss our walks in the park. I wonder if you will be posted somewhere near when you come back, where we can meet? Do you still want to go on to bombers, like you told me? Will it be very dangerous? Whatever happens, I shall pray for you, as I do now, that God will keep you. I have always said what has to be, will be, but I feel he will keep you safe…..” She went on to say she would be spending some time with her Aunt and Uncle in Northampton, as her parents still felt happier with her over there.
I folded the letter slowly and thought about Betty and the simple, almost idyllic happiness of life in those days six months ago. Tink, on the bed next to me, motioned to me and across at Aage, grinning, imitating his open mouth and his posture, his ungainly sprawl. Tink, the single-minded, I thought, hero-worshipping his brother flying his Hampden over Germany, and who could hardly wait to get on to the same Squadron. A faraway look would come into his eyes when he spoke about it; “When I get on Hampdens,” he would always be saying, and his broad, boyish face would be raised to the sky, “When I get on Hampdens with my brother –“
But looking at Aage had made me feel tired, too. I yawned, then lit a cigarette and grinned at him. Tink was from Coalville in Leicestershire; I wonder often what became of him.
An hour later I was taxying my Harvard out in the darkness, the flarepath away to my right looking very long and very far away. Night flying without a navigator and entirely without radio consisted, at Moose Jaw, of circuits and bumps – and of not getting lost. There was no blackout and you could see the town for miles, no bother at all. But if the visibility went, you got down out of it, quick. So far, it never had; the prairie nights were wonderfully clear.
I got my green from the A.C.P. and, nicely central between the flares, opened her up. We charged down the runway and floated off
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easily. I had done quite a few of these night flying stints before, and found I had taken to it naturally, much more so than I did to aerobatics, for example. Undercart up, throttle back to climbing power, keep the gyro on 0, shut the canopy, and up to 1000 feet. Level off, throttle back to cruising, turn port to 270. There’s the flarepath down over my left shoulder. Keep the wings level, watch the artificial horizon. Rate one turn downwind, heading 180, throttle back a bit, then wheels down when we’re opposite the middle of the flarepath. Greens on the panel as the wheels lock. There’s the A.C.P. giving me a green on the Alldis lamp. Crosswind on to 090. Bit of flap. Drop the nose and turn in. Watch the airspeed, open the canopy. Engine noise surges in. Switch on the landing light and hold her there. Nice approach, I think. Now, hold off and let her sink the last four feet. The flares merge into a line. Hold it there. A bump and a rumble. We’re down.
Keep her straight, flaps up, headlamp off. Touch of brake, not too much. Fine, now turn off the runway along the glim-lit perimeter track and back to the take-off position again. There’s someone else up, I can see his nav. lights. Wonder who it is? I rumble along the peri. track to head back for the end of the runway. Must say, I can see Tink’s point, I’d rather like a bash on Hampdens myself. After all, they’re what I wanted when I first thought about joining up, except that my ambitions were no higher than to be a gunner.
“Will it be very dangerous?”
God knows, Betty, but as you say, what has to be will be, and there is no turning back, one must simply live for and through the minute, even the second, and do what has to be done, enduring what has to be endured with fortitude.
Something’s irritating me, and I can’t think what, except there’s something here which shouldn’t be. My God! Yes! The cockpit is full of red light, now it’s flashing off and on, urgently. Stop. Tread on the brakes. She creaks and jerks to an abrupt halt. The red light stops flashing at me and someone taxies past me in the opposite direction. Wow! So that’s what the red was all about?
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Must stop this day-dreaming. Only two more circuits and I can pack it in, hand over to Aage and hit the sack. I’ll be about ready for it, too.
There’s my green. Hope he doesn’t report me for taxying through a red. It was only a dozen yards – I think. Oh, well, can’t do a thing about it now. No harm done, so here goes, back to my take-off point. Turn on to the runway, uncage the gyro on 0, open her up. We’re off again.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Turn on to 180, see the stars sliding around. Between the field and the town, now. Nice and easy, purring along, last landing coming up, then into the pit.
“I miss you here, I miss our walks in the park.”
I wish I were meeting you after this, Betty, ‘you’d be so nice to come home to’ – I wonder if you still play that record? ‘To come home to and love.’
Coming home – the lights of home – lights – lights – lights! What the hell’s going on? All those lights, ahead, and coming straight for me? Hell! Get the stick back, you’re in a dive, heading straight for the town! You’ve been asleep, you bloody fool. Come on, come on, ease out. The lights slide below me. Thank God for that. I risk a look at the altimeter – 500 feet. God. Another few seconds, and that would have been it, smack into the town centre, curtains. I reach up and slam the canopy open, letting the cold night air flood in, taking deep breaths to wake myself up. I climb cautiously back to circuit height, select wheels down and duly get my green from the A.C.P., as though nothing at all had happened. I turn across wind, edging towards the flarepath. Shove the nose down, turn port, full flap, headlamp on, heading straight in. I land, thankfully, and exhale with relief. Aage is ready and waiting to take over the kite as I dump my ‘chute, blinking in the bright light of the crewroom, and fill in the Authorisation Book.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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The murmur of voices nearby awoke me. I pulled the bedclothes around my ears, but it was no good. I was awake, back to life again. I sat up, yawned, looked at my watch – 0820. Still in time for breakfast, if I hurried. Brian, Tim, Tink and Soren were in a huddle across the other side of the hut, talking in hushed voices, looking solemn. Two strange erks were standing near Aage’s bed. I was puzzled.
“Hey, Tink!” I called, sitting on the edge of my bed and yawning again, “Tink!”
He looked over his shoulder and came across to me. I nodded towards the strangers.
“What’s cooking?” I asked.
“It’s Aage.”
“Aage? What about him?”
“He’s dead. He crashed, night flying, last night.”
“He what?” I gasped, fully awake in an instant, “He crashed? How the hell did it happen?”
Tink shrugged.
“No-one knows, he just went in, about four miles away, that’s all we know.”
“Christ,” I whispered, “poor old Aage. He’s definitely - ?”
“Oh, yes,” Tink said, “no doubt about it, I’m afraid.”
I said, quietly, “He took over my kite, last night, you know.”
Tink said, “Was it O.K. when you had it?”
“Of course, no trouble at all.”
I didn’t want to mention my falling asleep, not even to Tink. He sighed.
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answered, remembering the lights rushing towards me, “it certainly makes you think.”
(‘What has to be, will be.’)
“Mail up!” someone shouted, and there was a clatter of feet hurrying down the hut. There would be no mail for Aage. Another day had begun.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] “Yes, my darling daughter” [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] “YES, MY DARLING DAUGHTER” [/underlined]
“What was it you did yesterday?” Flying Officer Sparks asked, “advanced formation, am I right?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, wondering what was in store for me that morning. He pinched his lower lip between thumb and finger and frowned with silent concentration, his black moustache looking more luxuriant than ever.
“Well now, I think you’d better do some steep turns, climbing turns and a forced landing. An hour, solo. Take 2614. Don’t do all your turns to port, you don’t want to give yourself a left-handed bias, and watch you don’t black yourself out in your steep turns. Now. Forced landings. Don’t touch down anywhere, you only do that with an instructor. Don’t go below a hundred feet, and thirdly, don’t cheat and have a field picked ready, close your throttle at random when you’re doing something else. If you do ever have an engine failure you won’t be able to pick and choose the time or the place. All right? Any questions?”
“I take it I keep my undercarriage up, sir?”
“Yes, better a belly landing and a bent prop than a somersault if you try a wheels down landing on an unknown surface. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Right, off you go, then.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I came to attention, about-turned smartly and went out of the Instructors’ Office into the pupils’ crewroom of ‘F’ Flight, No. 32 Service Flying Training School, Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, on the Canadian prairies.
I felt buoyant that morning; I was feeling very fit and happy and I knew I was flying well. It was a beautiful early summer day with a few puffs of fair-weather cumulus at about five thousand feet, with a light breeze to temper the already growing heat. The constant drone of Harvards filled the air, punctuated by the fierce, ear-splitting howl and crackle of the high-speed propeller tips as one fled down the runway like a scalded cat, tail up, and took off, flashing yellow in the sunlight and tucking its wheels neatly up as it left
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the runway.
Tim and Soren, two of the twenty or so Norwegians on our course – in fact, the R.A.F. were in the minority on Course 32 – were sitting in the crewroom. They completed my formation of three when we flew, and we were great buddies. Tim looked up and grinned.
“No formation for us this morning, eh?”
“No, not this morning, Tim. I hear that you’re grounded, anyhow, for trying to make me spin in off a turn!”
I was joking, of course, and Tim knew it; on’s [sic] loyalty to one’s formation was absolute. Tim laughed hugely, his lean, brown face, normally rather grave, was transformed.
“Anyhow,” I said, “he’s not fit to fly with a face like that,” and I pointed to Soren, who was feeding a nickel into the juke box. There was a thud, and out came the seductive voice of Dinah Shore.
“Mother, may I go out dancing?
Yes, my darling daughter.
Mother, may I try romancing?
Yes, my darling daughter – “
It was practically our course signature tune at Moose Jaw, everybody sang, whistled or hummed it and selected it on whatever juke box was handiest, whether here in the crewroom or out at Smoky Joe’s, the cafe at the camp gates, on the dust road which led to town. Soren looked up. He had a bottle of coke in one hand, a split lip and a discoloured right eye. He grinned at me.
“Ah, but it was just a friendly little fight with a couple of Canadians, nothing serious at all.”
Soren’s favourite occupation on his evenings out was to have several drinks then find someone to fight. Strangely enough, he never fought with any R.A.F. bloke.
“See you later, then,” I said to them. Tim gave a vague wave, Sorne’s eyes were already shut as he lay full length on a convenient bench, arms crossed on his chest, his mop of incredibly blond hair gleaming in the sun which poured in through the window.
“What if there’s a moon, mother darling, and it’s shining on the water?” I sang to myself as I crossed the expanse of concrete
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in front of the hangars, under the blazing sun, my parachute bumping against the backs of my knees, the morning breeze finding its way pleasantly inside my unbuckled helmet. It was so hot that we were able to fly in shirtsleeves. Up at eight or ten thousand feet it was delightfully cool, but at ground level the temperature could climb to the 120’s in the sun by afternoon.
I found 2614 among the half dozen kites parked in line facing the hangar. Someone had thoughtfully left the canopy open to minimise the heat in the cockpit. I checked that the pitot-head cover was off, I didn’t want to get airborne and find that the airspeed indicator was out of action. Then I climbed in off the port wing-root, clicking the leg-straps of my ‘chute into the quick-release box as I did so. An erk was standing by with the starter trolley. I did up my safety harness while I was busy with the pre-start cockpit check. I operated the priming pump and shouted “Contact!”, switching on the ignition, and with the stick held firmly back into my stomach I pressed the starter switch. The propeller staggered, jumped, staggered again, then caught as the engine roared into life. the prop-tips became a yellow semi-circular blur in front of my eyes. The erk wheeled away the trolley, parking it to one side where I could see it.
I tested the controls for the full movement and ran up the engine, buckled my helmet securely and pulled the seat up hard against the straps, waving away the chocks. The erk gave me the thumbs-up. I toed the brakes off, opened the throttle a little, and we rolled. I taxied with exaggerated care, knowing that F/O Sparks was probably watching me. I had been told off by him once or twice for taxying carelessly. So I ruddered the nose meticulously, each way in turn, at 45 degrees to my direction of travel, which enabled me to see ahead, to the sides of the big 450 horse-power radial engine. A taxying accident was a very serious matter indeed, and a Court Martial was the automatic sequel.
I arrived at the end of the twin runways in use and squinted up into the flare; no-one was on his approach. A final check on the windsock and on the cockpit settings, then I turned on to the runway, pushing on a little rudder to ensure I was absolutely in
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line and central. I set the gyro to ‘0’ and uncaged it, then glanced up to make doubly certain that the canopy was fully back, just in case anything went wrong on take-off and I had to get out in a hurry. Then a final deep breath and we were off. I eased open the throttle to its fullest extent. We rolled, rumbling over the runway, keeping straight with small pushes on the rudder. The engine note rose to a deafening howl and the pressure on the stick increased as we gathered speed and as I eased the stick central. We were in a flying attitude, tail up and charging down the runway which was vanishing with amazing rapidity under the nose of the aircraft. At 65, a slight backward pressure on the stick – not quite ready. At 70, a bump or two, then the incredibly smoothness of being airborne.
I whipped up the wheels, holding the nose just above the horizon to pick up speed, then I throttled back to climbing boost and revs, and reaching up, slid the canopy shut. It was a bit quieter then, and I could relax a little. I adjusted the climbing angle to give me 100 m.p.h., saw with satisfaction that the gyro was still on ‘0’, and did a quick check on all the instrument readings, going swiftly round the cockpit in a clockwise direction. The altimeter slowly wound around its way towards the cotton-wool cumulus.
“Mother, may I go out dancing?
Yes, my darling daughter,” I sang loudly to myself.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“How right he was,” I thought as I brought her smoothly out of a steep turn, “you can black yourself out in one of these.”
I had tightened the turn gradually, to the left, which I could do without conscious effort, toeing on top rudder to keep the nose pushing around the horizon, the stick fairly tightly into my stomach to tighten the turn in on itself. As the rate-of-turn indicator hovered around the 3 1/2 mark I could feel myself being crushed down into the seat, my cheeks were being pulled downwards, and the instruments had become rather fuzzy as the ‘g’ took hold of the blood in my brain, sucking it down out of my head. Then, as I came out of the turn and the ‘g’ decreased, I stretched myself against the straps as the pressure slackened, and bared my teeth in a mirthless grin
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to restore my features to their correct shape.
“Forced landing next,” I said to myself as I slowly but firmly closed the throttle, stopping it just before the place where the undercarriage warning horn would sound. I was at about six thousand feet, to the west of Moose Jaw. Several miles away, to the north-east, I could see another Harvard stooging along, probably on a cross-country, and away to the north a civil DC3 was flying the beam from Regina to Swift Current. I gently pushed the nose down into the quietness, selected flaps down and hand-pumped on 15 degrees. In a real engine failure you would have to do it this way, the hard way. I slid the canopy open and was all set to pick what would laughingly be called my ‘field’; in this part of the world what passed for a field was rather rare.
The prairie lay below in its muted colours, the occasional yellow dust road straight as a string, the sun flashing briefly on some watercourse. About thirty miles to starboard there seemed to be some line-squalls building up already above the low hills which marked the border of Canada with the neutral U.S.A. I put the kite into a shallow glide. Then I saw my field, a green, squarish paddock with two white buildings in one corner, a dirt road leading up to them. I settled the airspeed on 80 and turned towards the paddock, losing height slowly but steadily in a succession of well-banked turns like the descending hairpins of a mountain road. The green postage stamp of the paddock grew larger. From the smoke of a small fire somewhere on the prairie I saw I would be roughly into wind on my final approach. The white buildings grew into the size of matchboxes.
“What a God-forsaken place,” I thought, “imagine being stuck out here, miles from anywhere, no town, no trees, lots of damn-all connected by roads.”
Then I notice a movement near the house. One figure was standing just outside it, then it was joined by another. Still I glided down, mentally noting airspeed and altimeter readings with quick glances, checking and assessing my position in relation to the paddock. I used to sideslip Tigers with contemptuous ease to get them into the
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field at Sywell, it became my trademark before I left there, but I’d never tried to sideslip a Harvard. Come to think, perhaps this wasn’t the time to start. The horizon had lifted quite a lot. I was going to make it all right, I thought. The prop windmilled ahead of me and I had the urge to open the throttle to make sure that the engine was still functioning; it seemed an age since I had cut the power off. I dropped the nose and did a final turn to port. Airspeed back to 80, pump down full flap, line up, into wind, on to the paddock.
It was a man and a girl standing there watching me, the sun gleaming on their upturned faces. The man was pointing upwards, towards me, he had put his arm protectively around the girl’s shoulders. His daughter, I thought. I imagined them speaking to one another in their slightly harsh Canadian voices, anxious as to what was going to happen next to the aircraft, to me – and to them and their home. I saw the girl give a small wave of the hand, nervously, encouragingly, almost as though she were trying to placate some force, to stave off a possible disaster, and I felt a pang of guilt, knowing that they would be thinking that I was in trouble. Two ordinary people, the tenor of their lonely lives disturbed as never before, by my so casual and uncaring intrusion.
Altitude 150 feet. Airspeed 80. It was, if I said it myself, a honey of an approach, I could have put her down with no trouble at all. They were both waving now and I could distinguish their features. I had them firmly fixed in my mind as father and daughter. Perhaps he was a widower, living out his hard life on the land which his ancestors had farmed since the Indians had left, perhaps his pretty daughter had sacrificed her youth, her prospects and hopes of marriage, to look after her father and help on their farm, burying herself in their lonely world. They were remote there from everything of violence, receiving news of the war over the radio from professionally cheerful and brash newsreaders, couched in terms that they could merely imperfectly comprehend: Europe was far away, dominated by some tyrant of whom they knew little, opposed only by distant and defiant English cousins whom they had never seen, and whose ways were as strange and unknown to them as those of the biblical characters of whom perhaps they read daily at the end of their quiet evenings together.
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I saw him clasp her to himself protectively, and I saw also that I was now below 100 feet. Firmly, I opened the throttle fully. The engine surged with power, its roar doubly deafening after the long glide down. I eased the nose up and gently started to milk off the flap. The house slid beneath my port wing. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the two figures. He was greying, slightly stooped, in brown bib-and-brace overalls, she a slim girl in a vivid blue frock, her dark hair like a halo round her face. I suddenly thought of Betty. They stood, their arms around each other, as I flew over them.
Then I had the strange and unaccountably peaceful feeling that in those few minutes I had known them all my life. It was as though time itself had become distorted, elongated, to envelop the three of us in some temporal vacuum in a cul-de-sac off the normal path of consciousness, where the clock of the world stood still and where we had, in some mysterious way, experienced a fragment chipped off the endless expanse of eternity, wherein the three of us had been united as one.
The horizon sank away below the Harvard’s nose. I was back again in my element after those eerie few seconds. I looked down at them for the last time. She was standing with both hands pressed to her face. Then her father slowly raised his right hand, as though in benediction. I climbed away into the summer sunshine. And I sang, to no-one but myself, but thinking of the girl down there –
“Mother, must I keep on dancing?
“Yes, my darling daughter!”
I turned the Harvard’s nose for home.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Crewing-up [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] CREWING-UP [/underlined]
Although there are many things which happened at that time when we looked directly into “the bright face of danger”, there are some, and regrettably, some of the most important, the recollection of which steadfastly eludes me. This of course pains me greatly, as the men I was about to meet were destined in those six all too short months to leave an indelible and now poignant impression upon my memory.
My recurring faint recollection is somehow associated with being in a group of other pilots, pupils at 11 O.T.U., Bassingbourne, not far from Cambridge, quite near to the place of execution of Dick Turpin at Caxton Gibbet, and later to become an American Flying Fortress base. We were gathered at the end of one of the hangars in the morning sunshine, practising what little skills we had acquired on the use of the sextant, taking sun-sights and from them plotting the latitude of our position, which was, of course, easily checked by our, at that stage in our training, benign instructors. Perhaps their thoughts were couched in similar terms to those which Connie was to use in conversation with me a year or more later, and in totally different circumstances and surroundings – “They don’t know what’s coming to them, poor sods, do they, Yoicks?”
None of us knew what was coming, for better or for worse, to us, and I was certainly not to know that within the hour I was to meet, and for the next six months – (was it really as little as that?) – become associated with and know intimately five of the finest men, in my opinion, who ever walked the earth. Men who became closer to me, closer to each other, than brothers, than my and their own flesh and blood, men who were mutually supportive in the intangible but unyielding bond which perhaps only aircrew or ex-aircrew can comprehend, men, four of whom had already entered the last six months of their short lives.
We put away our sextants, thankfully, in most cases. There were about twenty of us pilots on the course, both from the United
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Kingdom and the Dominions. My own particular friends were Charlie from Newcastle, Hi-lo, a rugged, rangy Canadian and the man who was to become his Observer, a cheerful Australian named Laurie, and also Roddy, another Canadian, smiling and lively, whom I often addressed, attempting, not unkindly, to imitate his accent, as Raddy. He, Hi-lo and Laurie were soon to be posted with me to 12 Squadron. All three were also soon to die.
We had completed our introduction to the Wellington under the tutelage of ‘screened’ ex-operational pilots, on somewhat battle-weary ex-Squadron aircraft. The inevitable ‘circuits and bumps’ – a few of the bumps quite heavy – had been the order of the day, and of the night, a fortnight of them. I astonished myself by going solo on what were in my eyes monstrously large twin-engined aircraft, having gained my wings on single engined Harvards, in less than three hours. Perhaps it was due not so much to skill and ability as to confidence, or perhaps over-confidence. Looking back on it now it never ceases to astound me and I have to consult my log book to verify the figure of a mere two hours and forty five minutes instruction.
One interesting feature of this fortnight was that before we flew at night we practised what were known as ‘day-night’ landings. Flying in broad daylight with an instructor as safety pilot, we wore specially tinted goggles which gave the impression of surrounding darkness, while the runway was marked by sodium lights which showed up brightly and gave us the line of approach and landing. It was a novel and rather weird experience, but a very useful one, preparing us for the real thing, flying at night in much-reduced visibility, our eyes fixed almost exclusively on the blind-flying panel of A.S.I., altimeter, turn and bank indicator, gyro compass, artificial horizon, and rate of climb and dive indicator.
And so, to one degree or another proficient enough pilots of the Wellington, we were ready to be crewed up.
‘George’, as automatic pilots were universally known, were rare pieces of equipment in late 1941, so every Wellington was crewed by
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two pilots who shared the manual flying (of anything up to 7 1/2 hours on some operations) and one of whom was designated as captain of the aircraft, almost invariably addressed as ‘skipper’ or more usually ‘skip’. Once in the air, however, the pilot was virtually under the orders of his Observer, a misnomer if ever there was one, as he was in no position, huddled in his tiny compartment with his plotting chart and maps, his parallel ruler and sharpened pencils, constantly reading his super-accurate navigation watch, his ‘slave’ altimeter and airspeed indicator, to observe anything outside the aircraft. No pilot, however privately doubtful he might be of the Observer’s statement of the aircraft’s position relative to the earth, or of his instructions to alter course on to a given heading at a certain time, ever had the temerity to question him as to these matters except in the mildest and most oblique of terms. To do otherwise was to risk a most sarcastic reply, usually culminating in the curt riposte, “You just do the flying and let me do the navigating.” Later, on the Squadron I was to learn that Observers as a clan – and a Freemasonlike clan they were, dabbling in the impenetrable mysteries of running fixes, square searches, back-bearings, drifts and suchlike – were sometimes irreverently known as the Two-Seventy Boys, after their alleged persistent habit of, having bombed some German target and being urgently asked by the pilot for a course “to get the Hell out of here”, would airily answer, “Just steer two-seventy,” that being West. The Observer was also the crew member who released the bombs, his bomb selector panel down in the starboard side of the aircraft’s nose being somewhat inappropriately known as the Mickey Mouse, for a reason I never discovered, directing the pilot from his prone position between the front turret and the pilot’s feet on the rudder pedals with what was usually a breathless series of instructions, “Left, left”, “Right” or “Steady”, the word “left” always being repeated so as not to be confused with “right” against the various external and internal noises of a bomber aircraft. Current at the time was a somewhat school-boyish joke that one Observer had so far forgotten himself in the excitement of the bombing run to call urgently to the pilot, “Back a bit!”
The remaining three crew members each wore the air gunner’s ‘AG’ half-wing on his chest. But one, in addition, had the cluster of
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lightning flashes of a wireless operator on his sleeve and was invariably referred to, not by the official designation of wireless operator/air gunner but with the racy and succinct abbreviation ‘WopAG’. His was the task of obtaining as many bearings on radio stations, both R.A.F. and, if he was able, B.B.C. and German civilian stations such as Hamburg or Deutschlandsender and pass the information to the Observer in the next compartment. He must also, at designated times, listen out to messages from his base aerodrome and also his Group Headquarters. In addition, in emergency, he could attempt to obtain a course to steer to any given bomber station by requesting from them a QDM, the code for that information. But this was regarded as being rather infra dig.
The two ‘straight AGs’, as the other gunners were known, occupied their respective gun turrets with a few inches to spare, one at the front and one at the rear of the aircraft, the coldest positions, despite their electrically heated leather Irvin suits. In the ‘tail-end Charlie’s’ case it was the loneliest position in the aircraft and the most hazardous if attacked by a Luftwaffe night-fighter, but the safest if a sudden crash-landing became necessary, or if the order to bale out was given in some dire emergency, when he simply rotated his turret through ninety degrees, clipped on his parachute, jettisoned the turret doors and fell out backwards. Each turret was equipped with two .303 inch Browning guns, lovingly maintained and cared for by their users, pitifully inadequate when compared to the cannon of the German night-fighters.
To be in the firing line of these Luftwaffe cannon was not at all pleasant. Although never, fortunately, experiencing it in the air, Charlie, my room-mate, and I, billeted in Kneesworth Hall close to the aerodrome, on the old Roman road of Ermine Street, were quietly writing letters one evening in our first-floor room when we heard, and ignored, the noise of the air-raid siren from the village. Bassingbourn was one of the nearest training aerodromes, and certainly the nearest bomber O.T.U., to the east coast, although a fair distance from it. But this fact must have been well known to the enemy, who paid us periodic visits. One aircraft, in fact – I believe it was a Junkers 88 – either by design or mischance actually landed at
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Steeple Morden, our satellite aerodrome and became the property of H.M. Government and the Air Ministry, subsequently appearing as part of the circus of captured German aircraft in flying condition which we once saw flying out of Duxford, a nearby fighter station, where they were based, and heavily escorted by a squadron of Spitfires indulging in some plain and fancy flying around them to discourage curious onlookers such as we, who might have gone so far as to try to shoot them down, if in sufficiently rash a mood. However, to return to Kneesworth Hall and the air raid warning. Charlie and I carried on with our respective writing until we were suddenly aware of a strange aircraft engine noise becoming rapidly louder, accompanied by the loud and staccato banging of cannon-fire as the German intruder shot-up the road, the village and approaches to the aerodrome. Our letters were swiftly thrown aside as we, with violent expletives, flung ourselves under our respective beds. My future rear gunner also had a tale to tell concerning an attack by an intruder.
The taking of sun-sights over, we were instructed to gather in one of the hangars to be crewed up. There was, as I recall, no formal procedure attached to this important and far-reaching event. One of two instructors acted somewhat like shepherds directing straggling sheep to make up a group of six which was to be a crew. There must have been a hundred or more aircrew of all categories milling around rather haphazardly until, perhaps, a beckoning hand, a lifted eyebrow or a resigned grin bonded one man to another or to a group as yet incomplete. The whole procedure, if indeed it could be graced by that term, seemed to be quite without organisation, the complete antithesis of all previous group activities I had experienced since putting on my uniform eleven months before. Here, there was no falling-in in threes, or lining up alphabetically. (And how I used to long for anyone named Young who would replace me, the invariable and forlorn last man in any line for whatever was to be received or done.)
“You lookin’ f’r ‘n Observer?”
He was tallish, rather sallow and thin-faced, in Australian dark blue uniform with its black buttons, Sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves, the winged ‘0’ above his breast pocket.
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“Sure. Glad to have you,” I said.
This was Colin, more often than not simply ‘Col’. He was to guide us unfailingly through the skies, friendly skies by day and night, then through the hostile moonlit spaces over Germany and Occupied Europe. Col, from Randwick, near Sydney, with his baritone voice which quite often suddenly creaked, almost breaking as he spoke, with his wry sense of humour, his sudden, almost apologetic half-stifled laughter, his strange, colourful vocabulary – “Take five!” His term, sometimes sarcastically uttered, of approval. And when he suspected that I or some other member of the crew was trying to kid him – “Aw, don’t come the raw prawn!” A single man, his father working for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.
Later, one night on ops with the Squadron to Kiel where the Gneisenau was skulking after its dash up the Channel from Brest with the Scharnhorst and Prinz Eugen, Col performed a wonderfully accurate piece of navigation. It was on an occasion, of which there were several, when the Met. forecast was completely inaccurate, which we feared when we entered cloud at 600 feet after take-off. We climbed slowly until we could climb no more in the thin air and reached 20,500 feet, still in cloud, a faint blur of moonlight showing above us. We bombed the centre of the flak concentration in the target area, completely blind, but saw several large explosions which we duly reported on our interrogation back at base. Losing height slowly on the way back and with an unwelcome passenger in the shape of the 1000 pound bomb which had hung-up, I broke cloud at something around 1000 feet on return, a mere four miles south of our intended position, to see the welcome finger of Spurn Head down to starboard and the four red obstruction lights of a radar station near Cleethorpes gleaming ahead. Over seven hours in cloud and an error of only four miles, thanks to Col’s abilities. It was on this raid, by Wellingtons, 68 in total, of our No. 1 Group, that the Gneisenau was so badly damaged that she never sailed again from her berth. Many of her crew were killed. Perhaps it was our bombs that had done the damage, who knows.
I once found Col, on an op, being quietly sick into a tin at the side of his plotting-table, his face ashen, but carrying on despite that.
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Such was his dauntless spirit. He had my unspoken sympathy as a fellow-sufferer.
A pale, poker-faced and very quiet Royal Canadian Air Force sergeant pilot attached himself to us. Elmer, as the rest of the crew came to christen him, was silent to a degree, but despite that somehow exuded a quiet if somewhat forlorn determination. When we reached the Squadron in October he joined Mike Duder’s crew. Five of the six of them were killed when, damaged by flak over Essen on Mike’s 29th trip, his last but one of his tour had he completed it, they were finished off by a night-fighter and crashed in Holland. It was not until many years later that I learned a little more about Elmer. Although in the R.C.A.F., he was not, in fact, a Canadian, but a citizen of the United States of American, from St. Paul, Minnesota. Before Pearl Harbor [sic] he had an urge to fly against the Germans, possibly because of his Central European forbears. He volunteered for the U.S. Air Force as a pilot and underwent his initial training. Unfortunately, like many others, he had trouble with his landings and was failed. He returned home undeterred, with his desire to become a pilot undimmed. To raise money for the course of action upon which he had decided, he took a job in a sweet factory and augmented his wages by working as a petrol pump attendant. He then travelled to Canada and enlisted in the R.C.A.F. This time he successfully completed his training and got his long-desired wings. All this I learned years later when I was able to trace his sister-in-law and with a residual sense of guilt over my at times impatient, if not downright snappy instructions to him in the air, I have attempted to salve my conscience by having several times visited his grave, and those of his crew, in a war cemetery in a small, neat town in the Netherlands.
The ‘father’ of our crew was Mick, our Wop/AG, the only married man amongst us. In peacetime – or ‘civvy street’ as it was invariably known – he had worked at Lucas’ in Birmingham and was knowledgeable on most things electrical and mechanical, owning a small Ford car as well as a motor cycle. The former was later well used on stand-down nights on the Squadron for trips into G.Y. (as Grimsby was known) and I once had the doubtful pleasure of a hair-raising pillion ride
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over snow-covered skating rink minor roads, on his motor cycle, also into Grimsby, which was almost as nerve-wracking to me as a trip to Essen. Mick (this was not his given name) was tallish, fairly well-built, with a high forehead, a studious manner, a slight ‘Brummy’ accent and an unconsciously querulous voice. It was he, I think, who christened me ‘Harry’, by which name I became known by the rest of the crew, and the use of which, after their loss, I have strongly discouraged. Mick had done part of his training somewhere in Lincolnshire and had frequented, and knew the landlady, Edna, of the Market Hotel on Yarborough Road in G.Y., which became a home from home for us on stand-down nights. He had a habit concerning which Col and I wryly complained on several occasions, of, on being asked over the intercom. for some information, would testily reply, “Hey, shut up, I’m listening out to Group.” We met his wife once, in the ‘Market’, Mick proudly introducing her to us all, a shy, rather self-effacing girl, soon to become a widow.
Our gunners were a wonderfully contrasted pair. Johnnie, from a small Suffolk town – and again, not his given name – in the front turret, was slim, neat in appearance, quiet of speech and demeanour, moderate in his choice of words and apparently completely without fear. No matter what the circumstances, his voice over the intercom. was as calm and measured as though he were indulging in casual conversation over a glass of beer. On the way to Essen one night we were suddenly coned in a dozen or more searchlights and the German flak gunners got to work on us. Cookie was hurling the aircraft all over the sky in his attempts to get us out of the mess, and I was being hurled all over the interior of the aircraft, which was lit up as bright as day. In a steep dive, attempting to escape from the combined attack of searchlights and flak bursts, Johnnie, without being told, opened fire with several short bursts from his twin Brownings on the searchlight batteries, and immediately we were freed from them as they snapped out as though all controlled by a single switch. Johnnie bought himself no beer the next time we went to the ‘Market’.
In contrast to Johnnie’s urbanity there was Tommy, our cockney rear gunner. I am still looking for Tommy, still seeking to discover what became of him after he was admitted to hospital after a few ops with us, whether even today, somewhere, he is alive. J – would have
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described him, had she, like me, had the good fortune to know him, as being like Tigger, a very bouncy animal. Although not tall, he was built like a boxer or a rugby prop forward, solid, chunky – even more so when kitted up in his Irvin suit – with a gleaming broad red face, scarred in one place, topped by rather long and slightly untidy Brylcreemed hair, his face almost always split in a broad grin. He was cheerful, cocky, good-humoured, never short of a quip, lively and effervescent, and he was a tonic to us all when things were going against us.
He laughingly described to us one incident in which he was involved while in his training Flight in the weeks before coming into the crew. He had been on a night cross-country involving an air-to-sea firing exercise, aiming, presumably, at a flame float which they dropped in the English Channel. Several other gunners were taken along on the trip and after Tommy had fired his allotted number of rounds he retired to the rest bed half way down the Wellington’s fuselage, unplugged his intercom., closed his eyes and fell asleep, the padded earpieces of his helmet dulling the noise of the engines and of the rattle of the Brownings fired by his fellow-pupils. He awoke with a start, someone shaking him violently and yelling in his ear, “Bale out! Bale out!” The aircraft was being jinked around the sky in evasive action from the attack of a German fighter. By the time Tommy had collected his wits, found and clipped on his parachute and jumped through the open escape hatch, the aircraft was down to approximately 600 feet, the lowest safe altitude to allow a parachute to open. No sooner had it done so than he was down to earth, to the softest of all possible landings – in a haystack.
He had no idea where he was, nor what had happened to the aircraft or to the others in it, and certainly no idea of the planned route of the cross-country flight.
“I hadn’t a bloody clue where the hell I was,” he told us, “could’ve been in France, Germany England, any bloody where.”
So he collected his deployed parachute into his arms and in the darkness plodded away from the scene of his sudden and fortuitous landing upon the earth. The unfamiliar countryside was silent and
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dark. He came upon a ditch under a hedge and rightly decided to spend the night there. In the morning he would take stock of his position. In the ditch, he rolled himself into his parachute, comfortably warm inside his leather Irvin suit and once more slept.
In the morning, at daylight, he cautiously emerged to size up the situation. On the other side of the hedge was a narrow road. Keeping well hidden, he awaited developments. Presently, the distant sound of voices alerted him and two men dressed in farm-workers’ clothes came walking along the lane. Tommy strained his ears to catch their conversation, to determine what language they were speaking. To his relief he heard familiar English words. Tommy emerged and, perhaps too quickly, confronted them. But startled as they were by his sudden appearance and flying clothing, they were soon convinced of his nationality when he employed his colourful vocabulary to some effect. They directed him to the nearest house where he received some much-needed refreshment and telephoned his flight Commander at Bassingbourn.
On our evenings out at the ‘Market’ in G.Y. he always made a point of collecting small empty ginger ale bottles after one or other of us – often it was I – had added the contents to our gin. These he would take along on our next op., storing them handily in his already cramped rear turret ready for use. We had heard it said that if caught in searchlights, a couple of empty bottles thrown out would, during their descent, scream like falling bombs and cause the searchlight crew to douse their light, and one night on the approach to the Happy Valley, as the Ruhr, with the somewhat black humour of bomber crews, was known, when we were trapped in searchlights he proved, by throwing out a few bottles, that this was no old wives’ tale. It worked like a charm and we slipped through the defences and on to Essen.
(Soon afterwards, on leave, I was relating this to an elderly and very unworldly female relation, who, to my amazement and vast amusement was alarmed and scandalised, wide-eyed and open mouthed. “Oh! But you might have killed somebody!” she exclaimed.)
I have made several attempts to find out whether Tommy survived the war. In correspondence with a contemporary Squadron member, he
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wrote to say that he had a copy of a Squadron Battle Order in which Tommy’s name appeared in relation to an operation, as rear gunner in some crew whose names were unfamiliar to me, but that Tommy’s name had been crossed out in pencil and another substituted. Whatever the significance of that, neither he nor I could tell after the lapse of time. A message on the Internet, placed by my Dutch friends, has produced no result.
Are you out there somewhere, Tommy? If so, you and I are the only two survivors of the six who came together on that sunny August day in the echoing hangar at Bassingbourn those years ago. I miss you all, more than words can express; I think of you every day that passes, and I never cease to grieve for you, nor ever shall.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[underlined] Enemy coast [/underlined]
Through cockpit window now,
The lemon-slice of moon,
Some random stars
Pricked in a hemisphere of indigo.
Ahead, the coastline waits –
Pale, wavering beams
As innocent as death
Rehearse the adagio ballet
Which will transfix us
On pinnacles of light
For ravening guns.
But for a space
In this brief, breathless safety,
Poised high above the metal
Of the neutral sea,
We hang in vacuum,
Scattered like moths,
Mute castaways in sky.
Until, inevitable, we penetrate
The charnel-house of dreams,
That swift unveiling of Apocalypse
Familiar to us
As the routine holocaust
Which other men call night.
H.Y.
June 1991
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[inserted] [underlined] Images of mortality [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] IMAGES OF MORTALITY [/underlined]
Someone, once, to whom I had been talking – perhaps, it must be admitted, at rather too great length – of my time at Binbrook, cut across my words impatiently with, “Ah, yes, but you were at an impressionable age then.”
Not being by nature argumentative I let the comment pass, and the subject was rapidly changed. But the memory of that remark has remained with me. Broadly, I would not dispute its accuracy, for surely, at whatever age one is, one should be, and should remain, impressionable. But here, the implication seemed to be that the events I had been speaking of were not of such importance to have remained so strongly in my memory as they had done. I was then, and still find myself now, a little annoyed by that viewpoint. The happenings of that period of time were of considerable importance to us participants, and the young men, or youths, as some of us were who were involved, were all, in their own individual ways remarkable to one extent or another, by any standards of unbiased judgement. But perhaps my bias is showing.
Be that as it may, when I think of Binbrook now, there comes into my mind a cascade of kaleidoscopic impressions of scenes, small scenes maybe, and of faces and voices, images of places and of people fixed into my memory like the black and white snapshots secured in an album of photographs.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
It was a shock to me when I saw it for the first time, walking up the road from the Mess towards the hangars. Being a peacetime Station – only just – Binbrook was equipped with the standard pattern of permanent buildings, including a row of what had been married quarters – a few semi-detached, two-storied houses. For some seconds I couldn’t think what had happened over there when I saw that most of the top storey of one of the houses had been shattered and was broken off. I halted in my stride, quite appalled at the unexpected and shocking sight. My first thought, an almost instinctive reaction in those days, was “enemy action”, then it slowly dawned on me that
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this was not so, that the building had, horrifyingly, been struck by one of our own aircraft, either on taking off or on landing, using the short runway. Who it had been, and what casualties had resulted, I never knew. I was too shaken to ask and no-one, certainly, ever volunteered the information. It was not a topic of conversation one indulged in or dwelled upon. But similar incidents were to involve my room-mate, Johnny Stickings, and I was to escape the same fate by only a few scant feet, and by the grace of God.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Johnny had been somewhat longer on the Squadron than I, an Observer in Sergeant O’Connell’s crew. He was short, rather chunky and pale, with straight hair the colour of dark sand. I think we were both much of a type, for while we never went around together, we were perfectly pleasant towards one another and quite happy to be sharing a room, never getting in each other’s way or on each other’s nerves.
One winter’s morning I woke to find his bed still neatly made up and unslept in. At breakfast I heard that his aircraft had crashed the previous night, coming back from an op., on Wilhelmshaven, I believe. As far as anyone could tell me there had been both casualties and survivors. It was later that day when I returned to the room, and found Johnny in bed.
As I recall, he seemed rather dazed and quiet, as well he might have been. He went into few details of the incident; possibly his conscious mind was shying away from the harrowing experience, or perhaps he had been given a sedative. What he did tell me was that when the aircraft crashed he remembered being thrown clear. He had been flung bodily into a small wooden hut on some farmland in Lincolnshire. The hut had collapsed around him and he was only discovered lying in its wreckage by chance, when one of the rescue party noticed the demolished building.
For several years, on the anniversary of the crash, there was an entry in the memorials in the “Daily Telegraph”, to Sergeants O’Connell, Parsons, Laing and Delaney, signed “Johnny”. Then one year the entry no longer appeared.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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Life on the Squadron produced, naturally, shocks to one’s nervous system. Shocks which one could reasonably expect as part and parcel of the normal run of operational flying, and which to one extent or another were predictable. It was the unexpected ones which shook one more violently than the rest; the dazzling blue of a searchlight out of nowhere which flicked unerringly and tenaciously on to one’s aircraft, the long uneventful silence of flying through a black winter’s night being suddenly shattered by a flakburst just off the wingtip. These were things which could set the pulse, in an instant, racing to twice its normal speed.
But there was an incident which occurred in, of all places, the ablutions of the Officers’ Mess, an incident which was so completely unexpected and, at the time, heaven forgive me, so utterly shocking, that it froze me into complete immobility, open-mouthed, horrified, and, for an instant, uncomprehending.
Apart from, as they are termed, the usual offices, in the dimly-lit stone-floored rooms, there were, naturally, a row of washbasins. I was washing my hands at one end of this row one evening when I heard a soft footstep nearby and I distinguished a figure in the feeble blue light which served to illuminate the place. What was so shocking was the face, a random patchwork of different shades of vivid red, white and pink, two long vertical cuts from the ends of the mouth to the chin, the eyelids unnaturally lifeless and mis-shapen, the hair of the head in isolated tufts falling at random on the skull over the brow.
As he moved, I recovered myself and muttered some vague greeting as I went hurriedly out, back to the normality of the well-lit, noisy anteroom. It was a while before I recovered from this un-nerving encounter. Someone subsequently told me about Eddie. He was a burn case, one of McIndoe’s ‘guinea pigs’. A pilot, he had crashed, taking off in a Hampden. The aircraft had burst into flames. The Hampden’s cockpit was notoriously difficult to get out of in a hurry and he had fried in his own greases until he was rescued. Richard Hillary, in his well-known book ‘The Last Enemy’, described Eddie as the worst-burned man in the R.A.F. He was now a pilot in the Target Towing
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Flight, flying drogue-towing Lysanders on gunnery practices.
Possibly because we both frequented the games room a fair amount, he and I slowly drifted together. No-one made any sympathetic noises towards Eddie, that was definitely not done, and no-one made the slightest concession towards him either. He played against me often at table-tennis, with a controlled ferocity which could have only have been born of the desire to live his spared life completely to the full. Frequently, a clump of his dark auburn hair would flop uncontrollably down over his eyes, to expose an area of shiny red scalp, upon which hair would never again grow, one of the numerous grafts on his head and face, the skin having been taken, he told me, mostly from his thighs. He would damn it cheerfully and push it roughly back again with his sudden slash of a broad grin, which never reached his lashless and expressionless eyes.
I had detected some accent which I could not place. One day while we were sitting together in the anteroom, chatting, he mentioned that he was a South African.
“Oh?” I said, “Where from? I’ve got relations out there.”
“Where do they live?”
I named the town.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, “that’s where I’m from; what’s their name?”
I told him.
“Have you a cousin called Edna?”
“Why, yes,” I said, astonishment growing every second.
“I used to go around with her,” he laughed, “it’s a small world, isn’t it?”
Eddie, I am glad to say, survived the war. There is a photograph of him, among others of McIndoe’s ‘Army’, in a book named ‘Churchill’s Few.’
. . . . . . . . . . . .
What can one say of Teddy Bairstow? Only that, had he lived fifty years before his time he would have been described, I am sure, as ‘A Card’ or as ‘A Character’.
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Unlike Tony Payne or Jim Heyworth, for example, he was physically unimpressive; very thin-faced and pale, sparse hair brushed sideways across his head, but with eyes as bright as those of the fox’s head of our mascot. It was his voice, however, which one remembers best, grating, strident and penetrative in its broad Yorkshire accents. When he was in the room, everyone knew it, and the place seemed filled with his jovial, but somehow, rueful, almost apprehensive presence.
Teddy had a stock phrase which he used whenever anyone asked him, for example, what sort of a trip he had had. He would lift his voice in both pitch and volume and exclaim to the world at large, “Ee! ‘twere a shaky do!” He had, to everyone’s knowledge, at least one very shaky do. Coming back from some op, he found, for one reason or another, that he wasn’t going to make it back to Binbrook. But he was reasonably close, he had crossed the Lincolnshire coast, and decided he would force-land his aircraft. But no wheels-up-belly-landing, as he should have done, for Teddy. Incredibly, he did a normal landing, if it could be described in those terms, undercarriage down, in the darkness, into a field near Louth, and got away with it without nosing over into a disastrous cartwheel. Few would have survived to tell the tale – Sergeant O’Connell certainly had not done so – but everyone agreed with Teddy’s usual comment. ‘Twere indeed a shaky do.
Towards the end of February Teddy’s luck ran out. We went after the German pocket-battleship Gneisenau in Kiel Docks, where it was holed up after escaping up the Channel. Teddy did not come back.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Somehow, it happened that Eric and I tended to gravitate together to play billiards or table tennis in the Mess games room, and for the odd glass of beer. It was, I think, possibly because like me, he was the only one of commissioned rank in his crew, apart from Abey, that is, who was his pilot and our Flight Commander, a Squadron Leader, very much senior in rank to both of us. Eric was Abey’s Observer, tall, well built, unfailingly polite, his manner polished and urbane, yet by no means superior. We got along very well; I enjoyed his company, and I like to think he enjoyed mine.
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It was one afternoon when we had a stand-down. Frequently, my crew and I would go in to Grimsby, to the cinema, then to the “Market” for a meal with Edna, the landlady, possibly stay the night, and come back in time to report to the Flights next morning. We usually managed to cram ourselves into Mick’s, our wireless operator’s, Ford. However, on this particular afternoon, possibly because we were broke, there were no such arrangements. I happened to bump into Eric in a corridor, in the Mess. We said “hello”, then he stopped suddenly and said, “I say, are you interested in music?”
“Yes, I am, rather,” I said, not knowing what to expect.
“Well, look, I’m just going along to old Doug’s room, he’s going to play some records – would you like to come along? I’m sure he won’t mind.”
So I went. Doug was pleased to see us both. He wound up his portable gramophone and put on Tchaikovsky’s ‘Valse des Fleurs’. I can never hear that lovely, lilting piece without thinking of that afternoon in Doug Langley’s room, lost in the beauty of discovery of orchestral music, and remembering Doug himself, with his light-ginger hair and luxuriant moustache, sitting, eyes closed, head thrown back, as Eric and I listened attentively. From there, on a subsequent stand-down night we went to a real symphony concert, my first ever, in Grimsby, and a whole new and wonderful world had opened up for me, thanks to Eric and Doug.
Abey’s crew went missing on Kiel, the same night as Teddy Bairstow. It was years later that I knew that Eric, and indeed, the rest of the crew, had survived. Desperate for contacts after J – ‘s death, I hunted through telephone directories until I found his name, and contacted him. After a few phone calls, and the exchange of several long letters, I met him in London. Being the men we are, it was an affectionate but undemonstrative greeting, a handshake and smiles rather than arms around shoulders and tears.
His was a simple story. With quite typical frankness he told me, and M – who was with me, that it was all his fault that they had got shot down. There had, he said, been some fault in his navigation, a very common thing in those days when navigational aids were almost nil, when such things as Gee and H2S had never been heard of. On the way to Kiel they had strayed over Sylt, a notorious hot spot of an island off the Danish-German coast.
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They were hit be flak in their starboard engine, which put it out of action. After a discussion as to the alternatives open to them, Abey had turned for home, in the fond hope that one good engine would be sufficient to carry them to the English coast. It was not to be; they were losing too much height to be able to make it back across the wide and inhospitable North Sea. The next option was to turn round again, fly across enemy-occupied Denmark and try to get to Sweden, where they would bale out and be interned for the duration. Again, their loss of height eventually ruled this out, they would never have a hope of reaching any Swedish territory. The third and final option was to bale out over Denmark. This they did, one after the other, successfully, over the island of Funen. They were all immediately taken prisoner. Eric and Abey finished up in the notorious prison campo Stalag Luft III, Sagan, the scene of the “Wooden Horse” tunnel – and of the murder of fifty aircrew officer prisoners by the Germans.
Eric, to my and to M – ‘s fascination, produced an album of pencil sketches he had made on odd scraps of paper, of prison-camp life. I asked him how he had been treated as a P.o.W., those three and more years that he spent behind the wire. Typically, again, he said, “Oh, I didn’t have too bad a time, really, you know.”
What could one say in reply to that? I simply shook my head in wonder. Of course, among others, we mentioned Teddy Bairstow. He and his crew had not been so fortunate. Nor had Doug Langley, whose grave I found, quite by accident, in a quiet cemetery in norther Holland a short time afterwards.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I returned to Binbrook after many years. But only to the village. I had already found the Market Hotel in Grimsby where I went so often with my crew. I had stood for several minutes, looking up at the windows of the rooms we used to have, and remembering kindly Edna, who treated us like sons. Remembering Col, and Mick, and Johnnie, of my original crew. Remembering Cookie, our skipper, and Mac, our rear gunner, the Canadians among us. Thinking of the man I never knew, Rae, the man who had taken my place, the man who had died instead of me.
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When I arrived at Binbrook, I found I could barely contain my emotion. I recovered myself to some extent while I drank a cup of coffee in the Marquis of Granby, the well-remembered pub in the village. I stood for a long time at the top of the hill, on the road which led down into the valley and up again to the now deserted and silent aerodrome. I stood, remembering again, seeing, across the distance, visions of the Wellingtons I and my friends had flown, parked in their dispersals, the movement of men around them, and their faces, hearing their long-stilled voices. But I could go no closer to them than that. There were too many memories, too many ghosts.
On that fine morning the images of mortality were too real to be borne.
. . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Tony [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] TONY [/underlined]
At the time when I subscribed to ‘Readers’ Digest’ there would appear in each issue a short article entitled ‘The Most Unforgettable Character I Have Ever Met’. I find that this description could fittingly apply to Tony Payne.
When I had the privilege of knowing him, Tony, at the age of 21, was already a veteran in terms of ability and experience, looked up to almost in reverence as one of the elite pilots on the Squadron.
And whenever I recall the Officers’ Mess at Binbrook with its high-ceilinged anteroom just across the main corridor from the dining room, with the eternal, homely smell of coffee from the big urn near to the door, I can visualise Tony as he was so often, standing slightly to one side of the fire, pewter tankard in hand, holding court, as it were, the focal point of all eyes and conversation, eternally smiling and cheerful, his crisp, clear voice sounding above the music from the worn record on the radiogram which would be softly playing a catchy little tune, a favourite of his, called ‘The Cuckoo’. I have never heard it, or heard of it, even, since that time, but I could never forget it, as it was almost Tony’s signature tune. But Tony was entering the last six months of his life.
He had the gift of holding everyone’s attention by his witty observations on most things operational – and non-operational, his words rolling brightly and optimistically off his tongue, his eyes shining with the pleasure of living for the moment, and that moment alone, of good company and comradeship.
Once we were discussing a particular trip. (They were always ‘trips’, occasionally ‘ops’ but never ‘sorties’ or ‘missions’). Someone was describing our attempts to locate some target in Germany one night recently. There had been only sporadic gunfire aimed at us whn [sic] we arrived at about 20,000 feet, and that gunfire, we knew, was not necessarily from the immediate area of the target.
“What did you think about it, Tony?” someone asked. Tony beamed at the question, leaned slightly forward and declaimed with mock solemnity and a judicial air, “Ah! Then I knew that something was afoot!” he said.
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Among his many friends, or ‘familiars’ as they might have once been known, (a description singularly appropriate), was the Senior Flying Control Officer (or ‘Regional Control Officer’ in the terminology then in force) Flight Lieutenant Bradshaw, “Bradders” to everyone. He was old enough to be Tony’s and our father, a World War I pilot beribboned with the ‘Pip, Squeak and Wilfred’ campaign ribbons of that conflict, slightly portly, fairly short in stature, of equable temperament and genial in manner, his iron-grey to white hair meticulously trimmed. A great deal of repartee was invariably exchanged by the two, doubtless born of their mutual affection despite the disparity in their ages.
To our delight one day, Tony hurried into the anteroom in a state of high glee, carrying a small, brown-paper wrapped parcel the size of a large book.
“Wait till you see this, you types!” he crowed to his audience, which included Bradders, who was as intrigued as the rest of us. Tony slowly, tantalisingly slowly, unwrapped his mysterious parcel then dramatically held up its contents for all to see. It was a gilt-framed oil painting of a side-whiskered old man in a country churchyard, his foot upon the shoulder of a spade, a battered old felt hat on his head. The frame bore the title – ‘Old Bradshaw, the village sexton’. It brought the house down and it was ceremoniously hung on the anteroom wall near to the portrait of Flying Officer Donald Garland, one of the Squadron’s two posthumous Victoria Cross recipients, and near also to the mounted fox’s head, our Squadron badge, which had been presented to ‘Abey’, Squadron Leader Abraham, our Flight Commander, on his posting from a Polish O.T.U. where he had been instructing, to 12 Squadron.
At about this time the Air Ministry commissioned Eric Kennington, a noted war artist, to make portraits of outstanding aircrew members, many in Bomber Command, and Tony was one of those selected to sit for him. He sat in his usual place at one end of the anteroom fireplace while Kennington went about his work. The Mess kept a respectful silence while this was proceeding, conversing only in whispers and never attempting to peer over the artist’s shoulder. Some time later, the finished portrait was hung in a place of honour on the wall, to Tony’s laughing embarrassment.
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It was only within these last few years that during a telephone conversation with Eric, my friend, fellow-survivor and table tennis and billiards opponent of those days, who had been Squadron Leader Abraham’s Observer when they were shot down over Denmark, that he asked me if I remembered Tony’s portrait, and whether I knew what happened to it. I confessed that I had almost forgotten about it and did not have any idea what had become of it. But his question touched off in me a desire to find out. It seemed logical that in the first instance I should consult my local Library to see whether they might possibly have any book of the Kennington portraits. It did have such a book, and they brought it out to me. Unfortunately, Tony’s likeness was not among the hundred or so reproduced, but he was mentioned in the index of all the portraits which the artist had undertaken. Where next? I decided that the obvious next step was to contact the R.A.F. Museum at Hendon. There I struck gold. They had the original portrait in storage and swiftly sent me a photo-copy. I obtained two copies, one of which I sent to Eric. Today, a sizeable and well-produced copy of Tony’s portrait hang on my wall where I can look on it with a mixture of affection, pleasure and great sadness, as well as a sense of honour that such a fine man and such a fine pilot could have wanted me to join his crew. I was more than a little surprised when he did so and have often wondered what prompted him to approach me. It was prior to his finishing his first tour, and I have described the incident and its calamitous sequel in the next chapter.
His crew, on his first tour with us, must truly have been quite exceptional. To have completed their tour made them exceptional enough. The chances of that were a considerable way short of evens. There was an example of their ‘press on regardless’ spirit and of the brilliant navigation of Tony’s Observer, Sergeant Dooley, a dapper, smiling little Englishman, on one of our trips to Kiel to bomb the pocket-battleship Gneisenau.
We rarely had an accurate Met. forecast on the trips we did in that winter of 1941-42, and on this night the conditions turned out to be worse than even the Met. Officer had forecast. We took off in the darkness and gloom and entered heavy cloud at 600 feet We climbed
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steadily out over the North Sea but at 20,500 feet we had still not reached clear air. With our bomb load we could climb no higher. We were somewhere in the top of the cloud mass, the moon a faint blur of light on our starboard bow. Below and around us were numerous gun-flashes from the flak defences of Kiel, and as obtaining a visual pinpoint was obviously impossible we bombed the centre of the flak concentration. We turned for home, still in cloud. After over three hours of manual flying, concentrating solely on the instrument panel in front of me, and losing height slowly down to 1,000 feet, I became aware that we had finally reached the cloudbase. Then to my relief and delight I pinpointed Spurn Head, our crossing-in point, about four miles to starboard, and saw the four red obstruction lights of the radar station near Cleethorpes dead ahead. We heartily congratulated Col on his navigation – seven hours plus in cloud and only four miles off track at the end of it.
But Sergeant Dooley and Tony had outshone us. Like us, finding the target in Kiel docks completely cloud-covered he had refused the opportunity to bomb blind as most of us had done. They set course for the Baltic Sea, topped the cloud and found moonlight – and stars. Flying straight and level, which one had to do to take astro-shots of the various stars on the astrograph chart, and which one could safely do over the sea, but which was a most unhealthy undertaking over hostile territory, Sergeant Dooley obtained an astro fix of their exact position. He then plotted a dead-reckoning track and course to the target, some distance away, and when their E.T.A. was up, bombed on that. The Squadron Navigation Officer subsequently re-plotted his whole log and found that they had been ‘spot-on’ the target. Such was the ability and experience of Tony and his crew.
When his tour was finally over and he had a well-deserved D.F.C. to his credit he was posted away to some hush-hush job at an aerodrome on Salisbury Plain, and both the Mess and B Flight Office were the poorer and less colourful for his going.
My final meeting with him before my posting and his shockingly unexpected and untimely death was a few weeks after he had left the Squadron at the end of his tour. He appeared one day, cheerful and unchanged as ever, in the anteroom one lunchtime. He had flown up,
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unofficially, one guessed, in a small, twin-engined trainer. He was, he told us, flying all sorts of kites, at all sorts of heights, mostly over the Channel. He alleged that ‘they’, whoever they might be, and he did nothing to enlighten us on that, even wanted him to fly inverted on occasions. Beyond that he said nothing, and we did not ask him too many questions. He mentioned that although he had flown up to see us in the Oxford, one of the several aircraft at the secret establishment, he would have preferred something else – “I wanted to come in the Walrus”, he chuckled, naming an antiquated and noisy single-pusher-engined flying boat, usually operated by the Fleet Air Arm.
“I’d love to have taxied up to the Watch Office and chucked the anchor out!”
He left us after a cheerful lunch and went for ever out of my life, for which I am greatly the poorer.
It seems that he came back to 12, without a crew, for a second tour and was insistent on taking part in the first 1,000 bomber raid, that on Cologne, with a completely new crew. His was the first aircraft to be shot down that night. It happened over the outskirts of Amsterdam. How he came to be there will always remain a mystery to me, as the route planned for that night to Cologne lay over the estuary of the Scheldt, mush [sic] further south, its numerous islands providing invaluable pinpoints.
He and all his crew are buried in beautifully tended graves in a shady part of Amsterdam’s New Eastern Cemetery, which I have several times visited.
On one visit to Amsterdam I had contacted a Dutchman who had formed part of the team of volunteers who had excavated the remains of C-Charlie, Tony’s aircraft on that fatal night in May 1942. I was able to visit the crash site in the suburb of Badhoevedorp. A small museum of remembrance had been created in some old underground fortifications on the outskirts of the city where were reverently displayed several small identifiable components of the aircraft, as well as one or two pathetic personal belongings of the crew. I was offered, and accepted, a small section of the geodetic construction of the Wellington and this now has a place of honour in my living room, where Tony, from his portrait, appears to be looking down upon it.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Mind you don’t scratch the paint [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] MIND YOU DON’T SCRATCH THE PAINT [/underlined]
After what happened that night to his beloved Z-Zebra when we, for the first and only time, were being allowed to fly it on ops, I could have quite understood if Tony had never wanted to have anything to do with me, or with any of the crew, again.
But instead, after it was all over, for some time afterwards, whenever he happened to see me in the anteroom there would come into his eyes a gleam of what I could only interpret as amusement, but something more besides; this was a look of amusement mingled with a knowledge and appreciation of our good fortune, the look which perhaps a proud parent gives to his offspring as he sees him emerge from the last obstacle of a tricky course in the school sports and run triumphantly towards the finishing line, a “by-God-you’ve-done-it” look. A fanciful idea maybe, but the more I look back on it, the more I am sure that was what it was.
It was when we had already done a handful of ops, I remember, and when he himself must have been well on towards finishing his tour – remarkable enough in itself – and quite some while after the events which led to his, and our, final trip in ‘Z’ that he caught my eye and beckoned me over, one day when there was no flying, in the mess at Binbrook. He and I were both standing among the small crowd of aircrew officers near the fireplace, tankards in our hands, nearly all of us smoking, under the gaze of the portrait of Donald Garland, V.C., and of the fox’s mask mounted on its wooden shield.
And when I had made my way towards him he paid me a great and surprising compliment, he who was without doubt one of the finest of the many fine pilots on the Squadron.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
But the story, of course, starts some time before that, when we were very much the new boys, before I and the rest of the crew had been blooded on ops. When we had arrived on the Squadron from our Operational Training Unit at Bassingbourn, Elmer, my co-pilot,
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had been allocated to Mike Duder’s crew, while the rest of us had been taken over, as it were, by Ralph, a pilot who had a few ops already to his credit. We settled down comfortably enough with him and went through the final stages of our familiarisation and training on the Mark II Wellington in preparation for our first operation together. This landmark in one’s flying career was something which I, at any rate, had looked forward to – if that is the correct form of words – with a mixture of curiosity, awe and a certain degree of apprehension tinged with excitement; I regarded it as a large step into a completely unknown world. Just how hazardous a step it would turn out to be I was soon to discover.
At that time, my logbook tells me, we had no aircraft which we could really regard as our own, perhaps because we were a fresher crew, I don’t know. However, we had flown seven different aircraft since joining ‘B’ Flight. One morning we reported as usual, to the Flights. I had the privilege of using, along with others, Abey’s, our Flight Commander’s, office as a sort of mini-crewroom. It was late November and we sat around talking, shop mostly, until about ten o’clock, when Abey’s phone rang. All conversation stopped. We knew what it would be – either another stand-down, or a target. It was a target, for freshers only. It would not be named until briefing that afternoon, of course, but I was fairly certain it would be one of the French Channel ports.
Abey nodded to me pleasantly and said, “Let the rest of your crew know, will you?” Then he looked quickly at the blackboard fixed to the wall facing him and said, “Look, I think you’d better take Z-Zebra, Tony’s aircraft – he’s off to Buck House tomorrow to collect his gong from the King.”
Tony Payne wasn’t in the Flight Office at the time, I suppose he had been told by Abey that he wouldn’t be required in any case; an appointment with His Majesty would naturally take priority over anything. So it was lunchtime when we’d done our quite uneventful night flying test on ‘Z’, that I saw him in the Mess. Or rather, that he saw me, and made a bee-line for me.
“What’s this I hear, then?” he asked.
I grinned at him.
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“You mean about Z-Zebra?”
“Yes, I mean about Z-Zebra. My Z-Zebra. You’re not actually going to fly my kite, are you? On ops? God!”
There was a look of mock-horror on his face.
“Well, that’s what Abey said, so that’s what we’re doing. Don’t worry, Tony, we won’t bend it, or anything.”
“Bend it? You’d better not! If you so much as scratch the paint I shall deal with you all personally, one at a time, when you come back, you mark my words!”
We both knew he was kidding, but I knew, too, that ‘Z’ was the apple of Tony’s eye and that it had served him well. I hoped that it would serve as [sic] well, too.
Briefing was in the early afternoon. I cannot recall that there were many of us there, three crews at most is my recollection. The target was Cherbourg docks, time on target 2100 to 2130, bomb-load seven five hundred pounders, high explosive, route Base – Reading – Bognor Regis – target and return the same way. I felt nothing other than curious anticipation, once the time of take-off drew nearer. I think the thought that we were in ‘Z’ boosted my morale. Tony’s aircraft must be good, for he was good, the best. That followed; ‘Z’ wouldn’t let us down. The trip was going to be, if not the proverbial piece of cake, then quite O.K., quite straightforward, a nice one to start us off, of that I was confident.
It was a Saturday evening and dusk was falling as I went up to the Flights and opened my locker in Abey’s office. He was there, of course, looking quietly on at the small handful of us putting on our kit for the op. I started to struggle into my flying kit. Roll-necked sweater under my tunic, brown padded inner suit from neck to ankle, like a tightly fitting eiderdown, old school scarf, which, while I would never have admitted it, was my good-luck talisman. Pale green, slightly faded canvas outer flying suit with fur collar, wool-lined leather flying boots, parachute harness, Mae West and, lastly, ‘chute and helmet, which I carried. I checked that I had the issued silk handkerchief, printed very finely with a map of France, just in case, and I touched the reassuring small miniature compass,
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sewn into my brevet, another aid to evasion if forced to bale out.
I joined Ralph and the lads in the hangar. There was a continuous buzz of conversation, the odd burst of laughter. Ralph was smiling with rather forced cheerfulness, no doubt wondering how his new crew would cope. Col, our Aussie Observer, looked more sallow than usual and was chewing gum rapidly. His Australian twang, when he spoke, was more pronounced, it seemed to me. Mick, the wireless op., looked worried, as usual, and said nothing, while Tommy, our rear gunner, was completely unconcerned and grinning from ear to ear. Johnnie, who would occupy the front turret, was his calm and quite imperturbable self, almost, I realised, the complete antithesis of Tommy.
Ralph said quickly, “Let’s go, then,” and we strolled out of the chilly, pale blue lighting of the hangar into the darkness. We climbed awkwardly into the waiting crew-bus parked on the perimeter track. A half moon was beginning to show, flitting in and out of the scattered clouds which were drifting out to sea from off the Lincolnshire Wolds. It was cold, and despite my flying kit, I shivered a little. Col was still chewing stolidly, his face expressionless. There was a little desultory conversation as the bus rolled towards the dispersals, but the night’s op was not mentioned.
“Z-Zebra,” called the W.A.A.F. driver through the little window at the front of the bus. We started to clamber stiffly down the back steps, reluctant to leave the companionable shelter of the vehicle.
“Have a good trip!”
Someone from another crew shouted the conventional but oddly reassuring words, which were invariably used to send a crew on their way.
“You too,” one of us replied.
Z-Zebra loomed over us in the semi-darkness. The crew bus rumbled away. The silence was intense, almost tangible. The ground-crew stood around, blowing on their hands and beating their arms around their bodies against the cold. There were muted greetings. Col and I walked several yards away from the kite, lit cigarettes from my case and took a dozen or so quick draws before stamping them out.
“Come on, let’s get started,” I muttered, and we clambered up the red ladder which jutted down from Z’s nose. Johnnie was handing
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the pigeon in its ventilated box carefully up to Mick.
We struggled in, heavily and clumsily, each to his position. I hoisted myself over the main spar and stood in the astrodome, reaching down to plug in my intercom lead, and I found the hot-air hose, aiming it to blow on to my body once the engines had been started. The port engine suddenly stammered and roared into life, then the starboard. We heard Ralph blow twice into his mike to test the intercom, then he spoke.
“Everyone O.K? Harry?”
“O.K., skip,” I said.
“Col?”
“Yeah, skip.”
“Mick?”
O.K.”
“Johnnie?”
“O.K., skipper.” Johnnie was always punctilious and correct.
“Tommy? All right at the back there?”
“Yes, fine, skip.”
“Right, I’ll take it there and do the bombing run, Harry, you can bring us back.”
“O.K., skip,” I said.
Ralph’s mike clicked off. There was an increased roar from the port enging, [sic] shaking the whole kite, then from the starboard, as Ralph ran them up, checking the power, the magnetos, the oil pressure and the engine temperatures. The kite was shivering like a nervous racehorse at the starting gate, waiting for the off. A lull, then I felt a lurch as we moved slowly out of dispersal. The hangars, topped by their red obstruction lights, slid by, then we were at the end of the runway in use. Behind us I could see the nav. lights of the other aircraft which were to share the night sky with us over Cherbourg. A green Alldis light flashed directly on to us – dah, dah, di-di, - Z.
“You’ve got your green, skipper,” I said. We were on our way.
“O.K., here we go, hold on to your hats.”
Johnnie appeared alongside me and grinned rather wolfishly; the front
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gunner went into his turret only when we were safely airborne. Ralph opened up the throttles against the brakes to lift the tail a little. Z-Zebra jerked and strained, then suddenly we surged forward, the engines howling. The Drem lighting of the flarepath smudged past, faster and faster as we charged down the runway. The bar of lights with the two goose-neck flares at the far end slid towards us, then suddenly all vibration ceased; we were airborne, we were on our way.
Johnnie gave me the thumbs-up and vanished up front to go into his turret. In a few seconds he called up to say he was in position. I felt and heard Ralph throttling back to settle into the long climb to operational height; we would aim to be at 20,000 feet over the target. He began a turn to port to bring us back over the centre of the aerodrome to set course accurately for Reading.
The night was clear, some cloud showing vaguely out to sea, a blaze of stars everywhere, with the half moon as yet low on the port beam. There were several flashing red beacons to be seen, scattered over the dim landscape like lurid and sinister fireflies, but no-one bothered to read their Morse letters on the way out; coming home, it would be another matter, they would be looked for and read as eagerly as one used to read the familiar names on railway stations on the way back from a holiday. From the astrodome the mainplanes were pale in the faint moonlight, the exhaust stubs glowed redly. The rudder was a tall finger behind us, under which sat Tommy in his turret, a lonely place. I could see the guns rotating from side to side as he kept watch. There was little sensation of height or speed as the engines roared steadily under climbing power, the passage of time seemed suspended and there was a sense of complete detachment from the earth and from all things on it. Conversation was limited to the essential minimum.
Ralph came up, eventually, on the intercom.
“Oxygen on, please, Harry, ten thousand feet.”
I acknowledged, unplugged my intercom and left my position, going forward over the main spar to where just behind the Observer’s compartment the oxygen bottles were in racks up on the port side of the
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fuselage. I screwed open the valves on each one and returned to the astrodome.
“Oxygen on, skipper.”
I plugged in the bayonet fitting of my oxygen tube to the nearest socket and clipped the mask on my helmet securely to cover my nose and mouth. After a while, “Glow on the deck, dead ahead, skipper,” Johnnie said. I went forward quickly to stand beside Ralph.
“Looks like Reading,” I said, “they always did have a lousy blackout. See those two lines of lights? The railway station. Wouldn’t that slay you? I don’t know how they don’t get bombed to hell.”
“Useful for us, anyhow,” Ralph replied, “we’re dead on track and two minutes to E.T.A., too. Good for you, Col,” he called.
The faint glow of Reading vanished under the nose. The moon was a bit higher now. Col gave the new course for Bognor. I took a deep breath of oxygen and holding it in my lungs as long as I could, went back to the astrodome. Tommy spoke up, rather fractiously.
“Bloody cold back here.”
“Shut up a minute, Tommy,” I heard Mick say, “I’m listening out to Group.”
No-one spoke for a while. Then I caught a glimpse of a white flashing beacon to starboard. These were very useful; Observers kept a list of them coded with their actual Latitude and Longitude positions. I switched on my mike.
“Occult flashing R Robert about five miles to starboard, Col,” I said.
Then, “That’s peculiar,” I thought, “I didn’t hear my own voice saying that.”
I checked my intercom switch and repeated what I’d said. Still nothing. I moved over to the intercom point at the flarechute and plugged in. I blew into my mike – dead as mutton. Taking a gulp of oxygen I went forward to Col’s desk and banged him on the shoulder. He looked up in surprise. I undid his helmet and shouted in his ear.
“Is your intercom working?”
He thumbed the switch and I saw his lips moving. Then he shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“Bloody thing’s crook,” he shouted.
After another gulp of oxygen I went forward to yell in Ralph’s ear.
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“Intercom’s u/s!”
I saw Ralph check his mike, then he nodded, the corners of his mouth turned down ruefully.
“Not a sausage,” he shouted, “see if Mick can fix it.”
I pushed through the door into Mick’s compartment. He beat me to it.
“Intercom’s u/s, R/T, too.”
“See if you can fix it!”
Mick nodded.
I went forward again to Ralph, who had scribbled a note on a message pad.
‘If no joy in 15 min. we jettison and abort.’
Without the intercom we would be completely cut off from one another, an impossible situation. I settled into the second pilot’s position alongside Ralph, thinking that I might as well stay up front for a while. Ralph was writing something again, letting the trimmers fly the aircraft while he did so.
‘Tell the gunners,’ I read, and gave him the thumbs-up. More oxygen, then I ducked under the instrument panel, past the bomb-sight, treading gingerly on the bottom escape hatch, and quickly opened the front turret doors.
My God, I thought, it’s freezing cold in here.
Johnnie twisted himself round and looked at me questioningly.
“Intercom’s gone for a Burton,” I shouted, “we may have to scrub it.”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded.
Half way back down the fuselage I saw the rear turret doors opening and Tommy emerged, slightly red in the face.
“My bloody intercom’s u/s,” he shouted, looking aggrieved.
I told him the situation quickly and he went back into his turret. I bent over Mick, who was fiddling with the intricacies of the radio equipment.
“Any joy?” I shouted.
Mick grimaced and shook his head.
“Keep trying, Mick.”
When I went back to Ralph he leaned over and shouted, “If Mick can’t fix it by Bognor, we’ll jettison ten miles out to sea and go home.”
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I wrote a note for Col and passed it to him. I was already hoarse with shouting and tired from moving around the aircraft on scanty oxygen.
Still we climbed. Bognor was now below us, I could distinguish the shape of the south coast, the Isle of Wight. Col came forward and made book-opening movements of his hands to Ralph who nodded and selected the bomb-door switch to ‘open’. Col ducked down to the bombsight. I wondered idly whether there were any convoys below; even though the bombs would be dropped ‘safe’ they wouldn’t like five hundred pounds of solid metal from this height. There was a slight shudder as the bombs went. Col came back.
“Bloody waste,” he shouted.
Ralph nodded as he closed the bomb-doors.
He shouted to me, “We might as well get down lower where we can come off oxygen. Get a course from Col, will you?”
I did so and set it on the compass for Ralph, who did a wide turn to port, losing height steadily. The altimeter slowly unwound.
When we passed through ten thousand feet I turned off the bottles and went the rounds of the crew, telling each one we were on the way home. Their reactions were muted, impassive. Soon we were down to two thousand feet, droning over the dim November landscape. There were no beacons to be seen anywhere in this area. I stood alongside Ralph, wondering if I would get a chance to fly ‘Z’ soon, but perhaps he didn’t like the thought of passing messages himself; the journey from front turret to rear, for example, was a bit of an obstacle race.
Quite suddenly, I noticed that the starboard engine temperature was up. I tapped Ralph on the arm and pointed to it. He nodded slowly, we droned onwards. I looked out of my side window, through the arc of the propeller, mere inches away, at the starboard engine. Was it my imagination, or was there a whitish mist streaming back from it? Ralph had levelled off at a thousand feet. Col came in and handed him a note of E.TA. Reading. The starboard engine temperature was higher, and now the oil pressure was decidedly down, too.
We’ve got trouble, damn it, I thought, and I saw there was now
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no doubt at all about the trail of vapour from the engine.
“Looks like a glycol leak,” I told Ralph, who stared grimly ahead and nodded. Then he turned to me.
“Get Mick on the W/T to base, returning early, intercom and R/T u/s, glycol leak starboard engine.”
I gave him the thumbs-up, seized a message pad and wrote it down, then went aft and handed it to Mick, who was sitting glumly at his table. He looked at the note, raised his eyebrows and frowned, then started to tap out the message on the Morse key.
Up front again I saw that the vapour leak from the engine was now streaked with red, and angry looking sparks were flying back over the engine nacelle and the trailing edge of the mainplane. I nudged Ralph, who leaned over to look, then grimaced. Now, the engine temperature was very high and the oil pressure had slumped even further. Z-Zebra was in real trouble. As is the way in flying, events thereafter moved in a downward spiral from bad to desperate with sickening rapidity. A lick of flame spat out of the engine, over the starboard mainplane, then horrifyingly, like the tail of a rocket, the flame shot back towards the rear turret.
“Fire!” I yelled in Ralph’s ear.
I pressed the extinguisher button on the instrument panel. Ralph chopped the starboard throttle back and hauled the wheel over to counteract the lurch and swing. I looked at the flames which were now pouring out of the duff engine, over the cowling and the trailing edge of the mainplane. Suddenly Tommy appeared at my side.
“Hey! There’s a hell of a lot of sparks flying past my turret!”
“Yes, we’re on fire, but we’re trying to get it out,” I shouted back at him.
Tommy’s eyes opened wide when he saw the blazing engine.
“Jesus bloody Christ,” he said, in awe.
We were now below 1000 feet. Ralph had opened up the port engine to try to maintain height, but we were turning slowly to starboard the whole time. I thought about the best part of 375 gallons of petrol in the starboard wing-tank, then about the western edge of London and its balloon barrage, somewhere very close to us. We
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were in one hell of a mess, I thought, and it began to dawn on me that the situation could well kill us all. I tried not to think too hard about that. Ralph was wrestling with Z-Zebra, trying to keep it on some sort of a course, but it appeared to be useless.
“Poop off some reds,” he yelled, “and look out for a flarepath!”
I hurried aft.
“Put the I.F.F. on Stud 3,” I shouted to Mick, above the howl of the good engine, and nodding glumly, Mick switched to this distress frequency which would show up as a distinctively shaped trace on all ground radar sets. I quickly found some double-red Verey cartridges and got the signal pistol down from its fixture in the roof of the fuselage. I loaded the cartridges and shot them off one at a time.
“Can’t do much more now,” I said to myself, and hoped for the sight of a flarepath, a directing searchlight, or anything that would help us. I went forward again. We were still losing height and I realised that we were too low to bale out. But the fire had died down and I sighed with relief at that. The prop windmilled slowly and uselessly. I wished that Z-Zebra had been fitted with propeller feathering devices, but it was useless wishing thoughts like that. I peered intently at the starboard wing; there didn’t seem to be any fire there, thank God, otherwise we would simply blow up in mid-air and that would be that. Now, the immediate problem was how we were going to get back on to the ground in approximately one piece; there wasn’t a flarepath or a beacon to be seen anywhere.
I felt completely helpless and at the mercy of a capricious and malignant fate which I could do nothing to influence. It was like being in a paper bag going down a waterfall. Ralph’s face was grim as he struggled to keep straight and to maintain altitude. I heaved a length of wrapped elastic from my parachute stowage and tied the wheel fully over to the left, to take the load off Ralph a little. He nodded his thanks. Another length of elastic; I tied the rudder bar over to the geodetics. That was all I could do.
I looked out again. Still no sign of friendly lights and the treetops were looking damned close now. The port engine exhaust stubs were bright red due to the punishment the engine was taking and I knew it was just a matter of minutes before we hit something. I thought, “This is a hell of a shaky do.” Then, ahead, I saw an interruption in the dark skyline and I was puzzled as to what it
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could be. I took a glance as [sic] the A.S.I., just under 100 m.p.h., much too near stalling speed for comfort. I hardly dared look at the altimeter, it showed a mere 200 feet now. The curious, dim outlines on the skyline grew slowly larger as we staggered on. That was about it, Z-Zebra was simply staggering along and sinking through the air, almost on the point of stalling, when we would drop like a stone. I was holding the wheel over to port, helping Ralph all I could. Keep height and we lost speed; keep speed and we lost height. That was the quite hopeless situation.
The jagged skyline, which was now beginning to fill the windscreen, resolved itself horrifyingly, in the dim moonlight, into buildings. A town, and worst of all, a town with a tall, thick chimney, dead ahead.
“Jesus Christ,” I thought, “we’ve bloody well had it now, we’re going to hit that bloody chimney.”
100 feet on the altimeter. Now we were over the town, churning over the roofs at 90 miles an hour. The streets looked so close that I could have put out a hand to touch them. The chimney loomed nearer, the black roofs skated away behind us, apparently just below the floor of the fuselage. I thought of the people in those houses, cringing as they heard the hideous noise just above their heads, praying that the aircraft wouldn’t hit them in a cataclysm of bricks, rubble and blazing petrol. I was sweating as I frantically heaved at the wheel to try to help Ralph. His eyes were staring as though he were hypnotised by the sight of the chimney. With agonising slowness it slid towards us, slightly to starboard now, it seemed, then just beyond the starboard wingtip, a handful of yards away. I shut my eyes for a second, hardly daring to believe that we had missed it.
“Thank Christ for that!” I yelled at Ralph. We were over open fields again. Ralph shouted desperately, “I’ll have to put it down soon, get them into crash positions!”
I hurried to the front turret, collected Johnnie, who was as pleasant and imperturbable as though he was sitting in an armchair in the Mess. he would have had a grandstand view of the whole thing, up to now. Together, we grabbed Mick and Col. The three of them lay on the floor of the fuselage, hands clasped behind their necks.
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I hurried, stumbling, to the rear turret and wrenched open the doors.
“Crash landing, any minute now!” I yelled at Tommy. He would sit tight, his was the safest place in the kite in this situation. I almost envied him. I rushed forward again and took a final glance out of the windscreen. We were at treetop level. Then I went back to join Mick, Col and Johnnie. There was not enough room for me to lie down, so I stood sideways on, taking a firm grip on the geodetics, and hoped for the best.
Suddenly the port engine was throttled right back. This was it, I thought. A few seconds’ silence, which seemed like a month, then a tremendous impact. A cool smell of newly-torn earth filled the aircraft. I hear, unbelievably, a long burst of machine gun fire and could see red tracer flying ahead of us. I couldn’t think what was going on; surely we weren’t being shot at? The kite bucketed along, everything twisting and grinding, the deceleration fantastic. I could hardly stay upright. The smell of ploughed earth was beautiful, almost intoxicating. I hung on grimly, and after what seemed an age, we finally lurched to a halt. For an instant there was total, blissful silence.
“Everyone out, quick!” I shouted.
The three of them hurried forward where I could see Ralph’s legs vanishing through the escape hatch above the pilot’s seat. Tommy came staggering from the rear of the fuselage, clutching his forehead.
“You O.K.?” I asked him.
“Hit me bloody head on some broken sodding geodetics,” he said angrily.
“Hurry up and get out in case the bloody kite goes up,” I said urgently, and I pushed him forward, ahead of me. He climbed out of the top hatch via the pilot’s seat; I was hard on his heels. I could hear Johnnie telling someone, in his clear, modulated voice, that he had forgotten to put the safety-catch of his guns on to ‘safe’, the impact of the crash had set them firing. I hoped vaguely that no-one had been hurt. It was years later that I learned that one bullet had gone through a child’s bedroom window as her mother was putting her to bed; the bullet had embedded itself in the mattress without harming the little girl.
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I followed Tommy up and out. I was swinging my legs over the edge of the escape hatch, on to the top of Z-Zebra, when I saw a spurt of flame from the port engine. The strain had been too much for it.
“Port engine’s on fire!” I shouted to them, “get to hell out of it!”
I jumped back inside the cockpit, quickly found the port fire-extinguisher button and jabbed my thumb hard on it, swearing softly under my breath. Then I clambered out again, found the port mainplane under my feet and walked down it on to the field.
The aircraft looked like a landed whale, its props bent grotesquely backwards, its back dismally broken, with the rudder towering up at an odd angle, its wings now spread uselessly across the stubble and the broad rut which we had gouged out of the field trailing back towards the hedge, between some tall trees. The crew were grouped together twenty yards away.
“Come on, Harry!” someone shouted.
A man was running over the field towards us, I could see the steam of his panting breaths in the moonlight as he got nearer and heard him excitedly saying something about ‘the biggest field in the district’. The moon shone palely through the trees which we had missed and the air was sweet as wine. I lit a cigarette and joined the others.
“Are you O.K.?” Col asked. I nodded.
“Bloody fine landing, Ralph,” I said, “damn good show.”
We followed the man over the stubble, towards the broken hedge, then to an Auxiliary Fire Station on the outskirts of St. Albans, where we had come down.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“Look,” Tony said confidentially, “you know I’ve got …… as my co-pilot?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what was coming next.
“Well, between you and me, I’m really not all that happy with him. Would you like to come into my crew? I can fix it with Abey, if you would.”
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When I recovered from my astonishment it didn’t take me long to decide. I shook my head.
“No, thanks, Tony, no, really, I wouldn’t want to leave my own crew, you know.”
“Oh, well, I can quite understand that. I just thought - . But if you do change your mind, there’s a place for you with me, any time.”
I thanked him. I have never forgotten the honour he did me.
As I have said, Tony took the wrecking of Z-Zebra quite well, all things being considered. Shortly afterwards, he finished his tour. His crew were posted away, while he himself went on to some hush-hush flying, somewhere on Salisbury Plain, we heard, involving several different types of aircraft. It was something, we guessed, in connection with the development of radar and its applications. He paid us a visit once, in an Anson.
“I wanted to come up in a Walrus,” he said, naming a slow, noisy and out-of-date small flying-boat, “and throw out the anchor in front of the Watch Office!”
We had a jocular half hour with him in front of the ante-room fire.
Tony Payne came back to the Squadron for his second tour of ops. He took a new crew, on their first trip, on the Thousand Bomber raid on Cologne. His was the first aircraft to be shot down that night. He was hit by flak over Ijmuiden, on the Dutch Coast and the aircraft blew up over Badhoevedorp, on the outskirts of Amsterdam, killing him and the whole crew. They are buried together in a beautiful shady spot in Amsterdam East Cemetery, their graves lovingly kept and cared for. I have visited the place where they fell; I have seen the place where they now lie at peace. Most of the aircraft was salvaged recently by some caring Dutch people, and I have a fragment of it on my bookshelf, to remind me of the man that was Tony. Not that I need much reminding.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Rabbie [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] RABBIE [/underlined]
He was the sort of bloke one took to automatically if one was of a fairly quiet disposition, for he himself was quiet almost to the point of being self-effacing. On the ground, that is. But in the air – well, that was another matter. On the evidence that I had, at least, it seemed that another side of his nature took over.
In build, he was perhaps an inch or so taller than me, well made, with rather thick, limp, fairish hair, quite piercingly blue eyes and a mobile mouth which always carried the trace of a smile, as though he were laughing inwardly at some secret joke. His manner of speaking was strange until you got used to it; he would start a sentence then lower his eyes almost apologetically, as though he were afraid you were becoming bored with what he was saying. His voice was quite deep, very quiet, and his utterances were staccato, like short bursts of machine-gun fire, punctuated by little nervous laughs, almost sniggers. Now and again he would stammer slightly, and now and again a trace of his native soft Scots accent would ripple the surface of his halting, quietly spoken sentences.
It was I who first called him Rabbie, on account of this inflexion of voice, which, when he became animated, would show more prominently. I think he secretly rather liked the name; there weren’t many Scotsmen on the Squadron as far as I knew, and certainly, there weren’t many in ‘B’ Flight. We became friendly, and although on stand-down trips to G.Y., as we invariably called Grimsby, crews usually went as crews, on nights when we stayed in the Mess he and I, more often than not, would gravitate together, along with Eric. Possible because the three of us where a shade quieter types than, say, Tony or Teddy Bairstow.
I don’t know how it came about that I flew to Pershore with him – he had done his O.T.U. there, it seemed, and on a stand-down day he got permission from Abey to do a cross-country there. He must have asked me if I would like a ride; anyhow, I went along with him. He had his own co-pilot, Sandy, with him, and his crew. It was then I discovered the other side of Rabbie. I had only been on the Squadron a fortnight and everything was new and a bit strange.
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Rabbie and most of the others were comparatively old hands, and whereas I was a strictly-by-the-book pilot, I soon found that there were others who weren’t. Like that day, when I flew with Rabbie. One normally did cross-countries at a sober and sedate height, say between two and six thousand feet. Perhaps for a few minutes, now and again, one might have a crazy fit and beat up a train or something or other, but unauthorised low flying was a Court Martial offence, and all pilots had been repeatedly warned of that fact ever since they started flying at E.F.T.S.
We went off in Barred C, Abey’s own aircraft, and once we’d cleared the circuit, quite simply, it was a hundred feet maximum all the way. To begin with, I was shaken rigid, I’d never known anything quite like it; such sustained, hair-raising excitement, spiced with the occasional bad fright. Trees, villages, hills, hedges, they all streamed by; very little was said among the crew. When I’d collected my scattered wits and realised that this was second nature to all of them, I began to enjoy it a little more. We landed at Pershore, Rabbie said hello to one or two old friends, we lunched, took off again and came back at the same height, all the way. I was getting used to it by this time, but I still swallowed hard once or twice.
When we had landed and taxied in I came down the ladder after most of them. Rabbie and the crew were doing what we usually did then, taking off helmets, sorting out the navigation stuff, looking for some transport back to the Flights. As we lit cigarettes, and with his little secret smile, Rabbie said to me, “Enjoy it?”
“Rabbie,” I said to him, “excuse me for asking, but do you always do your cross-countries at nought feet?”
He gave his little sniggering laugh and looked down.
“Well, no,” he said softly, “but you have to let your hair down now and again.”
Some of it must have rubbed off on Sandy, too, except that he gave himself a bad fright. It really could have been quite a shaky do. Several of us were in ‘B’ Flight office one afternoon, doing nothing in particular. We had a couple of kites on, that night,
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but most of us had been stood down too late to go into G.Y. The phone rang and Abey answered it, his face, as usual, giving nothing away. He looked across at the blackboard as he listened and our eyes followed his, wondering.
“That’s right, E-Edward,” he said, and rang off.
The board said, ‘E’ – Sgt. Sanders – Local flying – airborne 1420.’
“We’d better go and see this,” Abey said calmly, straightening a few things on his desk, “Sandy may be in a bit of bother, it appears that he’s hit something south of here. He’s coming in now.”
We piled into the Flight van and hared out to dispersal. Just then, we saw ‘E’ land, quite a reasonable one, too. We breathed again. Then, as we waited, he taxied in and we could see that where the port half of his windscreen had been there was just a jagged hole. The air-intake on his port engine looked peculiar, too, it was half bunged up with something greyish. Sandy stopped in his dispersal and cut the engines. The ladder came down and he climbed down it a bit tentatively, looking decidedly sheepish when he saw the reception committee.
He and Abey talked rather quietly together while the crew climbed down and stood around, fiddling with their ‘chutes and navigation stuff, surreptitiously brushing what looked very like feathers from off themselves and trying to look unconcerned. Someone who had overheard the conversation muttered, “Been low-flying over the Wash and hit a bunch of seagulls.” We grinned at [sic] bit at that, once we knew they were all O.K. Abey’s poker face said nothing as he turned away from Sandy. Then someone nearby said, “Hey, Sandy, what’s wrong with your face?” and when we looked closely we could see a piece of pink seagull flesh sticking to his cheek. Sandy put a hand up to his face, then had a look at what he had collected. Slowly, his eyes rolled up, his knees buckled and he fell at our feet in a dead faint. Abey, good type that he was, hushed it all up.
Not long afterwards, a handful of our kites went as part of a smallish force to attack one of the north German ports. It might have been Emden. Rabbie was on it; I wasn’t. Next morning, after breakfast, Teddy put his head around the door of the ante-room, his eyes starting out of his thin, pale face.
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“Hey!” he exclaimed, “You want to have a look at Rabbie’s kite, he’s had a right shaky do!”
He tore off out, to tell someone else. Quickly, we made our way up to the Flights. ‘E’ was parked right outside ‘B’ Flight hangar, and most of the starboard mainplane out board of the engine just wasn’t there. The wing finished in a ragged, twisted jumble of geodetics. Obviously, they had had a very narrow escape indeed from a burst of flak. I climbed aboard. The wheel was tied over to port with a chunk of rope. I found Rabbie, poking idly about at this and that.
“Dodging the photographic bod,” he said with an apologetic grin. There was one of the photographic section erks outside now, fussing about with a camera, taking pictures of ‘E’. Rabbie looked paler than usual, thoughtful.
“How the hell did you manage to get it back like this?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, with his nervous little snigger, “it wasn’t too b-bad, Sandy and I tied the wheel over a bit,” and nodded towards it.
The photo erk had gone and the sightseers had thinned out to two or three. I climbed out, chatting to Rabbie, but as we talked, I could see something different. There was something in his eyes that I’d never seen there before, a distant, almost other-worldly expression.
When I left the Squadron I lost touch with everyone, including, at times, myself. It was a long time afterwards, and I was talking to Eric on the telephone. We had reached the “Do you remember” and “What happened to” stage.
“By the way,” I asked him, “what ever happened to Rabbie?”
“Rabbie?” Eric replied, “Oh, I’m afraid he was shot down, you know.”
It had happened near the Dutch town of Beverwijk. Rabbie had finished up as a P.o.W with Eric and Abey, then had been repatriated on account of injuries to his hands, Eric said. Some of his crew had been killed.
In June 1989 a Dutch air-war historian took me to a beautifully-kept cemetery in the small town of Bergen, near Alkmaar, to visit the graves of a contemporary crew of ‘B’ Flight whom I had known.
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As I was turning to leave, my eye, quite by chance, noticed another name on a nearby tombstone, one which I immediately recognised, that of our Commanding Officer, who had gone missing while I was with the Squadron. Very near to him and to the others was yet another familiar name, that of Sandy.
Each name of all the aircrew, some 200 of them, who are buried there, is inscribed upon the bells of the local church, just across the way. One of the bells is perpetually silent, representing those who could not be identified. And one bell bears the inscription – “I sound for those who fell for freedom.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Letter home [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] LETTER HOME [/underlined]
I wonder how many premonitions the average person has during his or her lifetime. It’s not the sort of topic which crops up very much in normal conversation, so I don’t think it can happen all that often. But when it does, and you believe you are being given a glimpse of the future, it can be quite weird and rather frightening. So far, I can recall three instances personally. One was at a very long interval of time, one was just the opposite, while the third - . That is what the letter home was about.
A week or two ago I was watching a debate from the House of Commons on television. There was a fairly sparse attendance, the subject became rather mundane and my attention, frankly, was beginning to wander. I looked along the green leather seats where the numerous absentees would normally have sat. Surely, I thought, surely seats like those had played some part in my life at some time?
Then I had it – they were the colour of the wooden-framed armchairs in the anteroom of the Mess at Binbrook. And I was immediately reminded of the first, and very strong, premonition I had had there, and was coping with, as I sat in one of those chairs, almost alone in the quiet room on that winter’s night, waiting to take off on a raid over Germany – and not expecting to come back.
Looking into my logbook now, I can narrow it down to one of four dates, but the actual date is of no importance. The premonition I had, though, was important, very important to me, very gradual, but extremely strong.
Abey, our Flight Commander in ‘B’ Flight was, in every sense of the word, a gentleman. He was then in charge of eight or ten crews of six men each which comprised ‘B’ Flight, and he had, among many other things, the responsibility of selecting crews under his command for any operations on any particular night, or day. Fortunately, the latter were scarce enough. Sometimes the choice was simple, if a maximum effort was called for by Command or Group, he simple sent everyone whose aircraft was serviceable. But sometimes
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he had to choose, and no-one envied him that, nor ever queried his choice. Querying things like that is something that happens in films, usually bad ones. If a “fresher” target was specified for the night’s operations then novice crews, who had done up to four of five ops were selected to go. If he had any choice at all, any crew due for leave went on leave, that same morning. He did his job well and fairly; he was a very considerate man.
On the day of which I write, our crew had done three trips, one of which had had an abrupt and near-catastrophic ending. A “fresher” was called for that night, so we were “on”, in S for Sugar. I have been wondering, recounting this, trying to remember what my reactions were during the time of an op, from the first knowledge that I was going, that night, to some unknown target, whose location and identity would not be known until briefing that afternoon, until the moment after one’s return, sitting down thankfully, tired and strained, into a chair, with a mug of coffee and rum in one hand and a cigarette in the other, for interrogation after the trip. When we would look around the room to see who was seated at the other tables with the Intelligence Officers, recounting their stories of the night’s experiences. However, although I readily confess that not a single trip went by when I was not to some extent frightened, quite often very frightened indeed, my first reaction on being told that I was among those who were on that night’s operations was one of intense excitement, of being immediately strung up to a very high pitch, reactions accelerated beyond their normal speed, like those of a sprinter on his starting blocks, alert for the sound of the pistol which will launch him on his rapid way.
We did our night flying test in S for Sugar as soon as we knew we were operating that night. It was winter, but not too bad a winter until then. This particular morning was cold and cloudy with a breeze from the south-west, the odd spot of rain in the wind, a typical winter’s morning in Lincolnshire, in fact. We flew around for a while to test that everything in the aircraft was working properly, except for the bomb-release mechanism and the guns. We weren’t bombed up yet, of course, and we would test the guns over the sea once we were on our way that night. I was still quite strung up with excitement
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and anticipation. None of us thought or said very much about the target, it was bound to be one of the French Channel ports, the docks, or course, and they were reckoned to be a piece of cake – straight in from the sea, open the bomb doors, press the tit and then home, James.
Briefing was at 1430 hours. By that time the weather wasn’t so good. The cloudbase was down, the wind was getting up and it was colder. At briefing there was ourselves and a handful of others. The target wasn’t one of the Channel ports, it was Wilhelmshaven, on the north German coast, not what we had expected, and quite a tough target. Weather prospects were moderate to fairly poor, with a front coming across which we would have to contend with, a risk of icing. It didn’t sound all that funny. But there it was.
The excitement of the morning had worn off and I was beginning to feel a bit deflated when I went back to the Mess after briefing. There was nothing to be done until teatime, and takeoff was fairly late, to catch the late moon. About five hours to kill. As I thought about it like that I realised that the expression could be taken more than one way, and I didn’t like one way very much. I went back to my room with the sense of deflation sliding quickly downwards towards a feeling of depressive foreboding. It was not as though the target was the toughest one in the book, tough enough by any standards, but no long stretch of enemy territory to be crossed there and back. Not exactly, as we had thought, the reasonably easy one we had expected, but not as bad as it might have been. Or so I tried to tell myself.
The foreboding grew inside me the longer I sat in my room. I was alone; Frank Coles, my room-mate, was Squadron Signals Leader and usually had things to do even when the rest of us were free. Out of the window I could see that the weather was steadily worsening, which added to my unease. I sat there, smoking, and trying to read. It was useless. I became more and more certain that this trip was the one I wasn’t coming back from, that we were going to be shot down. Once I had arrived at that realisation I found I was almost able to visualise it happening; I had already seen it happen to others nearby. But tonight it was going to happen to us, and that would be the end of me.
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There was nothing I could do about it; I had to go through with it, it had to be faced. The only practical thing I should now see to was to write a letter home, to my parents. The trouble was that I had very little idea what I wanted to say to them. For several reasons, I felt they hadn’t had the time to get to know very much about me, as an individual. But still, I felt I owed them this letter.
So I wrote to them. It was a very short letter, I remember, but its exact contents I cannot recall. I know I started in the conventional way – “by the time you read this you will know I have been reported missing,” and so on, and I know that after I had addressed the envelope I added, “To be forwarded only in the event of my failing to return from an operation.”
By the time I had stewed over this wretched little piece of writing it was teatime. There was still no sign of Frank. I was glad of some company in the Mess, although there weren’t all that many in, with only the freshers operating. So I had tea. It was usually a high tea if there were ops on. On this evening, as on many others, there were kippers, toast and tea. Surprisingly, I found I was very hungry. I think I was determined to enjoy what was going to be my last meal. So I savoured every morsel. As dusk fell I stretched myself out in front of the roaring fire in an armchair in the anteroom to await the time to go up to the Flights to get dressed for the trip. The armchair had wooden arms and sides with a green leather padded seat and back.
Every time the tannoy went with some commonplace announcement that someone was wanted at his Flight or Section I would jump a little and stiffen when the W.A.A.F. said, “Attention, please, attention, please,” and then slump down again when I heard that it wasn’t ops being scrubbed. There weren’t many people in the anteroom, and as the fireplace was at one end and I was very close to it, I couldn’t really see who was in the room with me. I was concentrating on absorbing, I think, every scrap of physical comfort I could from the heat of the fire, in what I now firmly believed to be the last few dwindling hours of my life. I could hear sleet or snow spitting as it dropped down the chimney on to the fire.
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I was seeing all sorts of strange pictures in the glowing coals. What they were I didn’t know, faces mostly, it seemed, but whose, I couldn’t distinguish. I started as one of the Mess waiters drew the big curtains across the blacked-out windows. Seeing me in battledress and roll-necked sweater and knowing that I was “on”, he gave me a half-smile as he piled some more coal on to the fire. The heat on my legs died as he did so.
“Is it still sleeting?” I asked him.
“Yes, sir,” he answered quietly, “still sleeting.”
Tactfully, he didn’t add “It’s a rotten night to be on ops,” or anything like that, but I knew that was what he was thinking. I nodded. He walked quietly away about his business and we left it at that. The wind was starting to get up quite a lot now. I could hear the slap of the sleet hitting the window like a wet cloth in the gusts. Surely they would scrub it? In an hour or so we were due to take off for Wilhelmshaven. I wondered what the weather was like over there, whether they were thinking that it was such a bad night that they were safe from R.A.F. raids. Then I thought about the letter. Was I being stupid? Was this all a lot of childish, hysterical nonsense, over-dramatising oneself? I still thought not; I was still convinced in my own mind.
Why did one write such things? I mused. It made no difference, really, to the outcome, someone would die, someone would be bereaved, that was all there was to it. I wondered how many people I knew actually wrote them, too. I suppose one reason for writing a last letter was to say a final goodbye to someone who was dear to one, but I think also it was to prove to oneself that one was ready and spiritually prepared to leave this life, to give up all those things regarded hitherto as important and to enter a new existence, to meet again one’s friends who were already there, like going from one room of a house to another via the dark passage which we call death. There was a Sergeant pilot in ‘B’ Flight, whom I knew quite well, Norman Spray. He left a letter for his mother. He went missing on a raid the following spring and his words of parting from his mother were so memorable that they found their way on to the page of a national newspaper which I happened to read. I am sure he was an exceptional person to have written in the way he did.
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The minutes ticked slowly by. Hypnotised by the heat from the fire and, I suppose, subconsciously withdrawing from what I believed were my final hours, I think I must have dozed for a few minutes. The tannoy announcement jerked me back to complete wakefulness. The W.A.A.F. said, “All night flying is cancelled, repeat, all night flying is cancelled.”
I immediately started to shiver uncontrollably, despite the fire’s heat. I moved my body around in the chair to try to stop the shakes, to try to hide them in case someone should see. I fidgeted around, stretched, blew my nose, then looked around the ante-room to see whether anyone was watching me. There were one or two ground staff Officers, and Teddy, Eric and Doug, the first two talking quietly over their beer, Doug reading a book, absently stroking his luxuriant ginger moustache with the back of his hand, an unconscious gesture which we all knew well. Outside, the wind moaned, the sleet was still tapping on the window, as though someone were asking quietly to be let in, perhaps like the messenger of Death itself. For not long afterwards, He would claim two of those three.
I took something of a grip on myself and pressed the bell at the side of the fireplace. When the steward came I ordered a beer. I could hardly believe this was happening. He was the man who had drawn the curtains earlier. He took my order, then hesitated and said, not looking directly at me, “You’ll not be sorry, sir, about the scrub, not on a night like this?”
“No, I’m not,” I said, “not on a night like this.”
The shakes had just about stopped by then. I went across to Eric and had a chat and another beer. Neither of us said much about the scrub, he hadn’t been on, anyhow, being in Abey’s crew. I certainly didn’t complain about it. Eventually I went up to my room and furtively tore up the letter into small pieces. I don’t think Frank noticed anything, if he guessed what I was doing he was too tactful to mention it. Then I undressed and got into bed. I was probably going to live for another twenty-four hours.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Low-level [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] LOW-LEVEL [/underlined]
By the third day, those of us who were in the know were getting a little twitchy.
When you are briefed no less than three days in a row for the same target, when you are told it is to be a low-level night attack, when you learn that the whole thing is so hush-hush that only pilots and Observers are to know what the target is until after you are airborne, you only need one scrub to make you jump a bit at loud noises.
After the second briefing, when there was another scrub, and the following day, when there was a third identical briefing, you could have almost cut slices of the tension out of the air with a knife. To begin with, nothing in that city had ever been bombed before. When we knew where it was to be, we looked at each other with eyebrows raised. For very good reasons, we had to go in low and make one hundred per cent certain that we were going to hit the target when the Observer pressed the bomb-release. If we were not certain, then, ‘dummy run’ and round again. No trouble in that, we were told, there were no defences worth speaking of, only a couple of light flak guns at the airport some distance away. Just avoid that, and we shouldn’t have any bother.
So we were told at the briefings, all three of them. Did we believe it could possibly be true? We made ourselves believe it, I think, but it took some doing. Weren’t we used to the Channel Ports, to Kiel, to Essen and the Ruhr, where, in all conscience it was deadly enough at twenty thousand feet at night, let alone at – what was to be our bombing height? – two thousand five hundred feet, straight and level down a corridor of flares?
We would have liked to believe it, certainly. It sounded so – different, so well organised. 235 aircraft, which to us was one hell of a lot, including some Manchesters and four-engined Stirlings and Halifaxes. The first wave was going to drop flares, and keep dropping them so that the whole place would be well lit up, and once
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they'd done that and let go some incendiaries and cookies to start the ball rolling, then the second wave, which was us, would come in and stoke the place up with high explosive, as low as the safety height, 1,000 feet per 1,000 pounds of the heaviest bomb, permitted. If there hadn’t been some Manchesters carrying 2,000 pounders, in our wave, we would have been down around 1,000 feet, I suppose.
What was going through the minds of Mick, our wireless op. in S-Sugar, and Johnnie and Bill, the gunners, being completely in the dark as to what it was all about, I could only guess. But they accepted the situation stoically, and never asked one question. Except when we were clambering out of the transport at dispersal, really on our way, on the third evening, then Mick, who was a married man, said quietly to Cookie, “Is this a suicide effort, skip?” I believe he was recalling those two posthumous V.C.s our Squadron had won less then [sic] two years before, when we had lost five out of five Fairey Battles trying to stop the German advance through the Low Countries. Anyhow, Cookie shook his head.
“No, Mick, it’s not a suicide effort, at least not if I can help it!”
I’m afraid I couldn’t resist mischievously chipping in then, just as we were sorting ourselves out in the dusk of that early March evening under the shadow of S-Sugar’s nose in the quietness of our dispersal.
“You won’t be needing your oxygen mask, though,” I said.
Mick’s eyes widened. It was a bit cruel of me.
“You’re kidding, Harry, aren’t you?”
“No, pukka gen,” I laughed.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Mick said, his Brummy accent very pronounced.
Col, our Aussie Observer, came to the rescue.
“Don’t let it worry yer, Mick,” he said, “it’s going to be a piece of cake. Or so they say, anyhow.”
I was hoping this didn’t fall into the category of famous last words, as we climbed aboard. I found I was yawning quite a lot, while a muscle in my back was trying to do something all on its own.
We took up our positions in the kite. As co-pilot, mine was in the Wimpy’s astrodome until Cookie wanted me to fly it, or needed
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a hand with something up front. I checked the intercom point, saw we had a flare handy in case we had to do a bit of target-finding ourselves, and I groaned inwardly when I saw the stack of nickels, as our propaganda leaflets were known, which I was going to have to shove out over northern France. I took one out of the nearest bundle and saw a cartoon of a depraved and vicious-looking S.S. man, headed, ‘Personalité de l’ordre nouveau.’ I hoped I didn’t meet him later that night in some French gaol.
Faintly through my helmet I heard someone shout “Contact port!” and the engine shuddered into life with a roar, bluish flames spitting out of the exhausts. Then that tune, which remained obsessively with me throughout that night, and which, ever since, has evoked such vivid memories of it, started going through my head – ‘The last time I saw Paris’. Now we were rumbling around the perimeter track. The black shapes of the hangars, topped by their red obstruction lights, came and went. A little group of four or five W.A.A.F.s near the end of the runway waved to us as we passed them. A dazzling green light flashed three dots, our aircraft letter, at us, Cookie opened the throttles and the tail lifted. Then we were charging down the runway, the Drem lighting whipping past the wingtips as the Merlins’ roar rose to a howl at full throttle.
When we had turned on to the course for Reading, our first pinpoint, Cookie checked that everyone was O.K. Then he said, calmly over the intercom, “Now I can tell you where we’re going. It’s the Renault factory in Paris and it’s a low-level do, two to three thousand feet, and there’ll be bags of flares so we can bomb spot on.” There was stunned silence, then Johnnie said coolly, “Paris? That sounds like fun.”
The tension was released and we all laughed immoderately. Cookie told them about the lack of defences, how the crossing-in point had been carefully chosen at the mouth of the Somme, near Abbeville, and how we had to be very sure not to drop anything outside the target area, in case of casualties to the French population.
“I’ve always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower,” Mick said.
From the rear turret Bill, our Canadian gunner, drawled, “Don’t worry, at our height you’ll be able to count the bloody rivets!”
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The evening was clear as our home beacon slowly fell away behind us. It seemed strange to be cruising easily along at about five thousand feet; usually we climbed steadily all the way to whichever target we were bound for. There wasn’t much talk over the intercom, I think the boys were busy digesting the news about the target – and the bombing height. Then the moon came up, huge, brilliant and impersonal, a beautiful sight, away to port. Reading was, as always, easy to find, the railway station was like a dimly-lit flarepath, but it gave us a good pinpoint, however much it might have helped the Luftwaffe. We crossed the south coast dead on track and E.T.A. and headed out over the Channel. Cookie switched off the navigation lights. Shortly afterwards, Mick reported that he had switched off the I.F.F. We were on our own now.
In only a few minutes it seemed, Johnnie said, “Enemy coast ahead, skipper.” I peered forward from the astrodome. The pewter colour of the Channel showed a faint line of dirty white a few miles ahead of us. A few degrees to starboard some light flak was going up, and I reported it for Col to log.
“Probably Le Tréport”, I said, “they always put on a firework display for us.”
Johnnie said, “I can see a big estuary dead ahead.”
“O.K., Johnnie,” Col replied, “let’s know when we cross the coast. Next course one seven two magnetic, skip.”
Then Johnnie said calmly, “Anyone see an exhaust almost dead ahead, same height?”
I hurried forward to stand beside Cookie, and we both saw it at once, a point of orange light, straight ahead of us, and nastily at our own height.
“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Cookie said, “I don’t want to be formating [sic] on a goddam 109.”
“Nickels due out in five minutes, Harry,” Col told me.
“O.K., Col, thanks,”
I went aft again, to the flare chute. I heard Cookie say, “That fighter’s still going our way, we must be bloody close to him. I’m going to alter course a bit to try to lose him, then fly parallel to our proper track. Turning ten degrees starboard now, Col.”
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In the darkness of the fuselage I unlocked and extended the flare chute and started pushing the bundles of leaflets out. Once free of the aircraft the slipstream would release each bundle from its elastic band and spread them all over the countryside below. In a little while I heard Cookie say, “That bloody fighter’s still there, damn him to hell.”
Johnnie said, “We’re catching him up a bit, too, skipper.”
“That’s bloody impossible,” Cookie exclaimed angrily. He sounded rather exasperated.
I finished the nickelling, stuffed a couple into my pockets for souvenirs, brought the flare chute in and went forward again, past Mick, who gave me a thumbs-up, and Col. Johnnie had been quite right, that glowing point of red light was definitely larger now. The countryside under the rising moon was a leaden blur, now and again shot with a vein of silver as the moonlight reflected off a river.
“How long to the target, Col?” Cookie asked.
“E.T.A. eighteen minutes.”
The light was really getting quite a bit bigger now and we were still heading straight towards it. Suddenly, it all became clear to me.
“Hey, Cookie!” I exclaimed, “that’s no fighter exhaust, it’s the bloody target!”
There was a moment’s silence, then, “Jesus!” Cookie said in awe, “You could be right, Harry, you could just be right, at that. Check our course, Col, one seven two magnetic, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s it skip, one seven two.”
Now we could see it. It was a fire on the ground, like a huge, glowing ember alone in the darkness. I went back to the astrodome. A pinpoint of white light hung above the glow, like a star, then a second, a third, a fourth. The flares were going down, dropped by the markers, for us. Cookie called out, “O.K., fellers, this looks like it, but we want to be good and sure where we bomb.” As we flew towards the blaze Johnnie said, “I can see the Seine, the fire’s right on it.”
Col said, “Part of the works is on a sort of banana-shaped island
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in the river, we’ve got to fly slap over it.”
We could see almost a dozen flares now, brilliant, whitish-yellow, and trailing rope-like white smoke as they slowly sank towards the ground, suspended from their parachutes. I could dimly see buildings below us. Cookie was turning S-Sugar gently to come in from the south-west; all the action was now on our port beam, then on our port bow.
Suddenly, away to starboard, two light flak guns pumped a few rounds of coloured tracer upwards, but there could have been no aircraft anywhere near them.
“Light flak away to starboard, skip,” I said, “only a few rounds, I think they’ve gone down to the stores to get some more ammo.”
“Just keep an eye on it, Harry.”
I was humming the words of that song to myself,
“The last time I saw Paris,
I saw her in the Spring….”
We were heading straight in now, flares on either side of our nose. The ground was almost invisible against the glare ahead from the fire and the lines of flares hanging in the sky. Col said, “Coming forward, skip.”
A few more rounds of tracer hosed up, away to starboard, but I didn’t even bother to report it. The lack of opposition near at hand was quite uncanny; we certainly weren’t used to this sort of thing. I was searching the sky for fighters, tracer, heavy flak-bursts, but there was nothing. Just the flares, dozens of them now. We were right among them, flying straight and level down a well-lit avenue.
I saw a dim shape loom up, dead ahead, growing rapidly and menacingly larger every second.
“Turn port, skip, quick!” I shouted.
Cookie yanked her nose round. A Hampden, bomb-doors open, hurtled past us on a reciprocal course, obviously completely disobeying briefing instructions as to the direction of the bombing run. He was almost close enough to read his identification letters.
“The stupid bastard,” said Cookie, “what the hell’s he doing?”
“Bomb doors open, skip,” Col said tightly.
“Bomb doors open, Col!”
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The inferno had vanished under our nose. There was a long silence while Col directed our track up to the target. I peered down, but I could only see a jumble of city buildings; I was trying to find the Arc de Triomphe.
“I’ve got that island coming up,” Col said, his excitement showing in his voice, “left, left, steady, right a bit, steady, steady – bombs gone!”
I felt the rumbling jolt as we dropped our load on the Renault factory.
“Bomb doors closed,” Cookie called.
“Oh, bloody marvellous!” Bill almost shouted from the rear turret, “spot on, Col, you got the first one bang on the island and the rest of the stick went right across the factory, I saw them bursting!”
Some distance ahead there was a sudden flash from the ground, a yellowish fire which turned redder and spread out, in a bend of the Seine.
“Some poor sod’s bought it, about one o’clock, five miles,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Cookie, I can see it. Don’t know what the hell he was doing up there.”
I looked back at the target, now a sea of flame beneath the brilliance of the unearthly light of the flares and the moon. A sudden eruption of flame shot up from the factory as I watched.
“Christ! Did you see that?” Bill called, “someone’s hit a goddam petrol tank or something.” We learned later that one of our Flight Commanders, Squadron Leader Jackson, had scored a direct hit on a large gas holder; it was that we had seen.
But the other fire, the burning kite on the ground in the bend of the river, drew our eyes to it as I took over the controls from Cookie.
“Poor sods,” Johnnie said quietly, “I hope they got out of it.”
We droned on over northern France, heading for Abbeville and home. But the excitements of the evening were not over yet. Half way to the French coast Johnnie reported a light flashing from the ground, to starboard of our track. I looked across between the nose and the mainplane and saw it, a square of yellow light, bravely flashing
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di-di-di-dah, “V for Victory”. Col came up to look.
“Good on yer, mate,” he said laconically. Those people down there in Beauvais were risking their lives by signalling to us their appreciation and encouragement, and I felt a strong bond had been forged between them, whoever they were, and us, in S-Sugar.
We flew on towards the mouth of the Somme. Bill said he could still see the target burning, many miles behind us now, and we were riding on the crest of a wave at the obvious success of the attack. We’d never known anything like it before and we hoped we would know many like it again. And as the Renault factory burned in Paris and the V’s flashed out from Beauvais I became aware that perhaps, after many disappointments, we were now beginning to win.
There was much elation as we flew homewards in “S”. We were a cheerful and buoyant crew, that night of all nights. I never dreamed that five short weeks hence I alone, of the six of us in the crew, would be the only one left alive.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] A boxful of broken china [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] A BOXFUL OF BROKEN CHINA [/underlined]
It had happened to Abey’s crew already (although I was not to know this until some years later), and no doubt it had happened to others whom I had known.
It was a common enough occurrence in those days, when we had simply to rely upon dead reckoning navigation with a bit of astro thrown in – there was nothing else to rely on, then – that at one time or another you would stray off track, fly unwittingly over a defended area, and get thoroughly well shot at. I use the words ‘thoroughly well’ advisedly, in the full knowledge that I shall be treading on many corns when I say that the German flak and searchlights left our own standing at the post when it came to accuracy and effectiveness. On several nights while at Binbrook, after our own air-raid sirens had sounded, we would troop out of the Mess to watch the progress of a raid on Hull and, so to speak, compare notes on the Luftwaffe’s reception with what we received, over Germany. We were all left in no doubt as to which target we would have chosen to be over, and would retire to the anteroom when the all-clear sounded, shaking our heads sadly and making rueful and derisive comments concerning the lack of effectiveness of our ack-ack gunners and searchlight crews compared to their German counterparts.
There were well-known hot spots over the other side, places whose names sent a slight chill up one’s spine when they were mentioned. Places such as Essen, or anywhere in the Ruhr, if it came to that, Hamburg, Heligoland, Sylt or Kiel. The list was a long one and the toll taken by those guns of unwitting tresspassers [sic] over their territory was heavy.
But no such reputation attached itself to a town called Lübeck, which we, among 2345 aircraft, were to attack one night late in March 1942.
“Lübeck?” we whispered to one another at briefing that day, “Lübeck? Never heard of it.”
We had it pointed out to us by our Intelligence Officer at the briefing, a bit beyond Kiel, a bit beyond Hamburg and between the two, almost on the Baltic coast. The defences, we were told, were
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believed to be negligible. Oh, yes? Well, we’d heard that about the Renault factory in Paris and that turned out to be true, so why shouldn’t this one be the same? Our confidence was very high after that Renault attack and this one was beginning to sound quite good. It was going to be largely a fire-raising raid. There were a lot of wooden buildings in the town, apparently. This really was beginning to sound very interesting, the chance to do to a German city what they had done on fifty-odd nights in succession to London. However, we were to carry an all-high explosive load in S for Sugar. We were warned, of course, of the proximity to our route of the defences, which we all knew about, of Kiel and Hamburg, but no-one really needed telling about those. We had experienced the Kiel defences twice before recently, once when 64 of us Wellingtons of 1 Group had put the battle-cruiser Gneisenau out of action for the rest of the war. I often wonder which of us it was that hit it, for I remember seeing some quite big explosions that night.
So, as far as the trip to Lübeck was concerned our crew, at least, were in a fairly happy mood. Looking back, I am sure that on that night, while not one of the six of us would have admitted it for fear of tempting whatever fates might be looking down upon us, we were each secretly thinking that this trip, this particular, and possibly only trip we would do, was going to go some way towards approaching the proverbial ‘piece of cake’. One could describe a trip in those terms while drinking, in a post-operational flood of euphoria, one’s mug of rum-laced coffee, waiting for interrogation, bacon and egg, and then bed, but no-one ever had the temerity to voice those words about any target before take-off. Not at any price. Fate was not there to be tempted in such a careless and impertinent manner.
The buoyant mood of the crew of S for Sugar was not in any way diminished when we gathered in B Flight hangar, all kitted up and ready – almost eager – to go. Mick, Johnnie and Col were standing near the crewroom door, looking amused about something, and with a fairly large cardboard carton half-hidden by their flying-booted legs. They had obviously said something to Cookie, now commissioned and doing his first op. as a P/O, for he was showing a lot of very white teeth in his amusement.
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“What’s going on?” I asked, puzzled. Such levity was very unusual before an op., we were invariably rather silent and very tense. Mick nodded towards the box.
“Present for the Jerries, from the Sergeants’ Mess,” he said in his Brummy accent, a broad grin splitting his face.
“What the hell have you got there?” I asked.
“Boxful of broken china,” Col said, “we’re going to chuck it out over the target. It’s all got the R.A.F. crest on, too.”
“Christ, you’re a mad lot of so-and-so’s,” I said through my laughter. Had I known it, I wasn’t going to laugh again for some time after that.
Recalling it now, although I cannot obviously tell where or how the navigation went wrong, it must have done so, somewhere along the line. Perhaps the reason was simply plain fatigue which led to our being off track and flying into trouble. Fatigue which, even as young, fit men, was inevitable when one realises that while the Lübeck raid took place on 28th March, this was our third operation in four nights. It almost alarms me now, to think of it as I write. We had taken off late on the evening of the 25th, the target being Essen, never any picnic. We had bombed what we believed to be Essen, but we had seen, remarked upon among ourselves at the time, and reported at our interrogation, that many aircraft seemed to be bombing much too far west, at Duisburg, we believed. But there were those among the Squadron aircrews who laughingly insisted that we had bombed too far east, perhaps Bochum, or even Dortmund. We still didn’t think so; we believed we had been in the right place and that the main force of the attack had hit Duisburg.
Apparently ‘Butch’ Harris thought so too, for after a few hours’ sleep we were awakened, fully awakened, with the news that ops were on again that night, the 26th. At briefing we learned the target. Essen again, time on target before midnight. It was a sticky trip, and we lost two of our crews, making three lost in the two nights. I have often wondered how many ex-aircrew are alive today who can say, “I was twice over Essen within twenty-four hours, and live to tell the tale.”
So, after the double attack on Essen, twenty-four hours’ rest
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and we were off to Lübeck, the piece-of-cake target compared to Essen, the wooden town which would burn like Hell itself. Provided we got there to see it, which, in the event, we didn’t.
It seemed that no sooner had we crossed the enemy coast, somewhere in Schleswig-Holstein, that a huge, bluish searchlight suddenly snapped on, and pinned us as surely as a dart hitting the bullseye. And not only one, but about a dozen followed. Then the flak started. Cookie was flying S for Sugar, I was in the astrodome. What use I was I don’t really know, except to try to see if there were any fighters about to attack us. Which was ridiculous, with all the flak they were throwing up at us. In any case, I couldn’t see a thing for the dazzling and horrifying glare of all those lights.
Cookie threw the Wellington about as though it were a Spitfire. The sensation was like that of being on a high-speed roller-coaster which had gone mad. And all the time, the intense, bluish flood of light which lit up the interior of the fuselage like day and the thumping of the flak-bursts around us. We had the sky all to ourselves, and, it seemed, all the defences of northern Germany were telling us that this time we weren’t going to make it back home. I was hanging on to whatever I could to stay standing upright in the astrodome, striving to see beyond the lights, to see whether there was a gap anywhere which Cookie could aim for. One second I would be pressed down on to the floor as he pulled out of a steep dive, the next, I would be hanging in mid-air, fighting against the negative ‘g’ and clutching wildly at the geodetics as he topped a climbing turn then put S for Sugar into another screaming dive. We carried one flare, heavy and cylindrical, four of five feet long. This suddenly left its stowage with the violent manoeuvres and hit me flush in the chest, almost knocking me to the floor. I managed to grab it before it damaged the aircraft and somehow secured it again.
I was, of course, frightened, but not uncontrollably so. As the shellbursts thudded around us my fear was climbing steadily, like the mercury in a thermometer on a hot day. I felt I was useless in the astrodome and longed to be doing something active. Quickly I unplugged my intercom and oxygen and clawed my way forward, to see if I could do anything to help Cookie, perhaps to take over
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if he was hit. Col was sitting with both hands clutching at the navigation table, looking rather sick and staring straight ahead of him, while Mick was fiddling with his radio, doing goodness knows what, I thought. I reached the cockpit, where Cookie was wrestling with the controls, his face shiny with sweat, his jaw tightly clamped. He glanced down at me as I plugged in my intercom. Dive, turn, climb, turn, dive – we were corkscrewing all over the sky, losing height all the time. Then Cookie snapped on his intercom switch.
“Col, get rid of the bloody bombs.”
Col came forward, his face looking ashen in the awesome light. A few seconds later I felt the bombs go with a thud. I thought, “I hope they kill somebody, destroy something down there, after what they’re doing to us.”
My fear had now risen to such a pitch it amounted almost to ecstasy.
“Get your chutes on everybody,” Cookie half-shouted over the intercom, “stand by to bale out.”
I obeyed, gladly, and wrenched open the escape hatch near to where I was standing. As I did so, a hole appeared in the aircraft’s fabric skin at my side and I wondered how much damage we had taken. It seemed it was merely a question of a second or two before we were hit and blown to pieces or set on fire, before I and the rest of the lads were torn apart by an exploding shell. They could not go on missing us for ever. I was impatient for the order to bale out; I felt I had had enough of this experience. At the same time I felt a deep sadness that I might be going to die without having led a complete life, a life in which I had not experienced many things. I had never known the love of a woman; I had never even had a steady girl friend.
Through the open escape hatch I could see the earth, a huge forest, stretching away under the moonlight. Still the lights and the flakbursts hammering at us, the smell of cordite. At that moment I came to accept that I was going to die, and at the same time, I now realise that I lost altogether, and for ever, the fear of death. Not the fear of pain, of great pain, which I still possess, but the fear of dying, of the flight into the unknown world of
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the hereafter. I am convinced that in those seconds, a corner of the veil was lifted and I was granted a glimpse of the boundless quietude of eternity. A great and mysterious calm flooded over me, enfolded me in a sensation of complete and deep peace. I now understand what the prayer means when it speaks of ‘the peace which passeth all understanding’. I could not then and cannot now understand it, but I am certain that at that moment, when I felt I was standing poised on the brink of death, the Almighty reached out His hand to me and I responded and touched it with mine. The memory of the incredible sensation of smoothly passing, as it were, through the fear barrier to another dimension, one of all-embracing calm, is one which has remained with me all my life.
Then suddenly it was quiet. Utter quiet – and darkness. We were through it, we had got away. There was the forest below us, and a stretch of water. The Baltic? It could only be. Cookie was almost drooping over the controls now, physically spent, nearly, I knew, at the point of exhaustion. He had saved all our lives.
“Take over, Harry, for Christ’s sake,” he said, and almost dropped out of the left-hand seat. I climbed quickly up into it and took the controls. Someone slammed shut the escape hatch and I inhaled deeply, very, very deeply, hardly able to believe we were still alive, still flying.
We were at a mere 2,0000 feet. Cautiously but quickly I tested the controls for movement and response. Satisfactory. Almost incredible, I thought.
“Col, where d’you reckon we are?” I asked.
“I know where we’ve been, right enough, Harry,” he said, “slap over Kiel.”
“Look, then, I think we’re a bit east or south-east of it now,” I told him, “I’ll steer three-one-five for the time being if you’ll give me a course to take us to that big point of land on the Danish North Sea Coast – you know the one I mean? Near Esbjerg?”
He knew it. He gave me the course and I started to climb; the more height we had, the better for us, in case of further trouble. We had lost thirteen thousand feet in all that evasive action but we needed to get at least some of it back. I had everyone make a check around the aircraft, but apart from a few minor holes we were intact, and there were no injuries of any sort. It seemed
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unbelievable that we could have survived the pounding we had taken with such negligible damage.
In the brilliant moonlight I saw the Danish coast creeping towards us, with the glint of the welcoming North Sea beyond. Esbjerg harbour was sliding beneath our nose; about eight ships were anchored there – and we hadn’t one single bomb left for them. I cursed aloud; they would have been sitting ducks for us. Not a shot was fired at us as I dived S for Sugar gently out to sea.
On the way back I discussed with Col where he thought we had been caught at first; he reckoned we had been trapped over Flensburg and then handed on, from cone to cone of searchlights until we were firmly into the Kiel defences, like a fly in a spider’s web. I was sure his assessment was correct as we had arrived over Esbjerg exactly as we had planned. I settled down to the long, thoughtful flight home. As usual, there was almost complete silence all the way. I am certain that there was not one among us who was not offering up a silent prayer of thanks.
After we had landed, switched off the engines and climbed stiffly down the ladder, we gathered in a group to congratulate Cookie. He was quite matter-of-fact about his marvellous effort. Then Mick said, in that edgy voice of his, “But listen here, Cookie, we used to have decent trips when you were a Sergeant, I hope all your trips as a P/O aren’t going to be like this one.”
He little knew that two short weeks and three trips later, he, Cookie and the rest of them, apart from me, would be dead, in unknown graves.
Then, inconsequentially, I remembered something.
“Hey! What happened to that boxful of china?” I asked.
The tension was easing.
“Oh, that?” Col said, “don’t worry, Harry, we’ll drop it on the blighters on our next trip, get our own back for tonight. Anyhow,” he added, “I’ll bet it’s the first time Kiel’s been dive-bombed by a single kite!”
I recall, with crystal clarity, waling down to interrogation. Col and I were together, he on my right, the others a few paces behind
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us. The moonlight was intensely bright and the hangars and the buildings of the Station stood out sharp and grey under its flood of cold light. There was not another soul to be seen and there was only the sound of our footsteps on the roads which led down from the hangars to the Headquarters buildings. I felt that I did not want to speak now, I did not want to break the spell of the feeling of that great “peace, from the wild heart of clamour” which was pervading my whole being, enfolding me in the purity of its white light, like that of the moon, shining down from God’s heaven on those whom he had spared that night, the night of the Lübeck raid.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] The end of Harry [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] THE END OF HARRY [/underlined]
“And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!”
II Samuel 18, v.33.
“Crews were given a forecast of clear weather over Essen but cloud was met instead. The bombing force became scattered and suffered heavily from the Ruhr Flak defences….. 7 Wellingtons, 5 Hampdens, 1 Halifax, 1 Manchester lost ….”
Martin Middlebrook and Chris Everitt,
The Bomber Command War Diaries.
I open my log-book to refresh my memory of that trip. The entry lies there in red ink, under my fingers, as clear as the day on which it was written, as is now my recollection of the night, which comes flooding back to me.
The date. We were in M for Mother. “Operations, Cologne. Diesel engine factory attacked with 4000 lb. bomb. Moderate heavy flak and searchlights in area, mostly on west side of town. Good weather.” A pencilled note, “263 aircraft in attack; 179 Wellingtons, 44 Hampdens, 11 Manchesters, 29 Stirlings. A new record for a force to a single target. 4 Wellingtons and 1 Hampden lost.” We got off lightly that night. Sometimes, like one we did to Essen, it was ten per cent. It was the last night I ever flew as one of Cookie’s crew.
We approached Bonn from the north-west at about twenty thousand feet, into the brilliant light of the moon, dead ahead. The sight was fantastic, beyond all imagining. We were just off the edge of a solid sheet of strato-cumulus at about ten thousand feet, stretching as far south and east as the eye could see, lit brilliantly white by the moon, and with its north edge, nearest us, as well-defined as the edge of an immense shelf. Out of this layer there towered
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a huge cumulo-nimbus, rearing up, its north side jet black, like a gigantic tombstone, to about 15 or 16 thousand feet and casting a tremendous shadow over the Rhineland. To the north of this cloud-shelf it was crystal-clear, hundreds of stars shone brightly and the Rhine writhed and gleamed like a thread of silver below us. We turned north, to track along it, the fifteen or so miles to Cologne.
We could see it ahead. There were six or eight searchlight cones, with a dozen to twenty lights in each, probing, leaning, searching the sky for a victim to pin like a sliver moth in the beams. Every now and again the cones would re-form to close the inviting gaps between them. Each cone would split in half, the lights from one half leaning one way, and the other half the other way, to join the neighbouring cones, which performed the same manoeuvre, to form new cones. It was hideously fascinating, almost hypnotic, to watch. There would seem to be no way through. The dozens of red flashes of the flakbursts, seen distantly, grew larger and more menacing as we approached. Light flak was hosing up, strings of red, green, orange and white, and below everything, the fires, three or four smallish ones, growing larger all the time. Big, bright, slow flashes as cookies exploded among the flames. We were tensed up as we carried ours in. M-Mother had been specially modified to carry the two-ton bomb which protruded some way below the belly of the kite, the bomb-doors of which had been removed. A single hit from a piece of shrapnel on the cookie’s thin, exposed casing and – the mind shied away from it.
So we felt naked with this inches beneath us as we edged through the searchlights, to the right of the Rhine, weaving constantly through the flak, which we could hear, thumping around us over the roar of the engines. We could see it flashing close to us on all sides. In our imaginations the cookie was growing in size; they could hardly miss it, I thought. More fires started below, a stick of bombs rippled redly across the darkened city, then another. Some incendiaries went down in a yellow splash. Or was it an aircraft going in? Still, the slow, bright flashes of the cookies going down on to Cologne. Col went forward. We could hear his harsh breathing over the intercom as he directed us into the bombing run, guiding M-Mother so that the target slid down between the wires of the bomb-sight.
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“Bomb gone!”
The kite thumped upwards as the cookie left us on its journey of destruction. A tight turn to starboard and we were heading back the way we had come, towards the surrealist cloudscape, the enormous, abrupt shelf with the grotesque tower looming up out of it.
On the way back Cookie called me up on the intercom.
“Will you take over, Harry?”
Someone else said, “come on, Harry, get us home.”
It sounded like Mick, the wireless op. Up to now I had always got them home. I had never in my life been called “Harry” by anyone until we were crewed up at O.T.U. But from them I would have happily accepted any nickname they cared to bestow on me. So we flew on through the night, and I got them home.
When we landed I found the M.O. waiting. He was usually to be seen somewhere in the background. This time, he singled me out and detached me from the weary crews who were standing around, clutching their helmets, drinking their rum-laced coffee, rubbing their faces and eyes to clear their fatigue before they were interrogated.
“How did it go?”
“O.K., Doc.”
“Any trouble?”
“The trip, or me?”
“You.”
“No more than usual.”
“Take your pill?”
“Yes.”
“No effect?”
“No.”
“Take this one, now. Get some sleep and see me in the morning after breakfast.”
“O.K., Doc.”
He slapped my shoulder and trudged off. I went into interrogation with the crew, lighting another cigarette as I did so. Ewart Davies was the Int. Officer at our table. We liked him. He didn’t push us too hard for answers, he was quick, quiet, and had some idea what it was like. He knew we wanted our egg and bacon – and bed. As we walked towards the table, Johnnie, our front gunner, gave me a
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quizzical look. Mac, now our rear gunner since Tommy had gone into hospital, was telling him how he’d chucked some empty bottles out over the target to fox the searchlights; it had worked, too. Gunners were a special breed, and had a special bond.
Next morning, I saw the Doc. He made no bones about it and came straight to the point.
“Come in, sit down. Now then, your grounded until you can have a Medical Board, and as soon as you can pack you’re going on six days’ sick leave.”
I felt as though someone had slammed a brick on to the back of my head. I had flown and lived with my crew for eight months. We had shared much together; more than that perhaps. We had shared everything from hilarious evenings in the “Market” to staring into the face of imminent death, where our expectation of life seemed to be measured in seconds. They had become indispensable to me, we were part of one another, our relationship uniquely deep. We knew one another’s strengths, and weaknesses. Where there was a weakness, and there were few, strength was drawn from the others. Where there was strength, we each drew from it fortitude and endurance. We were closer to each other than brothers and there was an unspoken-of bond of the deepest affection between us all which was greater in its way than anything else in the world of human experience. I was stunned to think I was being parted from them; it was something I had never imagined could possibly happen. Our lives were so much intermingled and we were so completely unified and interdependent that I couldn’t imagine life without Cookie, Col, Mick, Johnnie and Mac.
In a daze, I collected some kit together, saw the Adj. about my travel warrant and found Johnnie. He, of all the crew, was closest to me. We would always sit next to one another on our sessions in the “Market”; he was very quiet, absolutely imperturbable, the personification of steadfastness and quiet courage. Somehow I got to Grimsby, then to Doncaster. On Doncaster station I was surprised to meet Ewart, who had so many times gently interrogated us. Normally so ebullient, he too was now subdued.
“Posted to Northern Ireland,” he said ruefully, in his harsh Welsh
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voice, “Hell’s bells, I never wanted to leave 1 Group, but you’ll be back, don’t you worry.”
Nearly three years later I was to meet him in Malaya. We had much to tell each other then. But now, we were both thoroughly depressed. He saw me on to my train, we shook hands, wished each other “Happy landings” and I looked back at him as the train pulled out, a slight figure, smoking the inevitable cigarette in its long holder, hunched miserably on the end of the platform.
The sick leave was anything but cheerful. I was tired, moody and tense. I developed some new and unpleasant symptoms which I kept to myself. I slept fitfully, ate little, snapped at my parents and listened avidly to every news bulleting on the radio for word of bomber operations. There was a raid on Hamburg, five missing. I drank in the local pub, alone, more than I was accustomed to, lay in bed late, walked alone on the cliffs where I used to go with Ivor on his leaves from the R.A.F. Three of my friends were on the verge of call-up for aircrew and Ivor and another school friend, Connie, had already gone to Stirling squadrons which were being formed and expanded. Of these five, four were soon to die, but there was no knowing that at the time. I looked out the first three and let them eagerly pick my brains, it gave me some relief to be able to talk flying and it filled some of the dreadful blanks in the leave.
I was working it all out. I would apply to go on to night fighters, to get some of my own back, or on to Coastal Command Whitleys. The morning before I was due back off leave I heard the B.B.C. news bulletin.
“Last night, strong forces of Bomber Command attacked the Krupp’s works in Essen and other targets in Western Germany and Occupied France. Much damage was done and large fires were caused. From all these operations sixteen of our aircraft failed to return.”
I found my hands were clenched tightly. Essen. That was an old enemy; we had been twice in and out of its massive and savage defences inside twenty-four hours not so long ago, and it had cost us three of our crews, including our Commanding Officer, in the process. To this day I cannot say or hear that evil name, Essen, without a shiver going down my spine.
My parents saw me off at the station. I was glad to go back;
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I felt like a fish out of water away from a bomber station, it was my life. I was anxious to hear the latest gen., and to get my medical board over and done with, to know what was to become of me. The local train crawled from Doncaster to Grimsby; I found transport there to take me to Binbrook.
My room-mate Johnny Stickings had crashed in January when one engine had failed on the way back from Wilhelmshaven, and he and the only other survivor had been taken to hospital. A little later, another Observer and a good friend, Eric, had gone missing with Abey, our Flight Commander, on Kiel, along with Teddy Bairstow and his crew. I had been moved in with Eric’s room-mate Frank, to keep up our morale, I supposed.
I walked along the empty corridor in the Mess. Someone came out of the ante-room and passed me, a pilot whom I didn’t know. I wondered about him, who he was, who he was replacing. We said “hello”. I went up the stairs and turned left to my room. I opened the door and there was Frank, with his fresh complexion and almost Grecian good looks, putting away his laundry.
“Hiya, Frank,” I said, “what’s the gen?”
“Oh, hello, Harry,” he replied, looking up, “how do you feel? Did you have a good leave?”
“So-so,” I said, “but what’s the gen?”
He cleared his throat.
“Look, Harry,” he said, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. Cookie, your crew, they went missing on Essen two nights ago.”
“Oh, Christ, Frank, no,” I said, dropping on to my bed, “Oh, God, they didn’t. Is there any news of them?”
He shook his head slowly.
“No, I’m afraid not. They went to Hamburg the other night and got back O.K. with everybody else, then they were on Essen and they didn’t come back, I’m afraid. They were in H-Harry, there was nothing heard from them after they took off. I’m terribly sorry.”
I put my head down into my hands; I was beyond speech. I heard Frank go out of the room very quietly. I thought, “I’ve let them down. I’ve failed them completely. I wasn’t with them to get them back home this one time when they needed me more than ever. I wish
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to God I had gone with them.”
And I wondered who had taken my place. Whoever you were, I thought, I would have you heavy on my conscience for the rest of my life, I would forever walk with your ghost at my side. I knew it was the end of something unique and very wonderful in my life, as though a great light had suddenly failed. It was the end of being called “Harry”. To this day I have never permitted anyone else to call me by that name, their name for me. H-Harry was gone for ever, taking them all with it to their eternity, and their own Harry had died with it, and with them.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Silver spoon boy [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] SILVER SPOON BOY [/underlined]
It’s not a part of the city I’m in very often, but a short while ago, after a lunch engagement, I found myself passing the narrow-fronted shop in the busy street which once was the cafe where I had met him for the last time.
I stopped for a minute or so, oblivious to the intense, grim-faced pedestrians brushing past me, and to the traffic as it roared by. And I remembered that day more clearly, it seemed to me, for in that area, while the occupants of the shops and offices have obviously changed many times, the upper facades of the Victorian buildings have remained virtually unaltered – as have my recollections of Jack.
So indeed has the mystery surrounding him, how he came to be in the R.A.F., what happened to him then, and why the man who might have answered my questions would not do so.
There seems to have been no actual beginning to our friendship, it was simply one of those things which developed out of nothing. Since we were merely children at the time I suppose we must have seen each other in the road, probably each of us with a parent, perhaps eventually spoken a few casual words, but looking back now I cannot put any sort of a date upon it. I suppose friendships are like that. My memories of the house we lived in then are intermingled, woven like the coloured threads of a tapestry, with the recollections of the lads I knew at that time – of Alan, of Norman and Peter, and of Jack himself, who lived nearest to me of them all.
He was an only child of quite well-to-do parents. His father was a tall, big-boned, genial man, fond of country pursuits. Jack’s mother was a pleasantly relaxed, comfortably built lady with shrewd eyes, a good amateur pianist who also had rather a fine contralto voice. Jack was very much the son of his parents, cheerful, almost jaunty in manner, generous to a degree and quite undemanding – this last perhaps because he had most things that an only child of fairly well-off parents could wish for. But although he was a boy whom I had heard described, somewhat jealously perhaps, as having been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he was not by any means a spoiled child.
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Like most other boys of my age I lived an intensely active life, physically in top gear from morning till night. But there appeared to be a shadow across Jack’s life. He was frequently absent from school, and on those occasions when I called at his house I would be told by his mother that he was in bed, unwell. These vague illnesses were, more often than not, described as ‘overgrowing his strength’, but eventually there were hints of a weak heart. He began to be excused games at school and their doctor’s car appeared fairly regularly at their front door. Yet he was never anything else but buoyant and cheerful and I never remember seeing him look or behave very differently from a normal, healthy lad. My own parents, at those times when I told them that Jack was poorly, would give each other meaning looks and would now and again make veiled and half-audible remarks about some doctors who knew when they were on to a good thing. These bouts of malaise never seemed to alter in their frequency, and it became accepted, gradually but inevitably, in the small coterie of friends I had as a young teenager, that Jack was perhaps a little less fit than the rest of us.
Jack’s father, as I have mentioned,. Was interested in country life, and in particular, in shooting; he owned a beautiful and gentle-natured black Labrador, by name Prince. Jack’s uncle was a farmer near to the small country town of B - , some sixty miles away, and close to some good shooting. It was only natural that Jack’s family should spend most of their holidays there. One summer it happened that my parents were going through a period of considerable financial stringency; there had never been any luxuries in my life, but now, even the necessities were scarce.
Then Jack’s father, perhaps being aware of our circumstances, and being the generous man he was, casually asked me if I would like to spend two weeks of the summer holidays with them on the farm. My parents readily and gratefully agreed; I was in the seventh heaven of delight. It was an idyllic fortnight, the car drive there and back were memorable adventures enough, to me, at any rate, without anything further. We had the run of the marginal land on which Jack’s uncle grazed his stock, the scenery was very agreeable, there was impromptu cricket to be played, drives in the country and to
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wonderful, deserted beaches nearby. The discordant note, as far as I was concerned at any rate, was sounded by the early-morning shoot which I attended, crouched unhappily in the butts near the sea’s edge in the half-light of a chilly dawn, while Jack’s father blazed away at the beautiful and harmless ducks and we regaled ourselves with bottles of cold tea, which were regarded by the others, at least, as something of both ritual and delicacy. A little while ago I found, at the bottom of a drawer, a photograph, startlingly clear, of Jack and me standing against a haystack during that holiday, two gawky youths grinning into the camera, with me holding Jack’s cricket bat. I was to visit the farm once again.
When the war came, the little crowd of my friends and I, apart from Jack, went our various ways. It is difficult now to place the events of that time in their correct sequence, the constantly recurring pain of many recollections has tended to blur the outlines, but never to soften the impacts of those tragic times. The two events connected with Jack, I am now astonished to realise, were separated by almost three years of war – in my mind they seemed to be telescoped together, their perspective foreshortened by the passage of time.
Strangely enough, my own family’s ancestors had some connections with B - , and my father, who was always much more interested in the family tree than I ever was, had paid one or two visits to the place over the years to search the parish register for reference to our name and to contemplate the inscriptions on our forebears’ tombstones in the shady churchyard on the side of the hill.
My father was quite obviously under considerable stress during the war; the office where he worked was constantly understaffed as more and more men were called up into the Forces. There were also frequent Air Raid Precautions duties which he could not neglect, nor would ever have dreamed of doing so. In addition, my mother’s health was beginning to fail, and they had two sons in the forces, one of whom was engaged in duties where the chances of eventual survival were rated as about two in five.
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Early in 1942 my own crew, in my absence on sick leave, were reported missing on a raid over the Ruhr. I think my parents must have noticed the effect this had upon me, for they decided that on my next leave we could go to B – for a few days, staying at the hotel in the small market place, if I was agreeable. I thanked them, and thought it might be a good idea. It was late spring when we went, with blue and white quiet skies and sunlight pleasantly shining on the grey stone buildings. The hotel was almost empty; B - , while on the main road, was also between two county-towns which drew the local people like the twin poles of a magnet.
Released from operational flying I embarked upon what was to be several months of drinking far more than was good for me, in an attempt to dull the agony of mind and self-recrimination I was undergoing. This must have been painfully apparent to my parents, and must have caused them considerable heartache, but – and I shall always be grateful to their memories for this – they uttered no word of reproach.
How we spent our time there I cannot remember, perhaps I was in a constant alcoholic haze. The only event I can recall with any clarity was the afternoon we visited Jack’s uncle’s farm and I introduced my parents to Mr. Brown, his wife and his two daughters. I remember it as having the appearance and atmosphere of a scene in a stage play. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, gestures seemed limp and exaggerated and we sat like figures in a tableau against the backdrop of the scarcely-remembered living room of the farmhouse, small-windowed, lit by an oil-lamp, a heavy, dark red tasselled tablecloth draped over the massive dining table. Outside, I could see the shelter-belt of firs waving lazily in the breeze, hypnotic in their motion. My parents and the Brown family sat stiffly in their best clothes. What they talked about, I have no recollection; I said not more than perhaps a dozen words. I remember that one of Jack’s cousins kept looking curiously in my direction from time to time. Jack, now working in a branch of the same bank as his father, was, naturally, mentioned. I hadn’t seen him for quite some time, but someone said he would like to meet me when we went back home, before I returned to my unit.
The arrangements were made. My parents and I got off the bus at its city terminus in the Haymarket. They would make their way to the railway station and so home, I would join them later, to pack my kit at the end of my leave, as that day was my last.
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I remember feeling released and lighter in spirit when I left them, and guilty because I did so, but the sense of freedom was pleasant after a week when it had been necessary to cork down my feelings tightly and be on my best behaviour. Yet I almost dreaded going back to my unit, a Bomber Group Headquarters, where I had been given a sinecure of a job while I waited for a medical board, for the news that I might receive of the fate of the crew of H-Harry. As I walked through the grey city streets it seemed as though I were treading the razor-edged ridge of a mountain in a high wind.
We had arranged to meet at a little cafe on one of the main streets. Jack was standing outside, smartly dressed, tall, looking well and, as usual, cheerful. We shook hands.
“Hello,” he said, “nice to see you again. How are you?”
I lit a cigarette as we walked into the quiet cafe.
“So-so,” I replied, “a lot has happened since I saw you last.”
We sat at a small table, ordered coffee and biscuits. I looked at him and said, “You’ll have heard about my crew, have you?”
He looked down at his cup and nodded. I thought he appeared more adult than I’d ever noticed before.
“Yes,” he replied, “I had heard. How do I tell you how sorry I am?”
“Don’t try,” I said, “it’s O.K., I know.”
He asked, uncomfortably, “Do you think they could be prisoners?”
“I don’t know; it’s nearly two months now, no-one’s heard anything?”
We sat silently for a few minutes, traffic noise falling on our ears. Then he said tentatively, looking at the wings on my chest, “Are you finished flying, for good, I mean?”
I shrugged.
“Not as far as I know. I’ve got six months off then I’ll be having another medical board and we’ll see what they say then. I’ll probably go back on ops, I should think; after all, I’ve only done half a tour, I think I owe somebody something.”
“Do you think they’ll send you back again?” he asked, surprised.
“Oh, yes, they can do anything, you know,” I said, “there’s a bloke on the Squadron who’s completely flak-happy and he’s still operating.”
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He looked at me.
“What do you mean, ‘flak-happy’?”
“He’s round the bend,” I said shortly, “got the twitch, call it what you like.”
Jack shook his head wonderingly.
“But they let him go on flying?”
“Sure they do; he’s a damn good gunner and an experienced one, too. He’s not afraid of man or beast. Of course,“ I said, “there is another side to it – he could be dead by now. It’s a while since I saw him, and anything could have happened in that time. It depends on the targets you get. It depends on a hell of a lot of things.”
Jack swallowed hard.
I asked him if he’d seen anything of Alan or Peter.
“They’ve both volunteered for aircrew,” he said. I thought he sounded a bit wistful and I could tell what he was thinking.
“Listen,” I said firmly, “when I went and stuck my neck out I didn’t do it as a dare to the rest of you, you know, there are other ways of getting yourselves into trouble. And don’t you go losing any sleep about not being fit, it’s not your fault, and when the time comes you’ll be shoved into something which will be useful to the war effort, I’ve no doubt at all.”
He looked at my wings again.
“I hope so,” he replied, “it’s not a great deal of fun feeling left out of things.”
We finished our coffee. He insisted on paying for them, saying that he was a rich war-profiteer. He was probably getting a lot less than me, but it was no use arguing, I didn’t have a lot of time, and neither did he. I suddenly thought of that and said to him, “Anyhow, what are you doing here, skiving off during working hours? Shouldn’t you be drawing up balance sheets or something?”
He looked at me a bit sheepishly, squinting into the sunshine as we stood on the pavement with the pedestrians hurrying by around us.
“Oh, I asked the Manager for an hour off,” he said airily, “told him I was meeting a pilot on leave from the R.A.F. He said to tell you to drop one for him.”
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We shook hands.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, “and I hope you’ll have some good news soon.”
“Thanks, so do I.” I could hear the pessimism in my own voice. I looked at my watch. “Well, it’s been great seeing you; until next time, then, so long, Jack.”
It was some time later when I learned, with feelings of complete astonishment, almost disbelief, that not only was Jack now in the R.A.F., but that he had been accepted for aircrew training. I had to read my parents’ letter several times before I could begin to grasp what they were telling me.
Many months went by. I had been stationed at Tuddenham, in Suffolk, for a year, watching the almost nightly operations of, originally, the Squadron’s Stirlings, then their Lancasters; by day seeing the vast fleets of American Fortresses and Liberators forming up overhead to carry on the round-the-clock bombing of German cities. Late on a February afternoon I stepped out of the Tuddenham mail van, on which I had hitched a lift, at the aerodrome gates of Mildenhall, our parent station. The daylight was already fading and there was comparative silence; the Fortresses were back at their East Anglian bases and our Lancasters were waiting, poised to go that night.
I stood watching the roadway which led up to the barrier at the guardroom, chatting to the Service Policeman on duty. I recognised J – ‘s walk when she was far away. The S.P., who knew her, wished us a good leave, saluted and turned away. J – and I had met and worked together in the Operations Room of a bomber station in east Yorkshire, around the time of the Battle of Hamburg. But after a blissful few months I had been posted to Tuddenham, then, quite amazingly, following a bleak interval without her, she had been posted to the Base Operations Room at Mildenhall, a small handful of miles away. Everyone who knew us thought that one or other of us had somehow wangled things; in point of fact it was simply unbelievably good luck. In addition, it was a considerable feather in her cap as Mildenhall was one of the key stations in Bomber Command.
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Consequently, we saw one another several times a week when she, of course, should have been catching up on her sleep after long and hectic hours of night duty when operations were on. Now we were going on leave together; three days at my home then three at hers.
A lorry, known to all as the Liberty Wagon, took us to the nearest railway station at Shippea Hill, along with a dozen or so others, then we caught a local train to Ely. We had a meal there and took the overnight train home. We arrived before breakfast the following morning. When we had freshened up and had breakfast, my mother, who looked paler and more drawn than when I had last seen her three months before, looked at me across the table and said quietly, “I hardly know how to tell you this; it’s so awful, when you and J – have just started your leave.”
I couldn’t guess what was coming, but I steeled myself for whatever it might be.
“What is it, mother?”
She bit her lip then said, eyes averted, “I’m afraid it’s bad news, it’s Jack, he was killed two days ago.”
I felt my mouth open and close, then I reached slowly for a cigarette.
“But – was he on ops? I didn’t know he’d got as far as that, I thought he was still training.”
Mother nodded.
“As far as I know, he was killed training, night flying.”
She paused.
“You will go and see his parents, won’t you? They’re terribly upset, naturally.”
“Of course I’ll go,” I said, “of course I will.”
I went to see them that afternoon, after I had screwed up my courage to the limit for what I knew would be an ordeal for all of us. The tension in their house was almost tangible, their grief hung on the air like a cloud. They knew little about it except that Jack was dead; he had been a Navigator on Wellingtons at an Operational Training Unit in the Midlands whose name, Husband’s Bosworth, rang a bell with me when they told me. His pilot was also from our area;
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they had flown into a hill near a village in Northamptonshire. His funeral was here, tomorrow, would I come? It was unthinkable, of course, that I would not. His father paced the room incessantly, never meeting my eyes, Jack’s mother, her face bloated with weeping, tore at a handkerchief in her deep armchair in the corner. Their beautiful piano, black and shining, would remain unplayed for a long time, I knew, and her voice, which I had so often heard in Schumann lieder, would be silent now. The dog lay across the hearthrug, his eyes following first one speaker, then the other; I felt he knew what had happened to his beloved young master.
I met the cortege at the massive stone and iron gateway of the cemetery the following afternoon. The late winter sun was sinking and it was bitterly cold under the fading colour of an almost cloudless sky. I was the only non-relation there; as the hearse came slowly up to the gates through an avenue of trees I gave it the finest salute I had ever given to any senior officer. When I went home in the deepening dusk J – was alone in the living room, sitting in the firelight. I kissed her gently, holding her to me.
That evening, as I felt I must, I went to see Jack’s parents again. They were sitting alone, quieter than before, and with the calm of resignation beginning to possess them. Prince’s tail thumped the hearthrug twice as I walked into the room, his eyebrows lifted and fell as he looked at me, his chin across his folded paws. Jack’s photograph smiled cheerfully down from the mantelpiece. I told them I had come to say au revoir. His father thanked me for being there that afternoon, then, “Do you think you could possibly do something for us?”
“If I can, of course,” I said, glad to be moving on to practicalities.
“You know Jack was stationed at Husband’s Bosworth when – it happened, don’t you?”
“I didn’t know at the time,” I said, a bit uncomfortably, thinking that I should have done. We had seldom written to one another; one didn’t have much time nor the mental quietude in Bomber Command to do very much in the way of letter-writing, except to one’s girlfriend.
He went on.
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“Do you know anyone there? In your job I thought perhaps you might know someone who could tell us just what happened. We know so little, just what his C.O.’s letter told us, not very much at all. But if you could, perhaps, speak to someone?”
Jack’s mother dabbed at her eyes.
“Actually, I do know someone there, as it happens,” I said, “a chap I worked with at Tuddenham until recently was posted there as Adjutant; I’m sure he’ll be able to tell me something.”
He brightened slightly.
“That’s good,” he said, “really quite a coincidence. What sort of chap is he? You really think he would be able to help?”
I described George, avuncular, knowledgeable, but on occasions fiery and quite outspoken.
“I’ll phone him as soon as I can after I get back to Tuddenham, and get in touch with you.”
“I’ll be glad to pay any expense involved, if there is any,” he said, “and don’t get yourself into trouble on our account, will you? But – we would like to know something, of course.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I told him, “there’ll be no expense, and no trouble at all.”
I said goodbye to them. I was not to know that I would never see them again.
The first day back from leave I rang George quite confidently. He sounded his usual self, brisk, affable as ever, but perhaps slightly fussed. Had he trodden on a few toes already, I wondered? After the conventional greetings were over, I came to the point.
“George, I’ll tell you why I’m ringing you – it’s about a crash you had a week or so ago, the pilot was Sergeant - - . Well, I was a friend of the Navigator. I’ve just come back from his funeral at home and his parents were wondering If you could give them, through me, any further details of how it happened.”
There was an abrupt and surprising change in his manner.
“Is that why you rang me? To ask me that? I can’t tell them any more than was in the letter to them. I’m surprised at them asking you to do this.”
“O.K., then, George,” I said calmly, “if that’s how it is then I’m very sorry to have bothered you.”
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I rang off. I was extremely puzzled and quite troubled by his unexpected reaction; we had always been, and still are, good friends and our working relationship was never anything less than co-operative and mutually accommodating. That evening I wrote to Jack’s father, telling him briefly that I had been unable to obtain any further facts about the crash. He did not reply.
For various reasons, and to my lasting shame, I did not visit the graves of Jack, and of Peter, Connie and Roly, another classmate, all Bomber Command aircrew casualties, for several years. But after having stood in that busy street, gazing at what had been the cafe, and remembering Jack and I as we had been then, both of us in the prime of youth, an inner compulsion drove me to do so. I could find the graves of all of those who were buried there except one – Jack. I visited and revisited the place where I thought I had stood at his funeral, searching the tombstones round about for his name, but to no avail. I had heard that his parents had moved to B – on Mr. Henderson’s retirement and I was almost on the point of becoming convinced that they had had Jack re-interred there.
Eventually, after several fruitless searches, and as a last resort, I decided to go to the cemetery office to make enquiries. In a few minutes I had found it, about a hundred yards away from the place where I had been looking. There was a solid, low grey headstone with a substantial curb. There was the name, Flying Officer John Henderson, ‘killed in a flying accident 3rd February 1945.’ So very near to the end of the war, I thought sadly. The lettering was now so faded as to be almost illegible. Underneath his name were those of both his parents. The grave itself was completely bare, not a flower, not a blade of grass, not even a weed, only the cold, wet earth under the leaden sky.
I stood for several minutes in the silence, remembering them, but especially remembering Jack, incidents from our friendship returning vividly to mind. And I wondered about many things, the questions now long unanswered. Was he really the semi-invalid he had always been made out to be? How then had he passed his aircrew medical? Why did they crash that night? Had he – God forbid – made a navigational
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error? Why had George been so brusque and annoyed at my question?
There were no answers to be found in the rustling of the cold breeze among the fallen, russet leaves, and I thought that there never would be, that I would never know. But worse, I wondered would there be anyone left to remember Jack when I was no longer able to remember, or would his name disappear completely, both from his gravestone and from the memories of everyone who might have known him on earth?
I took the Remembrance Day poppy out of my lapel and pressed it into the sodden, bare earth below his name. Then on that grey afternoon I spoke a few words to him, very quietly, but knowing that somewhere, he would hear. And as the winter dusk was falling I turned away.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I did not expect that I should be writing a sequel to this, but a sequel there is, one long-delayed…
Obviously, I have thought very many times about Jack since his fatal crash and I have visited his grave very many times also. But rarely, if ever, have I dreamed about him. Until a few nights ago, that is, more than fifty-one years since he was killed. It was a dream which was so vivid and so poignant – that realisation was with me even as I was dreaming it – that it has stayed with me, haunted me and disturbed me ever since the early morning when, in this heartbreaking dream, I recognised Jack, from a great distance, walking towards me on a riverside path. There were iron railings on my right, a river was nearby, at my left hand, the path curving slightly from my left to the right. For some reason I was quite sure I was on the riverside at Stratford-upon-Avon. I have been there twice, once during the war, with Connie and Shep, when we were at Moreton-in-the-Marsh together, and once on a brief visit when I was on holiday at Malvern. Yes, this was Stratford, I was positive. And I knew it was Jack approaching, I could distinguish his
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features, his walk, his tall, upright figure. He was as I never saw him in life, in uniform, his peaked cap at a slight angle on his head, the Navigator’s half-wing above his breast pocket. There he was, coming briskly towards me, smiling, the Jack I knew of old. And he was with a girl. Her features I could not distinguish as she approached me with him; they were walking close together, arm in arm. Even in my dream I could feel a lump in my throat as I watched them. They stopped in front of me. I heard Jack say, “This is Janet”, and I could see now that she was smiling, a radiant, pure smile, full of utter delight and joy.
They turned together and walked slowly in the direction that I was going. It had turned slightly misty. I was fascinated by Jack’s girl Janet, wondering what sort of person she was; I could not take my eyes off her. She wore a small, round hat of the pillbox type, and a brownish, quite long, heavy coat. Her lips were full, I saw, and pink; here eyes shone with a wonderful radiance, such as I have rarely seen. I had the overwhelming sensation of their happiness with one another. Then the girl, Janet, looked at me directly, her arm still through Jack’s, and gave me her wonderful smile, so full of bliss.
“We are going to be married,” she said, “next year.”
At that moment she looked as lovely as anyone I have ever seen. But immediately, as though I had been submerged by a wave from the sea, I felt an immense sorrow engulf me, because, as I awoke slowly, with the vision of that lovely, loving couple in my brain, even in my dream I knew that their marriage could never, never be. For Jack was to die; Jack was dead.
It is a dream I shall have in my mind until the day of my own death, until Jack and I meet once more and – God alone knows whether there ever was a girl named Janet – perhaps I might meet that girl who I dreamed was going to marry my oldest and closest friend, The Silver Spoon Boy, the boy who gave everything he ever possessed. ‘Too full already is the grave, Of fellows who were young and brave, And died because they were.’
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Intermezzo [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] INTERMEZZO [/underlined]
“Sign here? And here? That it? O.K., Sergeant. Now, what have I signed for? Oh, I see, one brand-new Wimpy in mint condition with full certificate of airworthiness and rarin’ to go. HD 966, isn’t it? Where do I find her? That it, over there by the dispersal hut? O.K., thanks. Probably be back tomorrow for another. Cheerio.”
“Here we are, on this beautiful morning. HD 966. Plenty of juice, Corporal? Well, I’m not going as far as John o’ Groats, thanks, just to Moreton-in-the-Marsh. Pitot head cover off? Fine.”
“There’s only me. Up the ladder. God, it’s hot in here. Haul the ladder up, stow it next to the bomb-sight. Slam the escape-hatch door. Stamp it down firmly, to be sure. Hell, the heat. Slide open the windows, that’s better. Shove my chute into the stowage. Into the driver’s seat, check brakes on. Push and pull the controls about to test for full movement. Shove the rudder to and fro with my feet. All free. Fine. Check the petrol gauges. Enough.”
“Undercart lever down and locked. Flaps neutral. Bomb doors closed. Switch on the undercart lights. There we are, three greens. Undercart warning horn? God, that’s loud. Never mind. Main petrol cock on, balance cock down.”
“Now. Throttles closed, boost override normal, mixture rich, pitch levers fully fine, superchargers medium. O.K. So – ignition on, open throttle an inch. There we are. Now, yell out of the window. Contact port! Press the starter button. That’s it, got her! Hell! What a row, wish I’d brought my helmet after all. Shut the window. No, damn, not yet. Contact starboard! Press the button. There she goes. Come on, come on. Now shut the window. It’s a bit cooler now, anyhow.”
“Oil pressure O.K., all temperatures O.K. So, what’re you waiting for? Run them up. Port engine first. What a bloody noise. Pitch controls O.K., revs down and up again. Give her plus four boost. This is going to be damn noisy. Here goes. Throttle back, boost override in. Now for it. Open right up. Hell, it’s awful. Plus
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nine and threequarters. Fair enough. Throttle back smoothly. Not too quick. Override out. Now the starboard engine. Stick my fingers in that ear. Pitch control O.K. Plus four boost. Mag drop? ……”
“All O.K., then. Brake pressure? Right up. Try each wheel. O.K. So it should be, too, brand new kite. There goes the Anson with those A.T.A. girls. God, shook me when that blonde brought the Halifax in. Cool as you please, all five foot nothing of her. Damn good landing, too. Smashing blonde, like to see her again. Like to – hey, steady on! Back to business. Test the flaps. Right down. Now up again. Fine. Where’s he taken the starter trolley? Oh. Over there, well away from me. See they haven’t got that bloody Whitley moved yet. Bit off-putting, that, finding a pranged Whitley over a hump in the runway, just after you’ve landed. Plenty of room, though, at least it’s on the grass. Well, come on, let’s get back to Moreton, might have half a can if there’s no more flying today.”
“Chocks away. Wave hands across each other where the erk can see. There he goes with the port chock. Now the starboard. Thumbs up from him. And from me. Little bit of throttle, hold the yoke well back. Here we go. Taxy out over the grass. Bumpy. Wish they’d get another runway put in, too. The one they have got isn’t even into the prevailing wind. Using it today, though, I see. Not much wind at all, but the Anson used it. Lovely sunny day. Swing the nose about a bit, never know what’s ahead. Would hate to prang a Spit or something. What’s that Oxford doing? Coming in. Trundle up to the end of the runway, opposite the line of trees. Bit off-putting they are, too, when you’re approaching to land. Park, crosswind. Brakes on. Relax and watch him come in. Wheels down, crosswind, losing height. Bit bumpy over the trees, of course. Flaps down, now he’s turning in. Nice steady approach. Oh, Christ, here’s a Spit coming in next, what a bind. I’ll have to wait a bit. Yes, he’s put his undercart down. Damn!”
”Float her down, boy, float her down. Now, watch it. Not bad, not bad at all. Over-correcting a bit on his rudder on the runway. Never mind, nice landing, though. Open up my throttles to clear the plugs of oil. Yoke hard back. What a row. There we are, sounds
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O.K. Now throttle back and wait for the Spit. Quick check round the dials again. Set the altimeter to zero. Gyro to zero and leave it caged. Where is he? Oh, here he comes, hellish fast. God! That was a split-arse turn and no mistake. Full flap. Well, he is heading in approximately the right direction. Whoof! He’s down. A bit wheel-y, but never mind, he’s in one piece and still rolling. Now beat it, chum, and let a real kite take off. No-one else in the circuit? Thank bloody goodness. Wait a tick, where’s my friend in that Spit? Oh, there he goes, taxying to the Watch Office. Fighter boys – I don’t know!”
Here we go then. Flap fifteen degrees. Brakes off. Port throttle to turn on to the runway. Hope the far end’s clear. Suppose they would poop off a red if it wasn’t. Nice and central Brakes on. Uncage gyro on 0. Now hold your hat. Open both throttles steadily against the brakes. What a bloody row. Yoke back, now let it go to central. Not too far, not too far. More throttle. Hold the brakes on. She’s shuddering like hell, wants to jump off the runway. Lift the tail just a bit more. Now. Full throttle and brakes off. Here we go – and how! We’re really rolling. Shove those throttles forward against the stops. Touch of rudder against the swing. Fine. Hold it there.”
“Feels great. Love take-offs, tremendous sense of power. Hellish noise, too. Airspeed? 50. Nice and straight, shove the tail well up, a real 3 Group takeoff. Touch of rudder again. 65. Over the hump. Gi-doying! Nearly airborne then! Plus nine and threequarters on both, 3000 revs. Wizard. 75. Runway clear and pouring back underneath. There’s that Whitley. Plenty of room. 80. Almost ready. Still bags of room. Come on, come on. Ease back a bit. Trying hard to go, almost a bounce then. Now? Now she’s off. Airborne. Keep her straight, wheels up. Pick your field in case an engine cuts. Right, got one. Lights out as the wheels come up. Then red, red, red. All up and locked. Throttle back to climbing boost. Revs back to 2600. Airspeed 120. Overrides out. 200 feet. Gyro still on 0. Take half the flap off. Watch it, now. 300 feet. All flap off. Slight sink there, feels horrible. Keep climbing. Everything sounds good. Quick look around the panel. All O.K.
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“1000 feet. Level off. Cruising boost and revs. Select weak mixture on both. Rate 2 turn to port. There’s the Oxford just taking off. Spit’s parked at the Watch Office, next to the Hali. The Hali – God! That girl was a smasher. Cirencester just below the port wing. Now the railway. And there’s the Fosse Way. Follow it home, no bother. The Romans knew how to build roads. Excuse me, Centurion, but there’s an enemy chariot on your tail! Weave left, Lucius Quintus – now! Weather’s wizard, just a few puffs of cloud at 1500 feet. No hurry. Throttle back to economical cruising boost and revs. Try the trimmers. Feet off the rudder. Nice, keeps straight. Feet on again. Hands off. Bit nose heavy. Just a touch on the trimmer. Try again. There we are, perfect, no wing-drop, no pitching, no yawing. Flies herself and purrs like a sewing machine, she’s a beaut. Check the magnetic compass. Heading 037. Cage the gyro, set to 037, uncage. Check around the panel. Zero boost, 1850 revs, airspeed 150, altimeter 1000 feet, temps. and pressures O.K. and steady. Fosse Way sliding along under the port wing. Vis thirty to forty miles, 2/10 cumulus at 1500 feet. God’s in his heaven and all that.”
“What a view, all greens and hazy blues. Fields, trees, hedges, pale little villages. Lovely country. Must really explore it soon. Good as being on leave. I’m lucky. Bit lonely in these kites all on your own, though. Used to five other bods nattering. Nearly four months now. I wonder if there’s any news yet. Write to the Squadron tonight, see if there’s anything come through from the Red Cross.”
“Kite at 10 o’clock, slightly higher. Twin. Oxford, heading for Little Rissington, I’ll bet. Wonder who’ll take this Wimpy over. Couple of weeks and it could be bombing Tobruk or somewhere. Long stooge out there. Portreath – Gib – Malta – Canal Zone. Blow their luck. Wonder what the chop rate is out there. Better than we had, I’ll bet. Spit. at nine o’clock, high, heading East. Going like a bat out of hell. Clipped-wing job. Boy! Is he pouring on the coal. Wonder if he’s a P.R.U. type. Climbing hard, too. There he goes. Berlin by lunchtime at 40 thousand plus, I’ll bet. Nothing to touch him. Take his pictures, stuff the nose down and come home with 450 on the clock. Not a thing near him. That’s the life.”
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“Stow-on-the-Wold coming up below. Must go back to that pub some time. Wonder if I’ll hear anything from the police. No rear light. Jam had no front light. Both tight as newts. Tried to tell the flattie we were a tandem which had just come apart, wouldn’t believe us. Hell, couldn’t even pronounce it, I called it a damned ‘un, could hardly talk for laughing. We’d had a few that night! Blasted nuisance, though, expect we’ll be fined ten bob each. Shan’t go to court, though, write them a pitiful letter. Got no ident letters yet, how about doing a beat-up at nought feet? Oh, hell, can’t be bothered. Too hot, anyhow, slide the window open a bit more. Wouldn’t want to drop off to sleep like I did that night at Moose Jaw. Shaky do, that. Never mind, still alive and kicking.”
“Should write home tonight, really. Can’t be bothered to do that, either. Write to Betty? Oh, Christ, what’s the use? She’s hooked up to that other bloke, whoever he is. Don’t even know his name. Hell and damnation, why didn’t I - ? What’s the bloody use of moaning about it? But, God, she was nice. Wizard girl. There were angels dining at the Ritz - . Oh, for God’s sake, stop it. She’s gone, she’s gone, you’ve bloody had it, you missed your chance. Just stop thinking about her. Forget it. Oh, hell, why didn’t - ? Christ! Forget it, can’t you? Think of something else. Yes. Yes. What? I know. Let’s have a song.”
“Ops in a Wimpy, ops in a Wimpy,
Who’ll come on ops in a Wimpy with me?
And the rear gunner laughed as they pranged it on the hangar roof,
Who’ll come on ops in a Wimpy with me?”
“There we are, Moreton dead ahead. Long runway end on to me. Two kites on the circuit. God, I’m ready for a bite of lunch. Wonder what it is? I’ll do this right, otherwise the Boss will chew me off.”
“Into wind over the runway in use. Good look-see at the Signals Area, then a copybook circuit. Here we go. Signal for transport by pushing the revs up and down again. Makes a nice howl, hear it for miles. Oh, hell, I expect I’ll get chewed off for that, though.”
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Blast him, why does he hate my guts? Those other two Wimpies have gone, must have landed. Yes, can see one taxying. Reduce airspeed to 140. No signals out except the landing-T and that’s O.K. Crosswind leg. There’s the van leaving the Flight Office, good-oh, he’s heard it. Turn port, downwind. Throttle back to 120. 120 it is. Lock off, select wheels down. Red lights out. Green, green, green. Down and locked. Ready for crosswind.”
“Rate 1 1/2 turn to port, now. Nice. Select flap 15 degrees. Stop. Lever to neutral. Push a bit to compensate for the flap. Now the approach. Full flap. Shove the nose down. Rate 1 1/2 turn to port again. Watch the airspeed. Back to 95. Pitch fully fine. The van’s heading for dispersal down there. Keep the speed at 95. Dead in line with the runway, height just nice. Carry on, carry on. Losing height nicely, speed dead on 95. Trees rushing by. Lower and lower. Throttle right back. Push the nose down a bit more. Ten feet, now level off. Lovely, sinking down beautifully. Airspeed falling off as the runway comes up. Clunk! We’re down, what a beaut. Have we landed, my good man? I didn’t feel a bloody thing. Keep straight with the rudder. No brake, plenty of room. Slowing down now. Flaps up. Turn right at the peri. track. There we are.”
“Van’s waiting for me. Good-oh. Follow it round to whichever dispersal. Go on, then, after you, I’m waiting. That’s better. Get well ahead, where I can see you. That’s it. Weave the nose a bit. Not too rough with the throttles. Bit of brake now. O.K., I see which dispersal. Bit more brake. Slow right down. Turn into dispersal and swing round into wind in one go, with the starboard throttle. Flashy! Throttle back, straighten her up. There’s an erk with the chocks. Roll to a stop. Brakes on and locked. Pull up the cut-outs to stop the engines. That’s it, piece of cake.”
“Ain’t it gone quiet? Out of the seat. Where’s my chute? Yank open the escape hatch and shove the ladder down. Just nice time for lunch. Wotcher, Loopy, thanks for the lift. Did you witness my absolutely superb landing? No? Well, you missed a treat. How’s the Boss? What was that? Do what to him? Not me, old boy, it’s
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a Court Martial offence, and besides, it’s immoral. Come on, let’s go for lunch. What about the White Hart tonight? By the way, you missed a treat at Kemble this morning. I was just standing there, waiting until this kite was ready, when a Hali. comes into the circuit. Lovely approach and landing, taxies in, stops, and what do you think, out steps this A.T.A. pilot. Wait a minute, wait a minute, this one was a dame, and a wizard blonde at that. Now just let me describe her to you in some detail, you lascivious, drooling Australian, while I permit you to drive me to the Mess. Well, now, she was about five foot six, and her figure…..”
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[inserted] [underlined] Overshoot [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] OVERSHOOT [/underlined]
In that glorious summer they had decided that I could do some non-operational flying, so they posted me away from Group Headquarters at Bawtry Hall, where I’d been playing about with a bit of admin. work, a lot of cricket, and, between drinking sessions, flirting with a couple of W.A.A.F.s.
Bawtry had been very pleasant but it was distinctly stuffy after the Squadron. I was the only recently operational aircrew there and I always had the feeling that they were waiting uneasily and suspiciously for me to start swinging from the chandelier, or to come rushing up to someone very senior and snip his tie off at the knot. What really made it for me was the brief moment when I happened to look across the anteroom one day – where Group Captains and other wingless wonders were two a penny, with bags of fruit salad to be seen on their chests, though – I looked across and saw him standing there, quite quietly. It was “Babe” Learoyd, and he had only one medal ribbon, that of the Victoria Cross.
It was a bit strange when I found myself back on a Wellington Station again, even more so because this one, an O.T.U. at Moreton-in-the-Marsh, was set in lovely pastoral countryside, a complete contrast to my Squadron’s base on top of the Lincolnshire Wolds. As I was back on flying, I decided that instead of getting drunk every night I’d better cut it down a bit, to every other night, if I wanted to survive, of course, which was debatable. I suppose that was oversimplifying it, because if I misjudged something and pranged, I would possibly write myself off, but I might take a few quite innocent people with me, which wasn’t by any means O.K.
However, I needed something to knock me senseless at night, because I was still getting nightmares. In the end, I would usually fight myself awake, distressed and sweating, and lie wide-eyed, until the summer dawn at last came palely to my window and I heard the distant whistle of the first train as it wound its way through the trees and by the little brooks down to Adlestrop and Oxford.
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That train and the railway station in the small market town gradually became to me symbols of ordinary, carefree life, of freedom and safety from sudden death, symbols I was desperate to hang on to. Eventually, the station became so central and vital a part of these imaginings that I lived in considerable and constant anxiety lest one of our aircraft while using the short runway which pointed directly towards it, should crash on to it and destroy my only link with the sanity of the outside world.
I wasn’t posted to the actual O.T.U. in Moreton, but to No. 1446 Ferry Flight. Basically, the idea was that we picked up brand-new Wimpies from Kemble, about half an hour’s flying time away, flew them solo, following the Fosse Way, back to Moreton, then handed them over to pupil crews from the O.T.U. who would do one or two cross-countries in them and then fly them out to the Middle East, in hops, of course, to reinforce the Squadrons in the Western Desert. Sometimes they were straight bombers, nevertheless looking strange in their sand-coloured camouflage, sometimes “T.B.s”, torpedo-bombers, with the front turret area faired in by fabric and the torpedo firing-button on the control yoke, and sometimes they were pure white Mark VIII “sticklebacks”, bristling with A.S.V. radar aerials, low-level radar altimeters and the like.
One morning I had collected a T.B. from Kemble and was bringing it in to Moreton. No bother at all. Except on my approach to land I seemed to be coming in a bit steeply, I thought. I checked the airspeed, 95, correct. I checked the flap-setting – yes, I had full flap on, and wheels down. Looked at the A.S.I. again. Still 95. But, hell, I thought suddenly, it’s graduated in knots. Frantic mental calculations to convert knots to m.p.h. Ease back on the control column a bit. Multiply by five, divide by six, I concluded. Say, 80. So, bring the speed back to 80 indicated. I should have checked before take-off, of course. After all, this was a T.B., a nautical job. Looks right now, I thought, except that I’m floating a bit while the airspeed drops off, using a bit more runway to get her in. No panic, though. I got her down quite nicely and didn’t go anywhere near the far hedge. Quite a good landing, too, though I says it as shouldn’t.
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But, just my luck, Squadron Leader --- had noticed it.
“That’s not a bloody Spit you just brought in, you know, Junior,” was his greeting as I walked into the Flight Office. I sighed inwardly. Here we go again, I thought.
“No, sir.”
What the hell were you doing? Trying to land at Little Rissington?”
“Just came in a bit fast, sir, that’s all.”
“You should’ve gone round again, done an overshoot.”
“Well, sir, I don’t much like overshoots on Wimpies.”
He grunted.
“Don’t like overshoots,” he said acidly, “Are you a competent pilot, or not?”
“Yes, sir, I am, but I don’t like taking unnecessary risks.”
To tell the truth, I hated overshoots completely. You had to shove on full throttle when you decided you weren’t going to make it, and with the full flap you already had on, the nose tried to come up and stall you at fifty feet. So you pushed the nose down with all your strength and some frantic adjustment of the elevator trimmer – three hands would have been useful about then – to pick up some speed before you even thought of climbing away to have another shot at a landing. Then, while keeping straight you had to milk off seventy degrees of flap a little at a time – and she wasn’t at all fond of that process. She wanted to give up the whole idea and just sit down hard into a field, to sink wearily on to the deck and spread herself, and you, around the county. You had to be damn careful not to take off too much flap in too much of a hurry when those big trees came nearer, or when those hills started to look rather adjacent. At night, of course, you couldn’t see them at all, but you knew they were lurking somewhere handy. If you were in a hurry about taking the flap off, then, you went down like a grand piano from a fourth-storey window, and you’d had it. No, overshoots were definitely not for me, thank you very much, not unless they were absolutely essential, and I knew that I knew, to the foot, when they were. I’d never been wrong yet.
“Well, watch it in future, Junior, and don’t set the pupils a bad example.”
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I could quite understand why Loopy had been within an ace of punching him in the face, a few days previously. It wasn’t only the things he said, it was the way in which he said them. Before I could reply he went on, “You might be interested to know that we’ve got the S.I.O.’s son taking a kite out to Gib. soon, he’s done his circuits and bumps and he’s crewed up. His father had a word with me at lunchtime yesterday.”
As I only knew the Senior Intelligence Officer vaguely by sight I merely murmured something non-commital [sic] and asked if there was anything else. I was told, reluctantly, no, there wasn’t, so I saluted and drifted out to have a word or two with Dim and Loopy.
A few days later there was a gap in the flow of kites from Kemble, and as Loopy and I had done all the compass and loop-swinging on those we’d recently collected I took myself off to the Intelligence Library. I was standing at one of the high, sloping library desks, reading one of the magazines, when out of the corner of my eye I saw someone come in and stand at a desk about six feet to my left. I took no notice of him but carried on reading Tee Emm or whatever it was. When I had finished, I turned to go – and recognised him.
“Christ! It’s Connie, isn’t it?” I exclaimed.
I had last seen him in the Sixth Form at school, five years ago. Five thousand years ago.
“Yoicks!” he said, greeting me by the nickname I’d almost forgotten. Connie wasn’t his real name, either, but he’d always been called that at school because, it was said, he had a sister of that name who was more beautiful than the moon and all the stars. A shame I never met her. We shook hands vigorously.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“Been posted to something called a Ferry Flight,” he replied.
“Bloody marvellous! I’m in that, too; come into the madhouse!”
“Well, blow me,” Connie said, “it’s a small world, isn’t it?”
We celebrated that night, in traditional fashion, with several pints apiece. It was great to have him with me, he was jaunty, carefree, entertaining and likeable. I had noticed, of course, that he had the ribbon of the D.F.M. One day, as we walked through some nearby town on a half-day off, I noticed too that his battledress was ripped,
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just below his ribs, on one side.
“By the way,” I said, “do you know you’ve torn your battledress?”
I pointed to the damage. He laughed heartily.
“That’s my line-shoot, I’m not repairing that, Yoicks – got that over Turin from a cannon-shell. Never felt a thing!”
It was about this time that I discovered the poems of A.E. Housman and, on free afternoons, I would lie on the unkempt lawn of the little cottage where I had my room, out beyond the Four Shires Stone, and would read his poems long into the drowsy, high-summer afternoons, their words tinged with the sadness that I had learned. And as I lay there, the supple, vivid wasps would tunnel and plunder the ripe plums I had picked off the little tree under whose shade I rested. There was constantly to be heard, with the persistence of a Purcell ground, the noise of the Wellingtons on the circuit, two miles away, over the lush green Gloucestershire landscape, hazy with heat, the sound rising and falling on the consciousness like the breathing of some sleeping giant.
At length I would pick myself up, stiffly, feeling the skin of my face taut with the sun, and put the poetry away. Then in the incipient twilight I would stroll down the road towards the sinking sun to meet Connie, to have dinner in the Mess and to slip easily into the comfortable routine of an evening’s drinking with him, and perhaps with Dim, Loopy, Pants or Mervyn, in the anteroom, or down at the White Hart in the village. I would see Connie’s dark hair fall across his forehead, his heavy black brows lift and lower expressively over his mischievous eyes as he told some humorous story of his days and nights on his Squadron at Downham Market. Sometimes, when we were flush, he and I would catch a train to one of the neighbouring market towns, to embark on an evening’s pub crawl, laughing at each other and at ourselves as the beer took effect, and as the darkness slowly fell, un-noticed; each of us drowning our private memories.
Once, a bunch of O.T.U. pupil crews came into a pub where we were sitting – was it in Evesham? – obviously on an end-of-course party before they went their various ways to join their bomber Squadrons. They joked a lot, sang a bit and indulged in some mild, laughing horseplay. Connie, who like me had been watching them, suddenly
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grew solemn.
“Poor sods,” he said gravely, “they don’t know what’s coming to them, do they, Yoicks?”
Poor Connie, too. He himself had not long to go. Just over a year later he was killed, at the controls of his Stirling, where, had he known that he must die, he would have wished to be, I think.
Eventually, wherever I had been, I would fall into bed, my brain dulled by the alcohol, but neverthless [sic] conscious enough to dread what the night might hold for me, waiting for the nightmares to come again.
There was one kite in the circuit, wheels down, as I strolled towards the Mess for dinner as twilight was beginning to fall. It was yet another lovely evening, and what with the idyllic existence and Connie’s new-found friendship, I was feeling that as far as I was concerned, I could stay here until further notice, despite Squadron Leader --- and his unpleasant little ways.
I was quite near to the Four Shires Stone when I heard the sudden howl as the kite’s engines were opened up to full throttle. Should we go to the White Hart with Loopy and Dim tonight, I wondered, or have a bit of a session in the Mess? Just then there was a loud thump and a silence, another thump, and I saw a telltale column of black smoke erupting over the hedges and treetops ahead and slightly to my left, a mile or so away, I guessed. The kite had overshot and gone in.
“Jesus!” I said, and broke into a run down the road. I was panting and sweating along when suddenly the Flight van screeched to a halt beside me, going the same way. Squadron Leader --- was driving.
“Get in, Junior,” he yelled, “We’ve got to get them out!”
He let in the clutch and drove fiercely down the empty road. The pillar of smoke grew bigger as we got nearer. Then I saw the gap in the hedge and the smashed tree where it had hit. At the far edge of the field the shattered Wimpy burned savagely. We skidded to a stop and flung our doors open. As I ran through the gap in the hedge and across the field, --- raced around the front of the van to join me. I could feel the heat on the surface of my eyes from
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the wall of leaping flame. The kite’s geodetics were like smashed and twisted bones stripped of their flesh. I ran on, over the cratered and churned earth. There was a reek of petrol, of ploughed earth, and of something else, sweetish, sickly, burned. An engine lay to one side, the prop grotesquely curled back.
Suddenly there was a ‘whumph!’ and I found myself on the ground. A petrol tank had exploded. I got up again and went towards the inferno that was raging under the smoke-pall. I splashed through a pool of something. I could hear Squadron Leader --- cursing somewhere nearby; I was gasping and sobbing for breath.. [sic] Then the oxygen bottles started to explode and bits of metal went screaming viciously past me. I tripped and fell heavily. And I saw I had fallen over something smoothly cylindrical, like an oversize sausage, bright brown, and with a smouldering flying boot at the end of it. A few feet away lay an untidy, horribly incomplete bundle of something in what looked like Air Force blue, lying terribly still under the stinking glare. I was retching, on all fours, unable to move further. I dimly heard another explosion nearby, sounding curiously soft, there was a blast of hot air on my face, and then there were the bells of the approaching fire-tender and ambulance.
I was being dragged by my shoulder. It was ---.
“Come on,” he panted, “we’ll never get near it. They’ve had it, poor bastards.”
We must have made our way back to the van as the rescue vehicles arrived; I don’t remember much about that part. I was leaning up against the side of the van and wiping my face with a shaking hand when I heard --- say, “Now I’ve got to go and tell the S.I.O. that his son was flying – that.”
“Oh, Christ,” I groaned.
“Let’s go,” he said, “Let’s get to hell out of here.”
He switched on the engine of the Utility as the black funeral pall of smoke spread over the sky, and thinning, smudged the sunset dirtily.
I read an article in a magazine recently. The writer had been visiting some place which had impressed her. She concluded with
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the words, “But you never lose an experience like that. You carry it around with you.”
Yes. And sometimes you feel you need just a little help to carry it just a little further.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] First Solo [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] FIRST SOLO [/underlined]
I drank some more beer and said to Connie, “The trouble with Shep is that he’s far too damned opinionated, and what’s much worse, he’s far too often right. You just can’t knock him down, can you?”
Afetr [sic] several pints in the White Hart I was feeling less in control than I might have been, but having given vent to that penetrating observation I felt quite foolishly and inordinately pleased with myself. Connie, who had also had several, perhaps for different reasons, looked at me a trifle owlishly.
“I say, Yoicks,” he said, slurring just a little, “that’s rather good. You’re dead right.”
“If you don’t mind, Connie,” I said, “I’d rather you didn’t use that word.”
“What word? What have I said?”
“Dead,” I replied.
At the time, Connie and I were busy settling into our new routine in ‘X’ Flight of the O.T.U. at Moreton-in-the-Marsh. The powers-that-be had decided that there were too many pilots in Ferry Flight just across the way, and not enough utility pilots in ‘X’ Flight. Squadron Leader ---, with barely disguised joy, had promptly nominated me for transfer. And perhaps because he knew Connie and I were close friends, he had selected him to accompany me.
“Utility” was the word for it. We flew Wellingtons on fighter affiliation exercises and on air-to-air gunnery, one pilot and a kite full of A.G.s who took it in turns to man the turrets. Fighter affiliation was by common accord reckoned to be gen stuff, that is, approximating to the real thing – mock attacks by the ‘X’ Flight Defiant, convincingly hurled around the sky by Cliff, at which the gunners “fired” their camera-guns. But the air-to-air lark, I always thought, was of very doubtful value. Our Lysander flew straight and level, towing on a cautiously long cable, a canvas drogue, at which the gunners fired live ammo. with prodigal enthusiasm. Doubtful value? I might have said “pointless” instead. How many Me109s or 110s obligingly flew alongside you at a convenient distance and invited
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you to have a shot at them? It was damn noisy, too, with both your turrets blazing away, and the smell of cordite lingered on your battledress for days.
Most of the time the Defiant or the Lysander, whichever was in action, was flown by Cliff. He was tallish, lean, dark-haired and casual, a Canadian Flight Sergeant, but a man who might have stepped straight out of a Western film. Like Connie, he too was entering the last few months of his life. Cliff, the casual, was soon to be killed over Hamburg in his Pathfinder Lancaster.
The other occasional pilot on the two single-engined kites was Hank, an American, a Flying Officer in the R.A.F., also casual and easy-going, but suave, where Cliff was slightly flinty. The two were inseparable, if only as inveterate gamblers. I learned a lot about the gentle art of shooting craps from Cliff and Hank. On days when there was no flying, when Bill, Connie and I would be lecturing the O.T.U. pupils on Flying Control systems, emergency procedures, dinghy drill and airfield lighting and also, in my case, on the layout of the multifarious internal fittings of the Wellington, Cliff and Hank would retire to a quiet corner of the hangar. Gambling was strictly prohibited by the R.A.F., of course, but the rattle of dice would faintly be heard, punctuated by urgent cries of “Box cars!” “Baby needs new shoes!” or “Two little rows of rabbit-shit!” Money was never seen to change hands, but now and again it was apparent, from the obvious tension which was building up between them, that the stakes were high.
Our happy little Flight was genially run by an Irish Flight Lieutenant named Bill. Bill was the very antithises [sic] of Squadron Leader --- whom I’d just left behind. He was a tall, gangling, rather awkward-looking pilot who affected a slightly vague nonchalance about life in general. One of his endearing little foibles was that he seldom, if ever, referred to an aircraft by its proper name. It was commonplace that all Wellingtons were Wimpies, and fairly common that Lysanders were Lizzies, but he extended these nicknames by referring to our Defiant as a Deefy.
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I sat in on his introductory lecture to a new Course, a dummy run for me before I took over the conducting of the wedding ceremony of sprog crews to the Wimpy. They had all come off Oxfords and it was a bit awe-inspiring at first to be confronted by the size and complexity of the Wellington at close quarters. Bill’s opening remarks were memorable. He lurched up on to the dais, which was, in our hangar, alongside a complete Wellington fuselage, stripped of its fabric, and also near a separate cockpit taken from another kite. He looked slowly around the faces in front of him, as though surprised to find himself there at all, then lit a cigarette, exhaled, beamed happily at our new charges, coughed softly, and in an unbelievably broad Ulster accent uttered the following pearl of wisdom and deep scientific truth.
“Well, now. This here – this here is a Wimpy, and –“ patting a mainplane as one would a favourite dog, and lowering his voice confidentially as he leaned forward earnestly towards them – “these are the wings. Now you’ll be wondering what keeps them on. But don’t you be worrying yourselves about that, ‘cos it’s ahll [sic] ahrganised.” [sic]
After that, he had our pupils in the hollow of his hand; they adored him, as we all did. Dear old Bill. Old? He was about twenty three.
Bill, Hank, Cliff, Connie and me. A nice mixture; one Northern Irishman, one American, a Canadian and two Englishmen. Then into our happy little world stepped a newcomer. Shep. Correction – he did not step, he never stepped. He would barge, blunder, or he would push, but step? No. However, he arrived, all right. That was the system all over. ‘X’ Flight had needed two pilots, so it got three. Shep was a stocky, powerful little Yorkshireman, darkish hair thinning a bit, snub-nosed, built like a prop forward and always with a challenging look shining from his eyes, as though to tell the world, “I’m only five foot six but don’t let that fool you, I’m little and good and I’m worth two of you.” In his manner of speaking he was blunt and earthy to the point of rudeness, but almost everything he said was accompanied by that challenging look and a grin, which took the edge off most of his outrageous remarks. While none of us, except perhaps Bill, were saints as regards our language, which was, when circumstances demanded it, bespattered with words we wouldn’t normally use in mixed
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company, not to mention the odd spot of blasphemy, Shep’s outpourings were liberally garnished with a single oath, namely, “bloody”, which, at times, he rather over-used, I’m afraid.
Like Connie, he had been on Stirlings in 3 Group, or rather, “them bloody Stirlin’s” and, of course, when he realised that he and Connie had that in common he attached himself firmly to the two of us. So our placid little duo became a slightly turbulent trio. Express an opinion which didn’t match Shep’s and, “Ah’m tellin’ you, you’re bloody wrong. Now listen ‘ere – “ and one would be corrected in no uncertain way.
On an occasion when flying was scrubbed for a couple of days due to bad weather, we found ourselves in the city of Oxford. We had a meal, and we also had several beers. When it came to the time to go for the train back to Moreton it was growing dusk and it became necessary to find our slightly alcoholic way from an unfamiliar side street to the railway station. There developed a slight divergence of opinion as to the correct course to steer; Connie and I were all for heading in a certain direction, but not so Shep. Oh, no.
“It’s not that bloody way, Ah’m tellin’ you, Ah’m bloody sure we passed that big buildin’ over there when we came in.”
Meekly, we followed him. And arrived at the railway station in a few minutes. That was Shep all over. A trip to Stratford-on-Avon followed, one Sunday, and we were regaled with a lecture on bloody Shakespeare, and also bloody Ann Hathaway. The trouble was that Connie and I were both reasonably ignorant about Shakespeare and all his works and couldn’t contradict, or even argue with Shep. It was a trifle frustrating, to say the least, at times.
I seem to recall that it was my idea in the first instance, to have a bash at the single-engined kites which we owned. I had been up with a crowd of gunners on fighter affil., no evasive action, of course, to give them practice in getting the Defiant in their sights long enough to get a picture of it. It was simply a question of flying a straight-line track along the line of the range for about forty miles and back again, while all the gunners had a shot. To be honest, it was pretty damn boring, except when one of the pupils,
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despite all my previous entreaties and warnings, would clumsily heave himself in or out of the rear turret and give the undoubtedly adjacent and awkwardly placed main elevator control shaft a hearty push or shove, whereupon we were all hurled up to the roof or on to the floor amid a torrent of curses, depending on whether the kite was forced suddenly into a climb or a dive. It broke the grinding monotony of straight and level flight, though, and once back into the correct attitude everyone had a good laugh about it, including me. Needless to say, the exercise was conducted at a very respectable altitude to allow for such eventualities, and also to give Cliff free rein to throw the Deefy around with considerable abandon.
I was stooging along at about six thousand feet on a day of pleasant sunshine while all this was going on around me, watching Cliff out of the corner of my eye as he screamed across and down beyond my starboard wingtip in a near-vertical bank which he would then convert into a steep turn and a rocket-like climb, before coming in at me again from some new angle. I was thinking that it was pretty to watch, and that he should have been a fighter boy. I thought also that I might well have been one, too, had I not had two early love-affairs, a distant one with the Wellington across the field at Sywell, the other with Betty who had suffered under the German bombing of her home town. But the germ of an idea was growing as the morning progressed and as I day-dreamed, holding the Wimpy on course over the placid Gloucestershire landscape while the white puffs of cumulus drifted lazily by on their summer way.
When I’d finally finished the detail and landed back at Moreton I disgorged my crew of gunners and wandered into Bill’s office. He was sitting there doing his best to look like Lon Chaney on one of his off-days.
“Hello, Bill,” I said, “have you got a minute?”
“Sure, Junior, me boy,” he replied, “and what would be on your mind, now?”
“Well, it’s like this,” I said thoughtfully, “I’ve been watching Hank and Cliff having all the fun chucking the Deefy and the Lizzie about –“ he had me doing it by this time – “ – and I was thinking I’d like to have a bash on them, too. I did my S.F.T.S. on Harvards,
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you know.”
“Did you now?” he answered thoughtfully, “well, well, let’s see.”
He lowered his voice confidentially and looked around conspiratorially. He pretended to be watching a Wimpy on the circuit.
“As a matter of fact,” he said quietly, “a little bird tells me that Hank might be leaving us soon.”
“Oh?” I said, not wanting to appear to be too inquisitive, and waited for him to go on.
“Yes,” he said, “apparently the Chief Instructor came across him and Cliffy rolling the bones in a quiet corner, and poor old Hank, him being the senior and an Officer and all, is going to be sent to the place where they send naughty boys.”
“But what a bloody stupid waste,” I exclaimed, “Hank’s a damn fine pilot. He goes and sticks his neck right out, volunteers for the R.A.F. when he had no need to, being a Yank, and just because he rolls a couple of dice they’re going to kick him up the backside. It seems damned childish to me.”
“Oh, he won’t be grounded for good, or anything like that, he’ll just do drill and P.T. and parades and so forth for a couple of weeks, then they’ll send him back on flying, somewhere. Anyhow, the point is, I could use another pilot or two for the Deefy and the Lizzie, so you and Connie and Shep might as well have a go. It wouldn’t be fair on them if I said O.K. to you and not to the other two.”
“No, of course not,” I said.
“There’s no dual controls, you realise that, don’t you, Junior? You’ll have to pick it up from a ride or two in the back seat and read up the Pilot’s Notes a bit.”
“I’ve already been genning up on them,” I grinned, “I think I know where all the taps are, it’s just a question of getting the feel of the things.”
“You crafty so-and-so,” Bill said, smiling. “O.K., then, you fix it all up with Cliffy and I’ll have a word with the other two. H’m. Is that the time? Neither of us are flying this afternoon, so how about a quick noggin before lunch?”
“Sound suggestion, Bill,” I said.
We walked up to the Mess together; I was feeling slightly excited at the thought of getting a couple of new types in my log-book. I suppose I liked the challenge.
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It was strange to be sitting jammed into the four-gun turret of the Defiant while Cliff flew it around the circuit and gave me the gen.
“She’s a bit of a heavy sonofabitch,” he drawled, “but she’s got no vices if you treat her right.”
To be honest, I couldn’t see anything of what went on in the cockpit in front of me, all I could do was to form some idea of the distances on the circuit, where to start reducing speed and where to put the wheels and flaps down, and to watch the landing attitude, of course. He did a couple of circuits and bumps for me and that was all we had time for on that session.
Soon afterwards, he gave me a ride in the Lysander. That was quite an entertaining experience. It was an ugly-looking parasol-wing kite with a big, chattery radial engine, wonderful visibility due to the high wing, a fixed undercart and ultra-short take-off and landing runs. It was fitted with God knows what in the way of trick slots and flaps. Take-off was incredible, it made me want to laugh out loud.
“The important thing,” said Cliff as we stood ticking over, ready to roll, “is to make sure you’ve got your elevator trim central for take-off – this wheel right here.”
I leaned over his shoulder and looked at the aluminium wheel down below his left elbow. It was the size of a small, thick dinner-plate, with a bright red mark painted across the rim as a datum.
“If you don’t have that centralised, like it is now, you’ll try to loop as soon as she gets airborne, then we’ll be having a whip-round for a goddam wreath for you. So watch it, bud.”
“O.K., Cliff,” I said, “I’ve got you.”
“Let’s go, then, eh?” he said, and opened the throttle. We seemed to be airborne in about fifty yards and climbed like a lift in a hurry. The runway simply dropped away below us. Compared to the Wellington’s take-off it was simply unbelievable.
“Hell’s teeth!” I said, “She really wants to go, doesn’t she?”
“Sure does,” he replied happily.
Landing was equally impressive. It seemed you just closed the throttle and the Lizzie did the rest. She was designed for Army
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co-operation duties, to land in any small, flat field. And, of course, they were used extensively for the cloak-and-dagger stuff, putting in our agents to western Europe by night and picking up others, all by the light of the moon and a couple of hand torches: that must have been quite something.
Cliff turned into wind.
“No undercart to worry about,” he called.
Suddenly there was an almighty ‘clonk’ and I almost snapped the safety harness as I jumped involuntarily.
“What the hell was that?” I asked.
“No danger, just the slots popping out at low speed. Now see, I’ve got the elevator trim wound right back. Get it?”
“O.K.,” I said, “Got it.”
We lowered ourselves down on to the runway and rumbled to a halt in a few yards.
“Bloody marvellous!” I exclaimed, “some kite, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” said Cliff as we taxied in, “I wouldn’t mind one of these babies for myself, to take back home.”
“No trouble at all,” I replied, “they’ll be two a penny after the war, and with all the cash you’ve won at craps you’ll be able to afford a fleet of them.”
He laughed.
“Aw, well, we’ll have to see, when the time comes,” he said.
The time never came, of course.
You can guess who organised himself the first solo. You’re right, it was Shep.
“Ah’m flyin’ the bloody Lizzie in ten minutes,” he announced loudly, one day soon after, bustling into the hangar and crashing open his locker door.
“How’d you fix that?” Connie asked.
“Ah, well, Ah’m the best bloody pilot around here so Bill said it was only right Ah should have first bloody crack before either of you clumsy buggers bent it.”
“Get the Line-Book out!” I shouted, “Just listen to that – best pilot? You’re just a ham-fisted bus driver, you four-engined types are all alike!”
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“Steady on, Yoicks,” Connie said, “don’t include us all in that.”
“Well, some of you are ham-fisted,” I said. “Anyhow, let’s go and witness this demonstration of immaculate, text-book flying by our modest friend here.”
Shep grinned and slung his chute over his shoulder, then the three of us wandered down to the peri. track where our Lizzie was standing on the grass, looking quite docile and waiting for her pilot. Shep buckled his chute straps into the harness quick-release box, pulled on his helmet and heaved himself into the cockpit. Connie and I lit cigarettes while he started her up, ran up the engine and taxied out for take-off.
“When are you going to have a shot?” Connie asked.
“Tomorrow, in the Lizzie,” I replied, “I’m quite looking forward to it.”
Shep was ready for take-off. He opened her up and the bright yellow Lysander quivered and tolled, then she was airborne, climbing steeply and joyously. He took her nicely around the circuit, a much smaller one than the Wellington’s, of course. Connie and I watched critically, smoking and chatting. As he was on his landing approach Bill drifted along.
“How’s he doing?” he asked.
“Bang on,” I said, “just coming in now.”
Shep landed and taxied round to the start of the runway again. He had done all right, we agreed. No reason why I shouldn’t, too, I thought. Hurry up, tomorrow.
He stopped to let a Wimpy take off. The contrast was grotesque, the bomber using most of the runway and climbing very shallowly away over the trees as it tucked its wheels up, leaving behind it a blur of oily, brownish-black smoke.
Shep moved on to the runway into position for takeoff. It was a lovely afternoon, hardly any wind, a few puffs of cumulus at about four thousand feet. There was a slight haze over the low hills beyond the railway station. We heard him open her up and she rolled. He’d hardly got the tail up before he was airborne, nose-high. Then he was climbing steeply, the engine howling, the kite hanging on its prop.
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“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Bill said, very distinctly, next to me. I simply stopped breathing and watched. We were going to see Shep die in front of our eyes and were completely unable to do a thing to help him. Then, at the moment when it seemed he would inevitably stall and crash into the middle of the aerodrome from less than a hundred feet, he somehow got the nose down, and as he did so, painfully raised the starboard wing. The crazy, fatal climb changed slowly, so terribly slowly, into a steep turn to port. Shep was in a series of tight turns, at full throttle, right over the centre of the runway at about fifty feet. Gradually, the turns slackened, the note of the screaming engine eased. He flew over us, very low, still turning to port, but now more or less in control, obviously winding the trimmer frantically forward.
“Bloody hell!” Connie gasped, “I thought he’d had it that time.” I could only gulp and nod. I felt for a cigarette with hands which were shaking so much I could hardly open the case. My knees felt like water. Bill sighed and said quietly, “I’m afraid he didn’t do his cockpit drill. He forgot the elevator trim.”
We said nothing, but watched as Shep came in to land.
“Let’s go,” Bill said.
We went back to the Flight Office. Five minutes later Shep bustled in, a bit red in the face. He dumped his chute and helmet on to a chair.
“Bloody Lizzies!” he exploded wrathfully, “that bloody trimmer wants modifying, it’s a bloody menace!”
We could only look at one another in silence and amazement. Surely he would admit to being in the wrong, just this once?
Next day, Bill called for Connie and I and silently handed us a memo from the Chief Instructor.
“With immediate effect,” it said, “Lysander and Defiant aircraft of ‘X’ Flight will be flown only by the following personnel.
F/L W. McCaughan,
F/O H. Ross,
F/Sgt C. Shnier.”
Bill, Hank and Cliff. I handed the memo back to Bill.
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“Yes, Bill,” I said, “O.K., fair enough.”
So we flew Wimpies up and down the range and liked it, and we watched Cliff hurling the Defiant into gloriously abandoned manoeuvres in the late summer sky while we flew straight and level. And we gritted our teeth, and we liked it. But now and again I had a sneaking little thought – I wondered what would have happened if that had been me up there instead of Shep. Would I still be bouncing around, like he still was, or …..?
I know, of course, what became of poor Connie, and every year on the anniversary of the day it happened, I visit him where he lies. What happened to Shep, I don’t know, but I’m prepared to bet that whatever it was, he would have had the last word, or, as he would put it, the last bloody word. But really, he wasn’t such a bad bloke. As I said to Connie, you just couldn’t knock him down, that was all.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] The pepper pot [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] THE PEPPER POT [/underlined]
It must have been a surprise to Connie as, just when we were about to climb up the ladder into the Wimpy one fine morning, he saw me fold into a heap at his feet. I can’t say it was much of a surprise to me, I hadn’t been feeling too brilliant for some time before that.
Things then moved very quickly. The M.O. saw me and whipped me off to London for a medical board, where I was told quite pleasantly that my flying days were over as far as the Royal Air Force was concerned, and I was asked what I would like to do. No promises, of course. I said, “Intelligence, in Bomber Command.” That seemed to them a reasonable idea, as far as I could make out.
Then followed several completely idle weeks in Brighton in mid-winter, waiting to see what was going to happen to me. My days’ work consisted of reporting to the Adjutant in the Metropole at nine a.m., asking, “Anything for me?” being told, “No”, and that was it until next morning, when the routine was repeated. I was billeted in a little hotel on King’s Road, facing the sea, with three or four other R.A.F. types and one or two R.A.A.F types. There were a few civilians there, too, among them the comedian Max Miller, who, off-stage seemed to me to be distinctly un-funny, if not downright anti-social.
I made friends with a couple of other pilots, Aussies, John Alexander and Don Benn, who were on their way home. Don had crashed in a Beaufighter and injured his legs – his M.O. had said he should play some golf to strengthen them. As he had been a stockman in outback Queensland, the idea of his playing golf was rather amusing both to him and to me. But, as an utter tyro myself, I agreed to go around the lovely course, up on the Downs near Rottingdean, with him. At night, John and I would paint the town red in a mild sort of way, sometimes exercising the legs of the local police force. I caught a glimpse, one day, of Hank Ross, doing penance, marching in a squad of aircrew types along the front. It depressed me greatly. Hank looked desperately unhappy. I waved to him and he acknowledged
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me with only a sad little smile. I thought that if he had waved back, he would probably have been sent to the Tower. It still seemed desperately unjust. I never saw Hank again.
Eventually my course came through, to an Intelligence training centre in a big old house in Highgate. Some fairly hush-hush stuff went on there and we were forbidden to talk to anyone who wasn’t on our own course of about twenty. But one evening, in the anteroom, I was delighted and amazed to see dear old Tim, and made a bee-line for him, rules or no rules. We chatted for a few minutes until someone intervened. Next day I was kept behind after a lecture and given a severe reprimand, and although I saw Tim several times after that, I never spoke to him again while we were there. Not until we met, at Niagara Falls, almost fifty years later – two survivors.
During this time, Alan was called up for training amd [sic] I discovered he had reported to an Aircrew Reception Centre at St. John’s Wood. We met for half a day, had a long talk, a visit to the flicks and a meal at a strange and deserted Greek restaurant somewhere near Covent Garden.
The end of March found me posted as an Intelligence Officer to Linton-on-Ouse, where there were two Halifax Squadrons, one commanded, as I discovered when I arrived, by Wing Commander Leonard Cheshire. Soon afterwards, the Canadians were about to take over Linton and I accompanied one of the Squadrons to Holme-on-Spalding-Moor, in east Yorkshire. After a couple of weeks there, the S.I.O. decided that they were rather short-handed at the satellite Station, Breighton, where the other Squadron from Linton had settled in. So there, among the farm buildings of the nondescript but not unpleasant hamlet of Breighton, I put down roots for a few months. And there I met J - .
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I was pinning up the bombing photos of the previous night’s raid when I noticed he was there again. the Intelligence Library, no matter how we tried to dress it up, was never all that well-populated, and that morning was no exception. The photos usually drew a few
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interested crew members, Tee Emm was invariably popular, but the other stuff was really a bit on the dull side. There wasn’t, for example, a tremendous rush for the Bomber Command Intelligence Digest. Most of the crews, anyhow, were sleeping off last night’s trip, or last night’s session in the local, whichever was applicable.
This little gunner, though, I had seen him in there several times before, always at the same table near the door. It made me wonder. I suppose it was rather obtuse of me not to have cottoned, especially in view of my own feelings about J - . Anyhow, when I had put up the photos I went over to him, more out of curiosity than anything.
“Hello,” I said to him, “did you want something?”
He hesitated, then said, “I suppose – “
“Yes?”
“I suppose Sergeant S – isn’t on duty, is she?
I saw it all, then. One of our W.A.A.F. Watchkeepers, Billie S – was very much sought after for dates, and, it must be admitted, slightly blasé about the whole business. Rumour had it she was the daughter of a fairly high-ranking Army Officer in the Middle East. She was an extremely pleasant girl, blue-eyed, blonde and very nicely shaped, with a calm, almost angelic manner and a vibrant, husky voice which could send the odd shiver up your spine when she used it in conjunction with those big blue eyes of hers. But not my type. Now J - , one of the other two Watchkeepers, she was a different matter entirely. I had the feeling I was going to like Breighton very much indeed, even though I’d only been there just over a week.
“Sergeant S - ?” I said to him, “do you want to see her?”
(Bloody silly question, I thought, of course he did.)
“Well, if I could, just for a minute, if it’s no trouble.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I went back into the Ops. Room. Billie was purring at someone on the telephone and even then, unconsciously using her china-blue eyes expressively. Apart from her, there was only Margaret, one of the Int. Clerks, writing industriously. Billie hung up finally. I said, “Billie, there’s a gunner in the Int. Library would like
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a word with you.”
She wrinkled her nose just a little and said, “who is it, sir? Not that Sergeant P - ?”
“Don’t know his name,” I replied, “smallish chap, though, in Sergeant – ‘s crew, if I remember rightly.”
“Yes, that sounds like him, Johnny P - ,” she answered, with a faint sigh. She shrugged her shoulders and with a lift of her immaculately plucked eyebrows she said, “Would you mind, very much, sir?”
She sounded resigned.
“No, you go right ahead,” I said with a grin, “mind he doesn’t chew your ears off, though.”
She laughed quietly and went out, smoothing down her skirt over her hips as she went. Margaret was smiling quietly to herself and I cleared my throat rather noisily and started to sort out a pile of new target maps, mostly of Hamburg, I noticed. My tea had gone cold and I cursed it. Margaret looked up and laughed.
“Shall I get you some more, sir?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Margaret, there’s a dear.”
She went out into the little store-room-cum-kitchen between the Ops. Room and the Int. Library, which we had been told recently to empty as far as possible. This had intrigued us greatly, but we asked no questions.
Billie came back, patting her blonde hair and looking a little flushed.
“Well,” I said, “have you been fighting like a tigress for your honour?”
“Oh, nothing like that, sir,” she replied with a smile, and left it at that, which was fair enough. Nothing at all to do with me, really. Margaret came back with teas all round. The war could continue. Billie got behind her switchboard, handed me a cigarette and did her usual pocket-emptying routine in search of a comb or a lipstick or something, as I lit her cigarette. The stuff that girl carried around with her.
The moon period came around and there weren’t any ops for a few days. Funny to think that when I had been operating a full moon was popularly known as a “bombers’ moon”. Now it was shunned as
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being too helpful to the German night-fighters. We more or less caught up with the outstanding stuff; the Watchkeepers got the S.D. 300 slap up to date and Pam spent a bit of time in the Library putting up some new stuff on the notice boards and going over some bomb-plots with the crews from the photos they had come back with. She mentioned casually that one of the gunners seemed to be spending a lot of time in there. I merely said “Oh, yes?” and looked blankly at her.
I got to know J – a little better during this time, and I knew that this was it. I was very pleased to see that she didn’t have an engagement ring on her finger. Our conversations progressed imperceptibly from one hundred per cent “shop” to a slightly more personal level. I found I was looking forward more and more to the times when she would be on duty, and I tried to fiddle it so that I was on at the same times. I also found that I was looking forward less than usual to my next leave, which would take me away from her for a week.
One afternoon, when things were quiet, I asked J – how Billie was coping with Johnny.
“Well, he’s very persistent,” she said, “he wants a date with her, but she’s doing her best to stall him off. Poor kid, what he really wants is his mother, you know.”
I nodded thoughtfully; I hadn’t seen it quite like that.
“So is Billie going to date him?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t know what she’ll decide,” J – said, “she’s tried her best to head him off, and all that, but he just shakes his head and keeps asking her to go out with him just once; what can she do?”
“Knowing Billie, I’m sure she’ll think of something,” I said, and we smiled at one another. I little suspected what in fact she was thinking of. Had I known, I would have slept less at nights than I was already doing, for various reasons.
Of course, I was thinking along the lines of asking J – for a date, too, but I was worried about rushing things. I had to pick my moment and I wasn’t sure just how to recognise when it had come. I would lie awake thinking it over, and thinking about J - , which just shows you what sort of state I was in.
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Two or three nights later I was on duty with Freda, the third of the Watchkeepers. Our aircraft had just gone off and we were relaxing a bit and wondering if we’d get any early returns. Freda had just finished phoning the captains’ names and take-off times through to Base at Holme-on-Spalding-Moor, along the road about eight miles, when the phone rang.
“It’s Billie, for you, sir,” Freda said.
“For me, Freda?”
“Yes, sir, she asked for you.”
I thought Billie must have forgotten to finish something on her last shift and wanted to square it with me, or get Freda to do it while she was on duty.
“Hello, Billie,” I said into the phone, “what’s the gen?”
“Oh, hello, sir,” came her creamy, purring voice, “can I ask you a favour?”
I still thought it was going to be something to do with work.
“Of course,” I answered blithely, little knowing that my whole life was in the process of being changed from that very second.
“Well, sir, I’ve got a date with someone tomorrow night, and to be perfectly honest about it, I’d rather make it into a foursome. So would you be willing to come along?”
“Hell’s teeth, Billie,” I said, “this is a bit of a surprise, isn’t it? But never mind, yes, O.K., you can count me in on it.”
“Oh, thank you very much, I knew you wouldn’t let me down, it’s such a load off my mind. You’re sure you’ve no objections?”
“No, of course I don’t mind, I’m game for anything,” I said brightly. “It isn’t Johnny, by any chance, is it?”
“Well, sir, as a matter of fact, it is,” she said confidentially. “I couldn’t very well get out of it and I thought it would be best if I tried to organise a foursome – the Londesborough Arms in Selby, if that’s all right with you. By the way, I’ve got some transport laid on from the W.A.A.F. guardroom to get us there, seven o’clock, assuming there’s a stand-down, of course, but we’ll have to make our own way back, so it’s bikes all round. We can push them on to the lorry to go to Selby.”
“Sounds bang-on,” I said.
Billie started to make end-of-conversation noises and was obviously about to hang up on me.
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“Just hold on a sec., Billie,” I chipped in quickly, “there’s just one small detail I’d like to get clear – who am I taking along?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that, sir,” she said airily, “I’m sure I can find someone nice for you. Thank you very much indeed.”
She put the phone down.
I lit a cigarette and drank a mug of tea thoughtfully, letting my imagination give me a pleasant few minutes until we got a call from Flying Control that we had an early return coming back. So, for the time being, at any rate, I put the thought of my blind date aside. When the main body of our aircraft came back, one of the crews I interrogated happened to be that of Johnny P - . His pilot was a chunky bloke with a staccato manner. Johnny just sat there quietly smoking and saying nothing, but looking silently into infinity, as though he’d never seen me, or his crew, before. It was a bit weird. Finally, Pam, Derek and I got the Raid Report completed and bunged it off to Holme by D.R. I got to bed about 0400.
I was awake again with just about enough time to cycle down to breakfast. It was a miserable morning, ten-tenths low cloud and raining like the clappers. But J – was on duty and the day seemed to brighten when I saw here. Pam was photo-plotting as hard as she could and I got my head down, alongside her, over the mosaic photograph, about four feet by three, of last night’s target. No-one said very much. The blackboard had been cleaned off, in readiness for the next one. The photo-plotting took a long time, there was so little ground detail on the crews’ pictures due to cloud-cover over the target. About ten-thirty we got a stand-down through; J – phoned it around to those who were concerned. Buy lunch time we’d only plotted about half a dozen photos. One thing about the Ruhr – if you missed the aiming-point you usually hit something or other in the way of a built-up area. It was a consolation.
At lunchtime the rain had eased and there were even a few breaks in the cloud to the west. Derek took over from me about two-thirty and promptly plotted one of the photos to within a couple of hundred yards of the A.P., from a sliver of ground detail you could hardly see.
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“Beginner’s luck,” I said laughingly, and went off for a sleep. I hit the mattress and knew no more for a couple of hours. When I awoke, it took me a few seconds to remember that I was going on a blind date that evening, but suddenly I felt unreasonably, unaccountably happy, swept along by a wave of well-being which had me whistling “Tuxedo Junction” and singing snatches of “Sally Brown” as I got myself spruced up and into my best blue. I don’t know why I should have felt like that; possibly as someone once said, the mood of flying men changes with the weather, and outside, I saw that the sky had cleared to a beautiful evening.
“Sally Brown is a bright mulatto,” I sang,
“Way, hey, we roll and go –
“She drinks rum and chews tobacco,
“Spend my money on Sally Brown!”
Which started me wondering, again, who my date would be. I honestly hadn’t a clue, Billie had given me no inkling whatsoever, but I trusted her implicitly not to saddle me with some worthy but plain girl who would spend the evening painfully tongue-tied and twisting her fingers together. Never mind, I thought, it’s quite a change for me and at least we might all have one or two laughs together and try to forget about ops and casualties for a couple of hours. At five to seven I was trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, twenty yards or so from the W.A.A.F. guardroom, and trying also to think up a convincing story to tell the W.A.A.F. (G) Officer if she should appear and want to know what I was doing. As I was looking at my watch for the third or fourth time I heard a soft, musical voice say, “Hello, are we each other’s date?” and there she was, there was J - , looking quite wonderful.
My heart skipped a couple of beats, I could feel myself blushing scarlet and I found I was grinning foolishly. I managed to stammer something trite, or perhaps merely stupid. Anyhow, J – laughed, and I laughed with her, more or less in relief. I felt a bridge had been crossed, or at least, built.
Everything happened pretty swiftly after that. Billie and Johnny P – cycled breathlessly up, a fifteen-hundredweight lorry with several
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assorted aircrew on board screeched to a halt, and accompanied by a chorus of piercing wolf-whistles, Johnny and I loaded the four cycles on to the lorry, helped the girls up and scrambled aboard ourselves. Loud cries of “Let’s get airborne!” and “Chocks away!” and we were off, racing over the wet roads under the trees, through the village, being thrown companionably and tightly against one another as the driver took corners at some speed, and away to Selby, the nearest town of any size.
It turned out to be rather a dingy little place, I thought, but the pub itself was clean and surprisingly quiet, no Breighton types, or indeed no uniforms at all, apart from ours, to be seen. The evening went by in a blur which was only partly due to the intake of alcohol. Billie was her usual polished and poised self and Johnny never took his eyes off her. He looked like a thirsty man approaching an oasis. Such an unremarkable little chap to look at, a mere five feet six or seven, mousy, rather untidy brown hair, slim built like we all were on wartime rations and high levels of stress, but with an infectious grin which would suddenly light up his plain features.
What J – and I talked about I cannot for the life of me remember; I was completely bowled over by the simple fact of listening to her cool, musical voice. I think we talked about books and cricket, but had we simply sat in silence, that would have ensured my complete happiness, merely to be at her side, in her charming company. Considering the rationing position, we had a very good meal in the small, half-empty dining room. I remember how spotlessly white the tablecloth was. Johnny demonstrated his talents as an amateur conjuror, palming small objects and plucking them out of our ears, and so on. We had all had two or three drinks by then and our laughter came fairly freely. He did one small, silly trick with the chromium pepper pot, holding it between his fingers and rushing it down towards the table in the representation of a bomb’s rushing it down towards the table in the representation of a bomb’s trajectory, with the accompanying piercing whistle. We all duly made “boom” noises when it hit the cloth – except that it didn’t, it was no longer to be seen.
Eventually it was time to go. We undid the locks on our cycles in the twilight of the summer evening, and by tacit agreement, split
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up into two couples. J – and I didn’t hurry, tomorrow could take care of itself and we never saw Billie and Johnny again that evening. On the way back we stopped at a field-gate by the edge of a copse and leaned our elbows on the top bar, side by side, to watch the sickle moon slowly rise. One or two aircraft droned distantly in the starry vault of the darkening sky and we followed the nav. lights of one of them until they vanished into the haze and all was silent again, except for some small animal rustling his nocturnal way through the undergrowth. We didn’t talk much, I think we were both content with the magic of the still night and with each other’s presence and new-found companionship.
As we stood there, I tentatively put my arm around her shoulders and that small overture was not repulsed. We talked about Johnny.
“Do you know any of his crew?” I asked J - .
“Some of them,” she answered, “they seem nice lads. Johnny’s lucky to have a crew like that.”
“Yes,” I said, “he is. It’s a very special sort of relationship, there’s nothing quite like it.”
She turned to look at me.
“Your own crew, do you keep in touch with them?”
So I told her. She put a hand on my arm.
“I’m dreadfully sorry, I really had no idea that had happened.”
We cycled back to Breighton. I felt a great peace stealing over me. We stopped at the now deserted road by the W.A.A.F. guardroom.
“It’s been a lovely evening,” J – said, “thank you so much for it.”
“I’m the one who should thank you,” I said, “for putting up with me.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t say that, please. Anyhow, I must go now.”
She hesitated. Her lips, when I kissed her, were cool and sweet, like dew on a rosebud.
The next morning Base Ops., in the shape of Flight Lieutenant Smith, came on the phone.
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“Is that you, Breighton?” he asked in his dried-up schoolmaster’s voice. He would seldom, if ever, call you by your own name, you were only “Breighton” to him. I sometimes wondered what he called his pupils and more especially, whether he called his wife by her surname. So I was always deliberately and exaggeratedly casual in reply to him, just to irritate him.
“Yeah, Smithy, this is the Acting Unpaid Senior Int./Ops Officer, at your service. What can I do you for?”
Smithy was not amused. He sniffed loudly.
“We’re sending you some parcels. Store them in your little kitchen place, or whatever you call it. Don’t open them. That’s important, but keep them under lock and key until you’re told what to do with them, and keep the key on your person at all times. Is that understood?”
“Cloak and dagger stuff, eh, Smithy?”
He sniffed again and went on.
“Expect them in about half an hour. They go under the name “Window.” Is that quite clear, Breighton?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.”
He rang off and I mused a little, wondering what on earth it could be that was so secret and new.
A sheeted-over lorry arrived from Holme and we started to unload the innocent-looking brown-paper parcels, the size of shoe boxes, and quite heavy, too. We all pitched in and got the lorry emptied eventually. By this time you could just about squeeze up to the sink in there to make the tea. Which one of the girls did, as we needed some by then. I dutifully locked the door on the bundles but I could see this was going to be a real bind, so we laid on tea-making facilities with the W.A.A.F.s in the telephone exchange, next to the Ops Room, and moved our few mugs and kettle and so on in with them.
When things had quietened down and I thought no-one would notice particularly, I slipped quietly in to the Window Store, as I was now mentally calling it, locked the door carefully behind me and took down one of the parcels. Very carefully I made a small slit in one corner of the wrapping paper so that it would look like accidental damage. I looked inside. There were hundreds, or perhaps thousands,
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of what seemed to be paper strips, about an inch wide and a foot or so long, matt black on one side, silvered on the other. My first thought was that they were some new form of incendiary device. I sniffed them – no smell. What on earth could they be? Was it something to dazzle the searchlights, then? In that case, why weren’t both sides shiny? I could get no further with my theorising, but as it happened I was somewhere on approximately the right lines. I carefully replaced the bundle and went back into the Ops Room, not forgetting to lock the door behind me as I left the thousands of bundles of Window. I put on an innocent expression and started to whistle “Sally Brown”.
“Quite a nice day out there,” I said. I wonder if I fooled them.
The mysterious Window wasn’t a mystery for much longer. A couple of days later we got a target through, quite early on, which was a sign that the weather was going to be settled. Hamburg. Hence all those new target maps. And when the operational gen came through, bomb load, route and timings and so on, right at the end was the magic word Window. It was to be carried by all aircraft. The number of bundles per aircraft was stated, as were the points on the route where dropping was to start and finish. The dropping height and the rate of dropping was stated, everything was laid down. Then we guessed it. It was a radar-foxing thing.
“Let’s hope it works,” we said to one another.
Derek did the briefing and I went along to listen, sensing that this might be an historic occasion. The Station Commander stood up on the platform first, and conversation stopped abruptly. He looked slowly around the blacked out briefing room in the Nissen hut. You could have heard a pin drop.
“Gentlemen,” he said, very slowly and quietly, “the intention of tonight’s operation is to destroy the city of Hamburg.”
The silence was so intense you could almost feel it. He went on to say that they would be carrying a new device which would save us many casualties if it was used strictly in accordance with instructions, and he told them about Window, which was designed to swamp the enemy radar screens with hundreds of false echoes, each one looking like a four-engined bomber.
Well, as far as Breighton was concerned, it worked like a charm that night. When the crews came back, and the Squadron’s all did,
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they were highly elated about the results of the attack and the lack of opposition. Few fighters had been sighted, flak was wildly inaccurate and spasmodic and the searchlights were completely disorganised and erratic. The photographs proved their elation was well-founded.
Three days later it was Hamburg again, and my turn to brief them. I caught a glimpse of Johnny, sitting about three rows back, still with that distant look on his face, as though this had nothing to do with him. I mentioned this to J – when we met on night duty, the first time I had seen her since the night we had gone to Selby.
“I’ve noticed it, too,” she said, “I don’t know what it is with him. Maybe it’s because of Billie, of course, he’s absolutely overboard for her. She’s changed too, she’s gone much quieter than she was.”
“Yes, I’d noticed that,” I said, “funny what love does to you, isn’t it?”
I gave J – a sideways look. She had coloured just a little, but smiled and said nothing. We were in the lull before take-off time. We talked about the possible effects of Window on this second raid on Hamburg. We did not know it at the time, of course, but this night was to be known as the night of the fire-storm, when hurricane-force winds, caused by the immense uprush of air from the fires, were to sweep their flame-saturated way through the city, even uprooting trees which had stood in their path. And there were still two further raids to come in the next week, plus an American daylight attack thrown in for good measure.
“Did you notice the bomb-load was almost all incendiaries?” I asked J - .
“Yes, I did,” she replied, “I wouldn’t be in Hamburg tonight for all the tea in China; imagine, almost eight hundred aircraft with full loads of incendiaries.”
“Make them think a bit,” I said. “You know, J - , what I can’t understand is why they just don’t give in now, surrender while they’ve still got some towns which are fit to live in; it’s quite obvious that we’re just going to work our way through the list one by one and flatten all his cities – I can’t think why he will just allow this to happen.”
We talked, smoked and drank tea far into the night. When they came back, the crews’ elation was now tinged with awe. No-one had
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ever seen such tremendous fires, “a sea of flame” was a common description by the crews, with a smoke pall towering to above twenty thousand feet; you could smell it in the aircraft, some said.
It was either on one of the big Hamburg raids or very soon afterwards that Johnny P – ‘s crew did not come back. I have to admit, in shame, that they were, as far as my feelings were concerned, just one of the many that we lost – all good, brave lads, but now almost anonymous in their terrible numbers, like the headstones in a war-graves cemetery seen from a distance. I knew only few of them personally; when it happened, I felt the pang of the loss, but the impact was not so great, God forgive me, as that of the loss of a crew on my own Squadron, of men whom I had been flying alongside, or with. Perhaps there is a limit to the sorrow one can truly absorb and bear, perhaps a saturation point is reached when the loss of men becomes a ghastly normality, where the mind begins to accept it as part of the natural order of things. But later – then it will suddenly all strike home in some unguarded moment, with full savage impact, as it has done, many times since.
When the last crew had been interrogated the night that Johnny went missing I saw Billie standing to one side, pale as chalk, gazing wordlessly at the faces around her, waiting for Johnny, who would never bother her again. I went over to her and touched her shoulder.
“Try to get some sleep, Billie,” I said, “he may have landed away, you know.”
It was all I could say. She nodded miserably.
She was on duty next morning, when we started the photo-plotting, tense, deadly pale, her eyes haunted by heaven knows what dreadful visions. I had given her a cigarette and taken one myself when the clerk handed me something or other and distracted my efforts to produce my lighter. Billie said quietly, “I’ll get mine,” and, typically, dumped a load of stuff from her pocket on to the desk. It wasn’t a lighter which she’d got out, though, it was a chromium pepper pot. I froze. She clapped a handkerchief to her mouth and rushed blindly out of the Ops Room as we sat silent and motionless.
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Later that day I met J – outside the village church.
“Shall we go inside?” she said.
We stepped into the dimness of the nave. My mind was still on Johnny.
“The way he looked,” I said softly to J - , “do you think perhaps he knew?”
“Perhaps,” she said, “perhaps he did.”
It was cool and quiet in there. J – knelt in a pew and bowed her head; I knelt alongside her so that our sleeves touched. Somehow, I felt I needed that nearness of her. A Prayer Book was at each place; there was just enough light left to read. I opened the book and came upon Psalm 91.
“Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night: nor for the arrow that flieth by day. A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.”
J – ‘s face was calm, next to me, as I thought of Johnny, and of all the others. After a while I closed the book and slowly stood up. I took J – gently by the hand and we walked out, shutting the heavy oak door behind us, into the dim, evening green-ness of the churchyard and the faraway sound of engines in the summer twilight, as the first stars were beginning to appear.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Approach and Landing. [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] APPROACH AND LANDING [/underlined]
With the inevitablity [sic] of an experience of déja vu, it unrolled itself with preordained certainty in my dream, as completely familiar as the action of a film one has seen often before, slowly remembering it in all its detail, and on waking and thinking afresh about it, I realised with some surprise that I had never written about, or even spoken to anyone about this particular event – since the time that J – and I talked about it, that is – one which both at the time it happened and since that time, I had always privately marvelled – and shuddered at what might have been.
At night in the Ops. Room at Breighton, once 78 Squadron’s Halifaxes had taken off there was little to do for whoever was on duty. Normally there was one Int./Ops. Officer – that is, Pam, Derek or myself – one duty Watchkeeper, a W.A.A.F. Sergeant, Billie, Freda or J - , and an Ops. Clerk. There was time to catch up on all sorts of things which of necessity had to be shelved during the process of assisting perhaps twenty or so aircraft to take off, adequately prepared and correctly informed, to bomb some target in the Third Reich. There was, naturally, time to chat, time to drink tea and to smoke endless cigarettes while the hours crawled by until the tension of the time of the first aircraft due into the circuit approached. And when J – and I were on duty together (and I took some pains to ensure that we often were) the conversations were naturally more relaxed, more personal.
It was on one such occasion, when the names of people one had known in the Service were casually dropped into the talk like snowflakes on to a pond, to exist for an instant and then to vanish and to be almost forgotten, that one name struck a chord between us.
I mentioned F – ‘s name quite casually, as that of someone I had known well by sight but not personally, a pilot on our sister Squadron at Binbrook eighteen months before, and who was the central character in a very highly skilled but very high-risk piece of flying which I had witnessed from, literally, a grandstand seat, and which, these many years later, was the subject of my dream.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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At Binbrook, when operations were on, it was necessary to have what was termed a Despatching Officer, one who was not flying on that operation. He was provided with a light van and a driver, and was to ensure that in this van there was contained every conceivable piece of necessary equipment which any member of any crew flying on the operation was likely to find to be unserviceable or to have forgotten prior to takeoff – articles such as flying helmet, goggles, oxygen mask, intercom. leads, the various essential maps and charts, and so on. In the event of a sudden radio call from an aircraft to the Flying Control Officer on duty in the Watch Office that some such was required. The Despatching Officer would be driven rapidly to the relevant aircraft’s dispersal to deliver the required piece of equipment.
On one particular late winter’s afternoon, although both Squadrons were operating, my own crew was not among those detailed. And I was designated on the Battle Order as Despatching Officer. There was, as it happened, no call for my services and the Wellingtons started to take off, using one of the shorter runs, roughly north-west to south-east and passing within two or three hundred yards of the Watch Office. Once that I was certain that nothing was required, I went into the Watch Office and up on to the balcony to watch the aircraft taking off, bound for some target – I cannot recall which – across the North Sea.. All had left the ground and were on their way, vanishing into the evening sky to the east, when there was a call over the R/T from one of them which had just crossed the English coast. It was that piloted by F - .
One of his main undercarriage wheels, the port wheel, could not be retracted. He was climbing away with one wheel locked into the ‘up’ position and one which would not join it. Apparently he could neither retract the wheel which was locked down nor lower again the wheel that was retracted. He was carrying a 4000 lb. High Capacity blast bomb, irreverently and casually known to us as a ‘Cookie’. His Commanding Officer, watching take-off from the Watch Office, called him up on the R/T and ordered him to jettison the Cookie into the North Sea, then to return to the aerodrome to attempt what would have been, in any case, a fairly hazardous
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landing with a full petrol load. But it was the only possible and sensible procedure in these unfortunate and unhappy circumstances.
But F – was very much his own man. I knew him, from a distance, almost as the reincarnation of a cavalier of King Charles’ day, dark, good looking, dashing, individualistic, the complete extrovert. He might well have served as the model for Frans Hals’ “The Laughing Cavalier”. He replied – to his C.O., mark you – that he intended to bring his bomb back with him. Then, apparently, Wing Commander K - , his C.O. and he exchanged words and observations of some sort. But F - , literally in the driving seat, was adamant and persuasive enough to have his way. We waited rather breathlessly for what might transpire, as well as what his C.O. might say to him, should he, in fact manage to return safely.
After a short while, all the aircraft operating having cleared the area, we heard the note of F – ‘s Twin Wasp engines, as noisy as four Harvards, which is saying something. He appeared on the circuit, a grotesque and unsettling sight. To those of us who have flown aircraft, especially Wellingtons, it is an almost unconscious reaction on seeing any aircraft in the air, to project oneself, as it were, into the cockpit, holding the controls, glancing at the blind-flying panel’s telltale instruments, and in this case, in F – ‘s case, seeing the wretched sight of one green light and two reds in the trio of small undercarriage warning light on the dashboard.
There were now five or six of us on the Watch Office balcony and we watched tensely as F – steadily made his circuit and, throttling back, commenced his final approach. His particular aircraft, in common with a few on both Squadrons’ strengths, had been modified to carry a ‘cookie’, which was essentially a railway locomotive boiler, thin-skinned and packed with high explosive. The bomb was too deep to be accommodated in the normal Wellington bomb-bay, so the modification consisted in suspending it in a rectangular hole like an upturned, lidless coffin without bomb-doors, in the underside of the aircraft. And the bomb was by no means flush with the aircraft’s belly, it protruded, throughout its entire length, by several inches, horrifyingly open to flak, machine gun bullets, cannon-shells – or a belly landing. The sensitivity of the weapon was legendary, the name “blockbuster” applied
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to it by the press was completely apposite.
So F – made his approach, one wheel up, one down, a grotesque and unpleasant sight, the cookie protruding ominously. Why we stood there watching, goodness only knows. Perhaps we were simply too fascinated to move or perhaps we were quite unthinking as to what the outcome might be, should there be an accident, a bad landing, and the cookie were to explode. If that had been the case, I would not be writing this. Or perhaps we were just plain stupid or reckless not to have sought cover.
The aircraft slowly slid down its final approach in the quickly-fading daylight. We watched and waited, almost holding our breath. I remember lighting a cigarette with a hand which was not altogether steady. Then, holding the starboard wing over the ‘missing’ wheel well up, F – touched down, it must have been lightly, on the port wheel only, the engines throttled back to a tick-over. Miraculously, he kept the aircraft straight. We hardly dared look at the protruding cookie. As the Wellington slowed the starboard wing slowly drooped, and finally, at the end of the aircraft’s run, the wing finally scraped the runway, the Wellington slewed around through ninety degrees to starboard and came to a lopsided rest. The fire tender and ‘blood wagon’ raced up, but neither, thankfully, were needed.
It would be trite to say that we breathed again but I am sure that there were some of us who in the final seconds of the touch-down and landing run were actually holding our breath. We stood there, the small group of us, on the balcony, potentially exposed to what would have been a blast-wave of killing proportions not only for us, but for many quite far distant from the runway. Perhaps the fact that we stayed to watch was even due a degree of professional interest in the expertise of one of our peers. But the visual memory of F – ‘s landing that evening has remained with me as something at which to marvel.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“Oh! Did you know F - , then?” J – asked, that night in the quiet Ops. Room at Breighton.
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“Only by sight” I replied, then I told her about the landing.
“I will never forget that, I assure you. You knew him, too, then?” I added. J – nodded.
“Oh yes, who didn’t? He was quite a character, wasn’t he?”
“’Was’?”
“Yes. Perhaps you didn’t know he had been killed at --- .” She named an aerodrome not too far distant.
Apparently F – had taken off on a non-operational flight. On board was also an A.T.A. girl pilot and the aircraft had, for some unknown reason, crashed, killing everyone on board. J – mentioned that there was a certain theory concerning something which might have been a contributory factor to the tragedy. I will not set down here what that theory was. But I shall continue to remember F – as I knew him at Binbrook, debonair, dashing, cavalier-like and above all, just that bit larger than life, and possessed of flying skills to which few of us could ever hope to aspire.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Knight’s move [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] KNIGHT’S MOVE [/underlined]
“One sang in the evening
Before the light was gone:
And the earth was lush with plenty
Where the sun shone.
The sound in the twilight
Went: and the earth all thin
Leans to a wind of winter,
The sun gone in.
One song the less to sing
And a singer less
Who sleeps all in the lush of plenty
And summer dress.”
“Casualty”
from “Selected Poems” by
Squadron Leader John Pudney.
Once I had seen the hangar, intact, black and huge, just over the hedge as I rounded the bend of the lane, everything seemed to fall into place, even after so many years.
Everything, except, of course, that J – was gone. I shut my eyes for a moment and forced my thoughts away from her. God knew what became of Pam, and as for Derek, I never heard of him for years after I left Breighton. But now I had, for the first time, come back. Seeking what? I could find no answer to that in my mind, except that I had obeyed some inner compulsion to revisit the place and that somehow it seemed to bring me some peace and calm of spirit to be back there amid the quiet hedges, the ruined buildings, the memories, and the silent, empty sky, where among so many losses I had, with deep feelings of the unique guilt of the survivor, found
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my personal happiness when so many had lost everything, for ever.
I walked down the empty road in the warm October sunshine, past what remained of the East-West runway, and marvelled at the utter silence. The little river at the edge of the road slipped silently over its green weeds and I remembered Gerry, how he had aborted a takeoff one night, smashed through the hedge and across the road and had finished up with the aircraft’s nose almost in that river. Amazingly, they had missed everything solid and had all walked away from it. I smiled to myself as I recalled how everyone in the Mess had kidded him about it the following morning.
The Mess itself was till there, pretty well intact. One or two broken panes in the windows, the buff-coloured walls reflecting the warmth of the sun, the porch by now overgrown with tall weeds around which a bee idly buzzed. Now, no bicycles leaned against its walls, there was no C.O.’s car parked, no battledressed figures walked in and out, calling to one another – there was just the brilliant sunshine and the utter silence. And then, as I visualised the inside of the Mess, its layout, its half-remembered faces; I thought of the events of such another day of sunshine all that time ago. I saw the interior of the anteroom, the small table with the chessmen on their board, the young bomb-aimer sitting opposite me, frowning with concentration as we played, then looking at his watch and standing up reluctantly, the cracked record, “I’ve gotta gal, in Kalamazoo”. “Shall we finish it tomorrow?” I had said to him.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
My part of the briefing came second, as usual, after the Wingco had told them the target and shown them over the route on the wall-map. Most of the crews weren’t really interested in the industries, population or the other standard Intelligence gen which I served up to them, and I didn’t blame them; their main concern was what the defences were like – and, privately, whether they would get back. They were silent when I pointed out the flak and searchlight belt around the target, and a few night-fighter aerodromes near to their route. There were one or two whistles when I told them
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how many aircraft were on that night; it was quite a big effort and craftily organised so that there were two targets, the stream of kites splitting up abreast of and between the two towns, then turning away from each other to attack their respective targets some sixty miles apart. There were also elaborate Mosquito spoof attacks to draw off the enemy fighters from the main force.
“We hope that will fox the defences,” I concluded.
When briefing was over I left the hubbub and snatches of nervous laughter from the crews and cycled down to the Ops Room in the summer afternoon to try to finish plotting last night’s bombing photos. One of our Halifaxes was on his landing approach, another was on the downwind leg with his undercart lowered. One of their engines was slightly desynchronised and it made a throbbing note above the steady roar. The sun was very bright, the trees were a deep green above the huts and the houses of the village and it was warm.
One of the bombing photos was holding us up. There was only a small fragment of ground detail, more or less one block of houses, visible in the usual mess of smoke, cloud, bomb bursts, flak and fires. Pam was having a go at it when I arrived.
“Any luck?” I asked, throwing my cap on the table.
“Not yet,” she said, “but it must be somewhere near the aiming point because there’s so much going on in the photograph.”
We stewed over the mosaic for a time, trying to fit the photo in, which would enable us to discover where the aircraft had dropped his load of bombs. Pam looked along the approach side to the A.P., I took the exit side. Finally, I had it placed.
“Oh, good,” Pam said rather wearily, and stretched.
I measured the distance carefully.
“Can you give him a ring in the Mess, Freda?” I asked the duty Watchkeeper, “he’ll be wanting to know. Tell whoever you speak to that they were about a thousand yards from the A.P., would you?”
After that, we generally tidied up from last night’s effort, and as far as we could, from tonight’s preparations. I did a last minute check that the Pundit was in the right place and set to flash the correct letters, and that the resin lights on the aircraft were the correct colour combination. About six o’clock I went down to the Mess, put my feet up and relaxed. There were several battledressed and white sweatered chaps clumping about in their heavy, soft-soled flying boots, trying not to smoke too much, mostly a bit pale and rather quiet.
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Dinner was much as usual, no-one had very much to say to anyone else, at least among the crews who were on. Derek came in and said he was going up to relieve Pam on duty.
“See you before take-off,” I told him.
“What the heck for?” Derek asked, “there’s no need – why don’t you get some sleeping hours in till they come back?”
“Oh, I don’t know; I might as well be up there,” I said, not wanting him to know that J – and I had a sort of thing starting. I hoped so, anyhow. She would be taking over from Freda about now. I’d taken her out a couple of times and I thought she was pretty wizard; we seemed to speak the same language. Had to be a bit careful, though, the R.A.F. was touchy about male Officer – W.A.A.F. N.C.O. relationships. You could easily find that one of you was suddenly posted to Sullom Voe or somewhere like that, and the other to Portreath, or worse still, overseas.
I went into the anteroom. Someone had the radiogram going. It was Glenn Miller and the Chattanooga choo-choo on Track 29. I settled down with Tee Emm at a table where someone had left the chess board and pieces, and was chuckling over P/O Prune’s latest effort when a voice said, “Do you play?”
I looked up. He was a P/O Bomb-aimer, rather stocky, darkish, with his name on the small brown leather patch sewn above the top right-hand pocket of his battledress, his white, roll-necked sweater and half-wing looked rather new, I thought.
“Sure,” I said, “but not very well, I’m afraid. I’ll give you a game, though, if you like.”
“I’m not very good myself,” he said.
As we were setting out the pieces, “Who are you with?” I asked. He named his skipper.
“He’s good; flies these Hallies like Spits!” he said, laughing. For an instant, the lines of stress on his face were smoothed out in the snatched and fleeting relaxation of the moment, so that instead of looking like a young man, he looked like a very young one.
“Yes, I know the name,” I said, “I think I’ve plotted one or two of your photos recently. How many have you done?”
“Six”, he answered.
There was nothing I could say to that. Thirty trips was a hell
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of a way off when you’d done six.
He chose white from the two pawns I held in my closed fists.
“Off you go, then,” I said.
He opened conventionally enough, pawn to king’s fourth, pawn to queen’s third, and so on, and as we played I could tell we were both about the same calibre, on the poor side of indifferent. After a while, he started looking at his watch a lot and I could see his concentration was beginning to fade, but his knight was going to have my bishop and rook neatly forked, so I knew I was in for a bit of trouble. He sighed and said, “That’s about it for now, I’m afraid, I’ll have to get weaving up to the Flights.”
I said, “O.K., then, shall we finish it tomorrow? I’ll make a note of the positions, if you like.”
“Yes,” he said, “fine,” and got to his feet. “Thanks for the game.”
“Enjoyed it,” I said, and gave him the usual and universal Bomber Command envoi, “Have a good trip.”
“Sure, thanks,” he said, gave a half-wave and went out.
I watched him go. He looked rather like a schoolboy who had been sent for by the Head. A slightly cracked record on the radiogram was now telling us that someone liked her looks when he carried her books in Kalamazoo. I wondered idly where that was. I made a copy of the position on the chessboard and went out of the Mess. It was a beautiful summer evening, the sun was starting to dip now and there were some streaks of altostratus in the north-west. A faint breeze brought the twittering of sparrows; a blackbird nearer at hand was giving a few clarinet notes, intent on practising the first bar of his eventual good-night song. A Halifax droned over, to the east, high, probably setting off on a night cross-country or a Bullseye. His engines made a hollow, booming roar in the clear evening air. Then the Tannoy came to life with a hum and with a leap of the heart I heard J – ‘s voice come over, telling someone he was wanted at his Flight Office.
I cycled up the quiet road through the hamlet, which was companionably and inextricably mixed up with the Station’s huts, and turned right at the tall gable-end of a house on to the narrow concrete road which, in a few hundred yards beyond the W.A.A.F. site, came to the Ops Room.
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The sentry gave me a cheery “Good evening, sir,” and I went inside to the strip-lighting, the huge wall-blackboard, the central plotting table and the long desk with the telephones. Derek, J – and little Edith, one of the Int. Clerks, were on duty. I saluted and said, “Hiya, folks, everything under control?” It was. Edith was finishing writing up the captains and aircraft letters on the big blackboard and it looked impressive. You started to imagine the bomb-load from that lot going down on to a built-up area, and what it would do. Then you stopped imagining. I got busy with some paper-work, tying up loose ends and amending some S.D.s, then the clerk made some tea. J – ‘s phone was pretty quiet – it usually was a couple of hours or so before take-off – she was writing a letter, I think, and Derek was sorting out the mosaics alphabetically and sliding them back into the big drawer below the table.
“Time we had a new one for Hamburg,” he said, “this one’s about had it.”
“So’s Hamburg,” I said, “if it come to that,” and we grinned.
We drank tea, smoked and chatted a bit, mostly about our next leave. Derek was whistling “Room 504” off and on, and rather badly. There wasn’t a lot to do now except wait for a scrub, which we knew wouldn’t happen when there was a big summer high over western Europe. Odd calls came in to J – requesting Tannoy messages; she put them out and logged them all.
I went outside for a while to look at the sky. The Ops Room was windowless and the lighting and general fug got you down rather after a time, especially as we all smoked like chimneys. It was about nine o’clock. I looked over the cornfield which was just outside the Ops Room door. The corn was ripe, grown high, ready for harvest; the sky was very beautiful, pale green almost in one place, some stars showing, complete stillness.
“Calm before the storm,” I thought, rather tritely. I breathed the cooling air gratefully. Somewhere in the distance the blackbird was firing his short bursts of evening song. It was all very peaceful and the war seemed a hell of a long way off.
The sentry seemed fidgety, he was probably wishing I would hurry up and go in again so that he could have a quiet smoke himself.
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“Nice night,” I said to him.
Back in the Ops Room I felt we were completely insulated from the outside world. Until the phone rang.
“Ops, Breighton,” J – said. She listened, then put the phone down.
“Flying Control,” she said to me, “they’re taxying out. First off should be any minute now.”
“O.K.,” I said, “I might as well chalk them up.”
I was feeling a little strung-up; it would give me something to do. In a little while the phone rang again.
“Ops, Breighton….. right, sir, thank you.”
J – turned to me.
“B – Baker airborne 2149.”
I chalked up the time opposite ‘B’. After that, the phone went at very short intervals, until they had all gone. In the Ops Room we never heard a thing, only the hum of the air-conditioning and the buzz of the strip-lighting.
I imagined them doing their gentle climbing turns to port and setting course over the centre of the aerodrome, the Navigators carefully logging the time, the gunners in their turrets watchful for other aircraft, then climbing steadily away towards Southwold where they crossed out for the North Sea, the enemy coast and whatever lay in wait for them beyond, on the other side.
When they’d all gone, the Wingco came in for a chat. He was a good type and we all liked him. He and Derek shared an interest in painting, and after a while he took Derek off to the Mess for a drink. There wouldn’t have been much for Derek to do behind his desk, anyhow.
“Can you cope?” Derek asked, as he went.
“Of course,” I said, hiding my elation that J – and I would be able to have a talk. The clerk slipped off into the Int. Library, I think she sensed that three was a crowd. After a while, the phone rang again.
“Ops, Breighton….. yes, thank you, I’ve got that.”
She turned to me again.
“Flying Control. Early return, F – Fox, starboard inner u/s. I’ll phone the Wingco in the Mess.”
While she was doing so, I went outside again. It was quite dark now, and countless stars were showing. They had put the Sandra Lights on for
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F – Fox. In a little while I heard him coming from the south, then he came into the circuit with his nav. lights on, flashed ‘F’ on his downward ident. light and slid down on to the runway behind the H.Q. huts, his three engines popping as he throttled back. In the stillness I heard the screech of his tyres as they bit the runway, then his engine-note faded into silence. In a minute or two I heard his bursts of throttle as he taxied into dispersal. He would have jettisoned his load, and most of his petrol, into the sea. J – had logged his time of landing on the board.
“I’ve told the Wingco,” she said.
We swopped childhoods, parents and early Service days for a while, then I decided to go and have a sleep in the Window Store, on the bench. I must have been tired and slept very soundly, because I was awakened by knocking on the door and Edith’s timid voice calling, “First aircraft overhead, sir.”
I shivered as I swung my legs down off the bench and on to the stone floor; I always shivered when I heard those words, wondering how it had gone. Had they had much opposition? That was always my first thought. Had there been much fighter activity? What had the flak been like, and the searchlights? I never thought much about the target; what seemed to matter to me was whether they were all back.
I went into the Ops Room and lit a cigarette, passing my case around. Derek was back.
“Here’s Rip van Winkle,” he said, “come to muck things up for us.”
“Get knotted,” I grinned, “and let’s have my fags back.”
He threw my case back at me and I disappointed him by catching it. The phone rang; J – answered it. The first one had landed safely. Derek said, “I’ll get along and start the interrogations, Pam’s on, too.”
“O.K., Derek,” I told him, “I’ll be down later,” and he left.
He still had “Room 504” on his mind and it still sounded no better. The phone rang again, it was another one landed. They kept coming in steadily and whoever was nearest the blackboard chalked them up. By quarter to six we had them all back but two. I took a quick
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look around. The clerk was in the far corner collecting empty cups. I said to J - , quietly, “Can you meet me tonight? Seven o’clock? We’ll go to the Plough, if you like.”
She nodded.
“Yes,” she breathed, and smiled briefly. She still looked wizard, I thought, even at six o’clock in the morning after a long night duty. For a while we let our thoughts take possession of us. Then the phone broke the silence again. One of the two had landed away, in 3 Group. That left just one outstanding.
The minutes ticked by. Then I said the usual thing, one of us always said it at times like this.
“He could have landed away, too, and they haven’t told us yet.”
But there was actually only fifteen minutes left before his endurance, on the night’s petrol load, ran out. I went outside, restlessly. The Sandra Lights looked desolate in a vivid and rigid cone above the aerodrome, waiting in the silence which had now enveloped everything. Dawn was starting to break. It looked like being another perfect summer morning. Far away, a door slammed and someone whistled, loudly and jauntily. Probably one of the returned crews, just off to bed. The sky, lightening, seemed immense, the stars had faded and the trees were motionless. In a little while I went back inside.
“Anything, J - ?”
She shook her head. I looked at my watch. Time was up, and more. We were quite quiet for a long while. Then I said, “I was playing chess with his bomb-aimer just before they went. Let’s hope to God they are P.o.W.s”. We still sat, waiting. When I knew it was quite hopeless I said to J – “You’d better phone the Wingco and the Padre. I’m going to see about the photographs. See you this evening, then, goodnight, J - .”
“Goodnight, or rather, good morning,” she said.
I walked out of the Ops Room into the early morning with a feeling of weariness and desolation. What was it all about? I thought. It was quite cool outside; I reached for a cigarette and my hand found a piece of paper in my pocket. It was the sketch of the chess board. I looked at if for a minute or so, then I said,
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“Good luck, wherever you are.”
I screwed the paper into a ball and dropped it into the waist-high corn, and I thought of the seven men who might be lying amidst the wreckage of their aircraft somewhere across the sea. It was growing light now and a faint breeze stirred the ripened heads of the wheat. Somewhere, the blackbird was starting to sing. The Sandra lights had been put out. There was nothing left for me to do. I shivered, and turned away.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
With an effort I dragged my thoughts back to the reality of the present, and I realised it was already time to go. The sun was dazzlingly low, but its warmth still lingered and there was a faint scent of late roses as I walked up through the hamlet, towards the gable-end and the road to the Ops Room. An old man was stiffly tending his patch of front garden, and looked up as I said “Good evening.”
“Been a fine day,” he said. He saw my rucksack. “Have you come far?” he added.
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve come a very long way,” and I walked on, into the silence and the shadows of the gathering twilight.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] A different kind of love. [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] A DIFFERENT KIND OF LOVE [/underlined
“’Tis sure small matter for wonder
If sorrow is with one still”
(A.E. Housman)
Temporization, delaying tactics, putting-off. Call it what you will. I try to justify it be telling myself that whatever one calls it – and I am fairly certain we have all of us been guilty of it at some time – it is a human failing, and the guilt one feels, if one should feel guilt at some action or lack of action if it affects only oneself, has been felt by many another person. And should one indeed experience feelings of guilt if whatever the reason for the “putting-off” it affects only oneself? But I am afraid that in the circumstances which I have finally decided and brought myself to the point of describing, at least one other person must have felt some hurt, almost certainly deep hurt, and this is what has concerned me for a very long time. The thought and the concern I have felt is something which comes into my mind for no apparent reason at intervals of time, like the aching of a doubtful tooth which one knows will prove difficult and extremely painful of extraction. The moral points having been made, it is time for me to elaborate, sparing, I hope, no detail, least of all sparing nothing of the sad story of my own actions which undoubtedly started the whole business. These events, I know, will be re-lived in my mind, as they have been over the years, for days on end, producing invariably feelings of deep sadness and of ineradicable guilt.
I think it is worthy of mention that in the closing months of my career in the R.A.F. I was successively Adjutant of two units. The first of these was the unhappiest unit I had encountered, and the second, which followed immediately afterwards was without doubt the happiest one; one where I felt that those around me were like-minded. I went, at the behest of the powers-that-were in South East Asia Command, from one to the other on receipt of the appropriate signal, teleprinted on to paper, simply by walking from one tent to
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another on a crowded-to-capacity aerodrome near Rangoon, the Japanese surrender having thankfully taken place a few hours before. I met some of my new fellow-Officers and took to them immediately. First impressions were confirmed over the next days, weeks and months. On the final posting of my R.A.F. career I had arrived on a unit which was the most agreeable I had experienced in six years. I think that was understandable when one considers that I would wake in the mornings knowing that there was no war being fought, that no-one was going to be killed among those around me, no-one was going to go missing on operations and that one would not find an empty bed across one’s room in the morning, no empty chair in the Mess, no letters to be written to next-of-kin.
From the tented camp, where conditions were, to put it mildly, primitive, we were, after a few days, put on board a small paddle-steamer and left Rangoon for where we knew not. On this small ship I was to meet people with whom I was to work and play very happily for almost the last year of my service in the R.A.F. and with a few of whom I was to form enduring friendships, now alas, terminated by the inevitable and merciless passage of time.
It was on this ship too, where I first became acquainted with the music of Elgar. One morning as we were steaming southwards – we knew that much! – I was coming down a short flight of stairs leading to what, in terms of a house in England, would be described as a hallway or lobby. Some music was being played on a gramophone there and I was so struck by its grave beauty that I stood stock still on the stairway until it had ended. Then, moved by it and marvelling at its beauty I went up to the Equipment Officer who was playing it on his wind-up gramophone. This was at the time of 78 r.p.m. shellac records, of course. I asked him what he had just been playing and he was more than pleased to tell me that it was a movement from Elgar’s Enigma Variations, called Nimrod and explained the significance of that title. Little did I know that I was to hear the same music, in vastly different circumstances very soon, the recollection of which would have the power to move me deeply for years afterwards, not only because of the music itself, but because of the player of it and what the player meant – and still means – to me.
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We soon learned that we were heading for the island of Penang, of which most of us had heard, but that was all, as part of Operation Zipper, the British occupation, or rather re-occupation, of what was then Malaya, after the Japanese surrender and withdrawal. We were to be, in fact, the first R.A.F. unit to land in Malaya. And so it was. We arrived at the quayside of Georgetown, the principal town, under the massive shadow of the battleship H.M.S. Nelson, anchored next to us. Over the next few days we found our quarters in an old army cantonment on a wooded hillside, at Sungei Glugor, and took possession of the small aerodrome at Bayan Lepas in readiness for the arrival of a Spitfire squadron and a detachment of two Beaufighters from Burma. We hunted for furniture for the empty and deserted cantonment and found ample in the abandoned dwelling houses on the island. We readily imagined what must have happened to the original occupants during the Japanese occupation.
Within days we had the Station operating and thanks to the Royal Signals, in contact with our parent formations at Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. The Spitfires and Beaufighters duly arrived. We were an operational formation.
Now that I was settled into a permanent location I had the time and facilities to write a letter to J – every day, as she did to me. We had been engaged to be married for just under two years and there was a clear agreement between us that we would not be married until after we were both settled into civilian life again. Never did either of us doubt the promises made to one another and despite the time and distance which separated us, neither of us doubted the fidelity or behaviour of the other. J – was a W.A.A.F. Sergeant on an operational bomber station, now thankfully converted to peaceful purposes, and she was surrounded by some hundreds of both W.A.A.F. and R.A.F. personnel. As for me, my surroundings were peopled exclusively by men. The relationship between J – and I was firmly founded on mutual trust.
It had been decided that we should participate in a Service of Thanksgiving in one of the churches in Georgetown, and the arrangements were soon made, as were the arrangements for a victory march-past of all the armed services in Georgetown’s Victoria Park.
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I suppose there were over 100 of us to attend the service, which was held in the Chinese Methodist Church on a pleasant evening. A sizeable Chinese contingent were also present, men and women, all beautifully dressed in white. I was near to the right hand end of a pew fairly near to the front of the church, and as I took my place the organ was being played. To my amazement and delight I immediately recognised the tune as none other but ‘Nimrod’, which I had only recently come to know and which had made such an impression on me on the boat coming down from Rangoon. Smiling to myself, I looked up and to my right to see if it was one of our number who was the organist. My further surprise was that it was not anyone that I knew, but someone I took to be a Chinese youth in a white surplice. And then I saw that I was again mistaken; the organist was a Chinese girl in a long white dress. As she finished ‘Nimrod’ she moved almost seamlessly into a Chopin E Minor Prelude whose tune, full of yearning, almost brought tears into my eyes.
The service itself was jointly conducted by a Chinese clergyman about 50 years old and of almost ascetic appearance, and our own Methodist Padre. During the service an announcement was made that light refreshments would be served in the church hall afterwards and I determined to be there, partly from personal preference and partly because as Wing Adjutant it would obviously be my duty not to return immediately to the cantonment at Glugor but to show a degree of sociability towards the local people who were our hosts.
It dawned on me that since I had left England more than six months previously I had never seen a member of the opposite sex in that time, nor even heard a female voice. My mother, on my embarkation leave and J – immediately prior to my going on leave, had been the last two women to whom I had spoken.
I wondered, as, the service over, I went into the fairly crowded church hall, whether the girl organist would be there so that I could tell her how I had enjoyed and been moved by her choice of music. She was indeed there, one of those serving refreshments at a line of tables at one side of the hall. I was extremely pleased, went straight across to her, and smiling, spoke to her, complimenting
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her on her playing.
She smiled depracatingly [sic] and brushed away with her hand one side of the curtain of her collar-length black hair from her face, a gesture which, so characteristic of her, I have recalled very many times since. Her voice was soft, musical and charmingly accented, reminding me forcibly of J – ‘s own voice. She apologised for not having played well; she said she was out of practice. These few seconds were the start of an utterly delightful, all-too-brief, but quite unforgettable friendship. It became a friendship, and only that. Nothing more. During the time that I knew her I never once touched her, not even to shake hands when eventually I left Malaya for good. (‘For good’? I was in two minds about that. I felt I was being torn apart). My promises to J – were unbreakable and at no time did I think even of the possibility of breaking them. We were engaged to be married; we would be married as soon as it could be managed when I returned to the U.K. Strangely, I have only just discovered some poignantly applicable words in a chanson by the 14th century Guillaume de Machaut –
‘…. in a foreign land,
You who bear sweetness and beauty
White and red like a rose or lily ….
The radiance of your virtue
Shines brighter than the Pole Star ….
Fair one, elegant, frank and comely,
Imbued with all modesty of demeanour.’
I was not alone in making a friend in the local community; there were at least two other Officers to my knowledge who formed attachments of one sort or the other while we were on the island.
And at home? J - , in her daily letters to me occasionally mentioned going to dances on the aerodrome where she was stationed and I presumed that obviously she danced in the arms of men. But I trusted her as implicitly as I hope she trusted me. She mentioned two men, both Australian pilots, by their nicknames. One of them was killed, with all his crew, when they crashed within sight of the aerodrome on returning from an op. No reason for the crash was ever
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established. But to my discredit I could not help feeling a twinge - - perhaps more than that – of jealousy whenever I read their names in her letters. And some time after J – and I were married, while we were once talking about wartime days and nights, quite out of the blue she said, only half-jokingly, “If I hadn’t married you I would have married an Australian”. I remember that I smiled but said nothing. What could I say?
I find it difficult now to describe Chiau Yong adequately as I saw her then and as I think of her now, without using trite phrases or words which in this age of cynicism would be sneered at or greeted with unbelieving or sarcastic laughter. But then, and over the weeks which followed I was charmed by her placid nature, her smiling, childlike innocence, her undoubted beauty and her impish sense of humour.
That evening in the church hall, as I chatted to her, standing as we were at opposite sides of the table of refreshments, I felt a growing happiness which I had not known for a long time stealing over me and calming me, as though the war, with all the tragedies which I had seen and experienced, had never taken place.
When, regretfully, it was time for me to go I had learned her name and that she was the daughter of the clergyman whose church this was. I had also, hesitantly and tentatively, expecting nothing except possibly a polite rebuff, asked if I might see her again by coming to hear her organ practice, whenever that might be. She shyly consented and I felt, as I left the hall, that my feet were hardly touching the ground. I think I must have been smiling foolishly, but fortunately no-one commented as we boarded the gharries to return to Glugor.
As often as I possibly could I went to the church and sat in a pew near to the front, where I could see her sitting at the organ console, while she practised, content to listen to the music she made and to watch her as she played, quite unperturbed that I was there, a few feet away from her, listening and watching. Sometimes I went with her into her home, where she played the piano for me. And often we talked. Her English was truly excellent, somewhat reminiscent in her use of words and phrases of the Victorian era, but none the less lucid and charming to hear spoken
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in her soft, lilting voice. We talked about the music she played; she asked what sort of music I liked. We talked a little about our respective backgrounds. She was keen to learn anything about England. I mentioned one or two of my wartime experiences but asked for no details of hers or of her family’s under the Japanese occupation. I developed an interest to scratch the surface of knowledge of the Chinese language. Her own dialect, and that of her mother, who spoke no English, unlike her father and her sister, was Hokkien. She and her sister, who joined us on one occasion when we sat talking, amused themselves and entertained me by translating my name into written Chinese ideographs, which they pronounced as ‘Yo-min’. Whenever Chiau Yong wished to draw my attention to something or ask me a question, it was always prefaced by her saying ‘Mister Yo-min….’ . I suppose in her strict upbringing, which I assumed she had had, the use of my Christian name would have been seen as unduly familiar.
She taught me the numerals from one to ten and chuckled delightfully behind her small hand at my unavailing efforts to pronounce the words for ‘one’ and ‘seven’ correctly. To my ears they sounded identical; I am afraid that I was an obtuse pupil. I asked her about her own name; she told me that it meant ‘shining countenance’ which, I thought, could not have been more appropriate. As to her age, I never enquired. I would have put her as being slightly younger than I. I was 24 at the time, she would be possibly around 20, I thought.
I met her parents on at least one occasion. They very kindly invited me to come to their home for an evening meal, which I was glad and honoured to do. Two things stand out clearly in my mind about that occasion: the number of different languages spoken around the table and the sense of peacefulness which surrounded us. Her mother, a quiet middle-aged lady, simply dressed in black, spoke only Hokkien which, if she addressed me, was translated by Chiau Yong, as was my reply to her mother. Her father, the minister, spoke excellent English in a calm and measured manner. Her sister, Chiau Gian and her rather quiet younger brother spoke English too, for my benefit. Chiau Yong, who had told me that she was learning Mandarin, the classical Chinese tongue, spoke in English, of course, to me, in Hokkien to her mother and in Malay to the houseboy who appeared from time to time on his domestic errands.
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After I had visited their home on several occasions to see Chiau Yong and to hear her play, I was slightly surprised when one afternoon, as we were talking together, a pilot from the Spitfire squadron which had arrived came into the room. I knew D – P – well enough to talk to, but I thought, in my limited understanding of such things, he did not fit into my preconceived idea of what a fighter pilot should be like. He was, from what I had seen of him in the Mess, not only slightly older-looking than the other pilots, with somewhat thinning hair, but also of a quieter disposition than most of the others. However, a Spitfire pilot he was, whatever ideas I had formed about the differences between them and bomber pilots such as I had been. I gathered he had come to see Chiau Yong’s father, and not being interested in the reason for his visit I promptly forgot about him after we had exchanged polite enough greetings on this and on one or two further occasions when he came to the house to see Mr. Ng.
I knew that my time on the island and indeed in the R.A.F. must shortly come to an end. Being an administrative officer, as Adjutant, I could almost forecast when my time would come to ‘get on the boat’ and while others around me were obviously in a fever of impatience to get back to ‘civvy street’, as it was always called, I found my own state of mind to be more in the nature of calm acceptance, knowing that while I would be returning to J - , whom I loved and to whom I would be married, somehow, somewhere and at some time, I had spent a quarter of my life and almost all my adult life in R.A.F. uniform and would find things difficult or indeed incomprehensible.
At about this time our unit, 185 Wing, received orders to move across to the mainland, into Province Wellesley, to become R.A.F. Station Butterworth, leaving very good and well-appointed accommodation for something not quite so commodious. But there was a very good ferry service between Butterworth (which local people knew as Mata Kuching) and Georgetown, so I was still within easy reach of the town, its cafes, good sports facilities which were well used by us all, and above all, still within easy reach of Chiau Yong.
Towards the end of my service at Butterworth, on one visit to her, she suggested that we take a cycle ride to see some nearby parts
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of the island which were strange to me, and this we did for a couple of hours, along deserted roads, up hillsides, almost always under the cover of trees with their blossoms, so exotic to my eyes, with their birdsong, and the chattering and calling of monkeys and chipmunks.
The idyll had to end. I think my unconscious mind has, as a defence mechanism, obliterated the recollection of our goodbyes, for I can remember not one single thing about it. It is as though it had never happened. But it must have done, of course. I returned to England, a stranger to a strange land. Standards had changed, attitudes had changed, there was no longer the feeling of one-ness, of co-operation and togetherness which the war had engendered. It seemed now as though it were ‘every man for himself and damn the others’. I let a decent interval of two or three days pass as I settled in at home with my parents then I travelled south to be with J - . It was a happy but strange reunion. Strange to see her in civilian clothes, strange to see her leave to catch an early train to Brighton to work for the South Eastern Gas Board. All our talk was of when, where and how we were going to be married and where we would live. In the end, with the willing help of my parents, I found very basic accommodation in my home town, as I had agreed with J – that I needed to return to my old occupation and to obtain a necessary qualification as soon as possible.
J – and I were married in the autumn from her aunt’s home in Surrey and after our honeymoon in Edinburgh we were thrust into the realities of married life in cramped surroundings, comprehensive rationing, with a shared kitchen, and where even the basics of living necessitated stringent saving on my salary, with all of which J – coped amazingly well. I had to study hard in the evenings in the same small living room where J – was usually reading or knitting, deprived of the radio so as not to disturb me. Settling down at work was none too easy. My superiors were a man who had somehow missed the first World War and who was too old for the Second, his deputy, who had tried hard to dissuade me from volunteering for aircrew on the grounds that I would be probably be instrumental in killing people and who himself, had he not been reserved from military service as a key employee would have been compelled to describe himself as a conscientious objector. There were also two ex-R.A.F. men, who in six years of service had attained the respective ranks of Corporal
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and of Leading Aircraftman. Perhaps because I had outranked them it became apparent that any particularly physically dirty or awkward job was allocated to me. I accepted the situation as a continuation of military discipline, as I did when the office clerk, a lady of mature years, when I politely declined to do part of her far less than arduous work for her (so that she would have more time for gossiping, I suspected), told me rather angrily and unimaginatively that since “I’d been away” I had changed, which I thought was something of an understatement. I never talked of my wartime experiences and no-one asked me a single question. All they knew was that I had flown aeroplanes, been over Germany and finished my career in the Far East. The rest was silence.
Having neither a telephone nor a car I kept in touch with friends I had made in the R.A.F. by letter and rarely did a week go by without news from someone, either in the U.K. or some other part of the globe. My correspondents, of course, included Chiau Yong, whom I had told in a letter that I was finally married, and had given her my address. I certainly had not forgotten her and whenever I thought of her I smiled mentally at the remembrance of her charming company and her music-making.
At this time, although of course there was no means of knowing it, J – was sickening for a serious, potentially fatal illness, which within months was to take her into sanatoria for more than a year of her young life. Whether this slow decline in her health, coupled with the novelty of her surroundings and circumstances contributed to the short and low-key breakfast table conversation which took place between us I do not know, but I suspect it might have done so.
I remember vividly that it was a Saturday morning. There were two letters for us, one for J – and one for me, which, to my delight I saw was from Chiau Yong. We opened our respective mail at the breakfast table. The letter was typical of Chiau Yong’s nature – pleasant, equable, written in beautiful English and containing some mildly jocular reference to something I must have once said to her about settling down into civilian life. It contained no word of love; it ended without those conventional little crosses which were the well-known signs for kisses. I would have been astonished beyond measure if it had done so. J – had finished reading her own letter. I smiled across the table and said “From Chiau Yong. Read it, darling”.
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She took it without a word and read it expressionlessly. I had no inkling of what was to come as she handed the letter unsmilingly back to me. Looking directly at me, she said “I don’t think it’s right that she should be writing to a married man like that and I think you should tell her so”.
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I was completely taken aback with shock and surprise. I had known J – for more than three years during which time we had seen eye-to-eye on almost everything and no word of disagreement had ever passed between us. But I recovered my composure quickly and knowing that one’s wife must come first in everything, I said “All right”.
I immediately left the table, got the writing pad and sitting down again in front of J – I wrote the cruellest words that I have ever in my whole life composed. My opening words are to this day burned into my memory.
“Dear Chiau Yong”, I wrote, “In England, a married man does not write letters to another girl”. And I continued briefly that the correspondence between us must now stop. It took about three minutes. I handed the letter wordlessly to J – who read it and gave it back to me with a nod. “Yes,” she said.
Chiau Yong’s name was never again mentioned during our married life, but I cannot and would not pretend that, happily married as we were for almost 40 years, I never thought of Chiau Yong. For I have thought of her often and I have been deeply and bitterly troubled that I must have been the cause of her suffering so much shock and pain so unexpectedly and, in my eyes, without any reason, and certainly not by any misdeed of hers, intentional or otherwise. I have prayed again and again over the years, and still do, that she might have eventually forgiven me. I never saw her again; I never heard from her again. Whether she is alive or dead, was or is happy or unhappy, I do not know, but I do know that she brought light and sweetness in unbelievable measure into my life and that our short and beautiful friendship was as innocent in every respect as any relationship could be.
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There is a curious and disturbingly bitter postscript to this unhappy episode in my life. J –‘s parents lived in Worthing and naturally she wanted to see them and her unmarried younger sister whenever she could. We had not much money, but by dint of hard saving we were able to spend two or three weeks every summer, usually during the Worthing Cricket Week, with her parents. One summer’s day, not all that many years before she died, J – and I were walking through the park near to the Worthing sea front. We left the park and crossed the road, going towards Lancing, still near to the sea. On the corner stood a church whose denomination I did not know – until I read on a notice board erected near to the church door, “Minister – D. P. –“ I looked away quickly before my shock and astonishment became too obvious. It could only have been the Spitfire pilot from Penang who used to visit Chiau Yong’s father, presumably for some sort of guidance or instruction as to his post war vocation. If things had been other than they were I would have gone immediately with J – to seek him out, to talk over the times when we first met, but of course Chiau Yong’s name would have come into our conversation. I walked on in silence, as though nothing untoward had happened, but with my mind in a turmoil. So J – never knew about D – P – , about his nearness and of the memories I still had of sunlit afternoons in the church hall in Georgetown where I would sit talking with that beautiful young girl in her long white dress.
Was I in love with Chiau Yong? Can one be in love with two people at once? Was that possible when I never stopped loving J - ? These are questions I have many times asked myself. The only self-convincing conclusion to which I can reasonably arrive is while there was no element whatsoever of the physical aspect of love in my relationship with her, yet I feel that the affection which I held and hold for her, whatever her feelings might have been for me, was more than mere friendship, that this was a different kind of love. Christ exhorted us to love one another. We were both Christians and I think that this is what He meant us to feel for one another.
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And so now, very often, while I have been writing this belated account of something which has haunted me for a very long time, and very often since I wrote that terrible, wounding letter, I remember with a sort of poignant gratitude and happiness, bitter-sweet happiness, the beauty of her nature and her innocent sweetness and I thank God for the gift of happiness which she gave me. But at the same time I feel a profound and bitter guilt and sadness, knowing that the dreadful hurt which she must have suffered and perhaps for years remembered was due to no fault of hers but was entirely due to me.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Mi querer tanto vos quiere,
muy graciosa donzella,
que por vos mi vida muere
y de vos no tiene querella.
Tanto sois de mi querida
con amor i lealtad,
que de vos non se que diga
viendo vestra onestad.
Si mi querer tanto vos quiere,
causalo que sois tan bella,
que por vos mi vida muere
y de vos no tiene querella.
(Enrique, d. 1488)
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[inserted] [underlined] Sun on a chequered tea-cosy [/underlined] [/inserted]
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O where are you going, Sir Rollo and Sir Tabarie,
Sir Duffy and Sir Dinadan, you four proud men,
With your battlecries [sic] and banners,
Your high and haughty manners,
O tell me, tell me, tell me,
Will you ride this way again?
(School Speech Day song, 1936.)
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[underlined] SUN ON A CHEQUERED TEA-COSY [/undelrined]
It was Zhejian green tea. I poured the water on, placed the lid carefully on the pot and took the tea-cosy in my left hand. The sun through the kitchen window shone brightly across its red and green checks. And stirred some memory, deep down in the recesses of my mind. Those checks had some significance, somewhere from a long way back. I stood there, looking down at the covered teapot and let myself relax until the realisation slowly dawned. I was looking again at the band around Ivor’s R.A.F. peaked cap when he was an apprentice at Halton, before the war, and I found myself thinking back to the times I had walked with him along the cliffs, hearing the gulls screaming overhead and wheeling in the sunlight, laughing with him as he sang “Shaibah Blues”, with the waves crashing on to the rocks below.
I never thought I would find myself in the position of trying to do a small thing to defend Ivor, after all this time, but, of course, there’s no one else left to do it now. Looking back over it, although so many years have passed since H – wrote what he did, it still seems to me that they were very cruel words to use, especially as Ivor had no means of defending himself, no right of reply nor of appeal. It was something so barbed that it eventually acquired, through its re-telling, the significance and nature of a legend, and in the perverse way of things it elevated Ivor to the status of a minor hero. But all the same, at the time it took place I could see it had made a deep and lasting impression on him, young and resilient as he was. And now, to me, at any rate, H – ‘s words about Ivor have acquired a poignancy which can never to expunged.
Ivor need not, of course, have let anyone into the secret; one didn’t do that sort of thing, very often, at school, in case it was thought that one was being sissy or trying to attract attention and sympathy, but it was sufficient to indicate to me, and to John, I believe, who was there at the time, how deeply it had struck home, when Ivor approached us one day on the Second Field, before school went in.
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It was the beginning of the Autumn term. The field behind the woodwork room looked bare and open without the cricket nets; the marks of the bowlers’ run-ups and of the batting block-holes could still be seen. The rugby pitch, away down the slight slope, looked very green and inviting with its newly painted posts and flawlessly straight white lines. During the winter months I lived for rugby and thought of little else; scholastic subjects took a poor second place.
As was the custom, about half the school were engaged in punting a single rugger ball around, more or less at random, before lessons started, competing with one another to catch it then punt it as far as one could again. It sounds, and looked, I suppose, pointless. But it was rare that anyone in any match missed catching a kick by the opposition, and no-one at all would dream of letting the ball bounce before he attempted to take it. I was squinting up into the sun at the flight of the ball when I heard someone call, “Hey! Yoicks!”
I turned to see Ivor. John, who was nearby, grinned when he saw him and came over, with his rather stiff-legged, rocking walk. Ivor and I exchanged the usual new-term greetings and repartee – where had we been, had we seen the latest laurel and Hardy picture, and so on. Then, surprisingly, for the old term was now but a hazy memory, Ivor said, “What was your report like?”
“My report?” I repeated in astonishment.
“Yeah, what was it like?” Ivor repeated, attempting a casual nonchalance.
I was surprised at his interest in that, because Ivor, more so than I, perhaps, was not particularly scholastically minded. He had the build of an athlete, taller than me by four or five inches, heavier by almost a stone, with dark, short-cropped hair, a freckled face and a pugnacious jaw. He moved with the natural athlete’s springy lope. He was a more than adequate boxer, a hard-working and aggressive lock forward and, during the summer, a forthright, attacking middle order batsman, as well as being a bowler of fearsome pace and hostility, if rather lacking in accuracy.
“What was it like, then, your report?” he repeated insistently.
To be truthful, I could hardly remember much about it; I took little interest in it, apart from my French result and the comments opposite “Games”. My parents rarely commented on it either, except to tell me, with some regularity, that I would have to pull my socks up.
“Oh, all right, I suppose,“ I said off-handedly to Ivor. “I was top in French,” I added rather smugly. He ignored that.
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“What did H – have to say – about your Speech Training?”
I looked at him in amazement. Speech Training? It just didn’t count; there was no exam., no placings, just remarks on the term’s progress, or lack of it.
For a short while around this period of time, the powers-that-were quite rightly decided that we should be put on the path towards becoming at least partly comprehensible in our speech to someone who might live more than half-a-dozen miles away. And Mr. H - , as a recent graduate from Oxbridge, was deputed to perform this function. It must be said that he did so with rather bitter sarcasm, delivered under a thin veil of feigned jocularity, which did little to impart in us either the ability, or indeed the desire to speak our mother tongue in a widely acceptable form. In fact, it had, in some cases, where the pupil concerned was either of a rebellious or strongly independent nature, quite the reverse effect, as toes were, metaphorically speaking, firmly dug in.
Into this category Ivor fell; he took very personally and very much to heart the barbed remarks directed at him during the rather tedious classes in Speech Training, and in the end, it was obvious to everyone that he was adopting an attitude verging on passive resistance to H – ‘s instruction. It seemed that Ivor’s was the proverbial duck’s back off which the pure water of H – ‘s tuition flowed unheeded.
Ivor seized me, in mock anger, by the lapels of my blazer.
“C’mon, c’mon!” he exclaimed in his best Humphrey Bogart accents, “Come clean, y’rat!”
“Well,” I said, rather tired of the subject by now, “if you must know, I think he said something like ‘fairly good’. I didn’t get myself told off by my parents, anyhow, so it can’t have been too bad. But why, anyhow? What’s all the fuss about?”
Ivor’s eyes narrowed and he looked around him before, dropping his voice, he said to John and me, “Do you know what the rotter put on mine?”
“No,” I said, somewhat obviously.
“Well, on mine, he said, ‘Seems incapable of sustained effort’, the so-and-so. My Dad played merry hell about it, threatened to
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stop my pocket-money and goodness knows what.”
“I say, it is a bit thick, though, isn’t it, H – saying a rotten thing like that? I mean to say – “
I left the sentence unfinished; I felt that H – ‘s remark was a bit much. Surely he could have simply said ‘fairly good’ or ‘could do better’? They were the customary form of words. But this, well, it was rather damning. Both John and I made sympathetic noises, then John passed around his wine gums. I let Ivor have the black one and we chewed them in thoughtful silence, each of us meditating on the rat-ishness of H - . The next time I caught the ball I passed it hard to Ivor and he gave vent to his feelings with a tremendous punt which almost cleared the fence by the Art School.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
At that age, memories are short, and mine was no exception. I cannot speak for Ivor, of course; I suppose that somewhere inside that stubborn, defiant head of his a resentment still burned, and as far as H – was concerned, while it would be quite unfair to say that he had it in for Ivor, it was apparent that he singled him out with some slight relish as the object of any cutting remarks he felt inclined to make concerning our defective pronunciation. But it was something which, to be honest about it, did not loom very large in my life. Perhaps twice a week, during the Speech Training lessons I would look covertly, with mingled anticipation and apprehension, at the scornfully sarcastic H – and at a reddening Ivor, his lower lip jutting stubbornly, as the temperature of the atmosphere rose between them. But my Autumn term was dominated by the fact that I was picked to play for the Junior House fifteen.
I knew, of course, that Ivor’s eldest brother was in the Royal Air Force; from time to time he mentioned him, proudly, and looking back, I realise that I never knew his first name, he was to Ivor, simply ‘my brother’. Somehow, it lent them both a great deal of dignity, I think. Ivor would also tell us the latest Station his brother was on, their romantic-sounding names supplying, as it were, a coloured backdrop to the anonymity of ‘my brother’ in his coarse, high-necked airman’s tunic and peaked cap pulled down on his brow,
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as I saw him in my imagination, marching in a squad of men – I did not yet know they were called ‘flights’ – across a vast parade ground.
“He’s on a course at St. Athan, just now,” Ivor would tell us, or, “My brother’s been posted to Drem,” or again, “He’s at Scampton.”
What his brother did, exactly, we never knew, nor thought to ask, it was sufficient that he inhabited and was part of a picturesque, far-off and dashing world, greatly removed in every way from our monotonous and rather dreary provincial town.
One day, Ivor came up to John and me and said, proudly, “My brother’s been posted overseas, he’s gone to Aden.”
John said, mischievously, “Will he be wearing a fez?” and had to dodge the powerful left swing which Ivor pretended to aim with serious intent at him. On the strength of that news, John and I took to calling Ivor “Ali”, but we could tell he didn’t much like it, and as he was still the target of H – ‘s jibes we thought he had sufficient to contend with, so we eventually dropped it.
It was during the Christmas holidays when I was, for want of something better to do, in our sitting room playing the piano rather loudly and very inaccurately, that my mother put her head around the door.
“You’re not concentrating,” she said, “I can tell, you know. But there’s someone here for you, do you want me to bring him in?”
“Who is it?” I asked, glad of the interruption.
“I think he said his name was Bradley,” she replied.
“Oh, it must be Ivor, then,” I said, feeling much less bored and getting up from the piano. I went to the front door. Ivor was standing there with an expression of elaborate unconcern on his face.
“Hello, Yoicks,” he greeted me.
“Hiya,” I said, “what are you doing here?”
I thought perhaps he might want to borrow a book, or something.
“I was just going for a walk along the cliffs – want to come?”
This surprised me slightly as he wasn’t by any means a regular friend of mine away from school; there were a group of five or six of us who lived near to one another and who tended to congregate
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on our bikes in our immediate neighbourhood; Ivor lived all of three-quarters of a mile away in quite another part of the town, separated from our district by a railway line.
“Sure,” I said, glad of the distraction, “just hang on, I’ll shove my coat on.”
As I was doing so, “Mother!” I called, “I’m just going along the cliffs with Ivor.”
“Mind you don’t get cold,” she said, “Have you got your coat on?”
I rolled my eyes at Ivor, who grinned understandingly.
“Yes, Mam,” I said, in a long-suffering voice, and shut the door quickly behind me. We strode away.
When we arrived at the cliff-tops, the cold easterly wind was smashing the rollers against the rocks below and tugged at our overcoats as we walked. Until then we had talked of the usual things, what we had had for Christmas presents, the “flicks”, as Ivor always called them – a word learned from his brother, perhaps? – and how we had been passing the time during the holidays.
“My brother’s in Aden,” Ivor said, “did I tell you?”
I said yes, he had told us, how was he getting along?
“Great,” he said, “but it’s bloody hot out there. They’re all wondering what this bloke Mussolini’s going to do, he keeps talking about – what’s its name? – Abyssinia, or some place?”
I wasn’t greatly interested in the comical figure of the Italian dictator, comical, that is, as he appeared to us, or as he was portrayed to us. So I merely grunted something non-committal.
Ivor said abruptly, “I’m leaving. I thought I’d tell you.”
“You’re what?” I shouted above the noise of the sea, “You’re leaving? Leaving school? But you can’t!”
“Oh, yes I can, though,” he replied with a grin of triumph, “my Dad’s been to the Town Hall to check up.”
“But what are you going to do?” I asked, now all agog. He used an expression I heard then for the first time, on that cold and windswept cliff path, one which, when I hear it, inevitably brings to mind Ivor, his freckled face pink with the cold, as he proudly said, “I’m going to join the Raf.”
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The penny didn’t drop. It must have been the cold.
“The what?” I said, “What’s the Raf?”
He punched my shoulder playfully. Fortunately he was nearer the cliff-edge than I.
“C’mon, yer mug, it’s the R.A.F., of course. What else did you think?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I replied, recovering my balance. “When’re you going, then?”
“Soon as I can. End of next term, prob’ly. I’m going to be a Boy Apprentice at Halton!”
He squared his broad shoulders. A vision of Oliver Twist with his empty porridge bowl held out in front of him floated into my head. ‘Boy Apprentice’ sounded rather like someone who was being exploited, ill-treated. I am sure I was wrong, but the picture remained. But I grinned and said, “You might get out to Aden with your brother.”
“Hope so,” he said wistfully, “but he’ll prob’ly be posted again before that. Anyhow, that’s what I’m doing. I’m leaving as soon as I can. No more speech training for me!”
We laughed. Two gulls wheeled noisily overhead, their screaming cut across the noise of the sea and of the wind. Ivor aimed his fingers, pointed like a pistol, at them and clicked his tongue very loudly, twice. He was good at that.
“Gotcher!” he exclaimed.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The Spring term came and went. Ivor, as they would put it nowadays, kept a low profile as far as H – was concerned, and worked assiduously at every subject, even Speech Training. At the end of term he quietly left us. I don’t even remember saying ‘cheerio’ to him. We were young, you see, and quite without sentiment. Then it was summer, and the nets went up again. To my surprise I was elected Junior House cricket captain and became rather insufferably swollen-headed about it. It was on a Saturday afternoon that summer when I saw him again. I was sitting at home, reading, when a shadow passed the window, there was the sound of heavy footsteps and someone knocked at the door. I heard the door-knocker flap loosely as my mother answered it, then the sound of conversation.
[page break]
“It’s your friend,” mother said, “the one in the Air Force.”
I hurried to the door. Ivor stood there, smiling broadly, resplendent in his uniform, heavy boots shining brilliantly, his cap carrying the chequered band of the Halton Cadet.
“Hiya, Ivor!” I said. (I almost called him ‘Ali’ and only just corrected myself in time.)
“Hiya, Yoicks! How about comin’ for a walk? I’m on a forty-eight.”
I had no idea what that was but I went to tell my mother where I was going.
“Isn’t he smart?” she smiled quietly, “he looks well in his uniform.”
We set off for the cliffs, in the sunshine. I noticed he did not lope along now, he marched. He seemed taller than I remembered him, bronzed and deep-chested, harder. We exchanged news. In one way he seemed to be very grown-up but in another, he was still my form-mate, furrowing his brow at some problem of Algebra.
“What’s a forty-eight, by the way?” I asked.
“Just a forty-eight hour pass.”
“You haven’t got much time at home, then, have you? All that way from Halton and you’ll have to be back again inside two days?”
“Sure,” he said, airily and confidently, “it’s a piece of cake.”
That was another new expression; I stored it for future use.
“Where’s your brother just now? Still in Aden?”
“No, he’s been posted to Shaibah; bet you don’t know where that is.”
I shook my head.
“never heard of it before,” I said.
“Middle East,” Ivor said proudly, “Iraq – getting his knees brown good and proper.”
He started to sing joyfully what I later knew to be the anthem of all overseas R.A.F. men, “Shaibah Blues”. Then he ripped into several verses of “Charlotte the Harlot”, and while, having been very strictly brought up, I didn’t know the meaning of some of the expressions, I gathered from their anatomical connections that it was not the sort of thing one would sing at home. At least not at my home. But I smiled rather sheepishly when he’d finished.
I said, “Do you like it, in the Raf?”
(I hadn’t forgotten.)
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“It’s great,” he said decisively, “bloody great.”
He slapped me hard on the shoulder.
“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken, Yoicks!”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, square-bashing, P.T., lectures – I’m going to be a Flight Mechanic.”
I could see he was as happy as a sandboy, it shone out of him. He was alert, confident, buoyant, a complete contrast to the rebellious and scowling youth who had reluctantly forced himself to stand and, red-faced, chant, “the rain in Spain.”
“that’s fine, then,” I said, “but we don’t half miss you in the scrum.”
He never mentioned H – ‘s name.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Then, of course, the fuse which had been smouldering in Europe for six years finally detonated the bomb, and everything blew up in our faces. Not many of us were at all surprised. Although I and nearly all our little crowd who lived nearby had left school and were settling into our various jobs, as soon as Munich had come along I pushed my studying to one side. I knew there was no point in it now. It was going to be, at the very least, somewhat interrupted. So I, and my friends, played a lot of games, went to a lot of flicks, cycled a lot, and, out of working hours, lived our lives to the full, as far as we could. I started to take a girl out. Her name was Lilian, and she was extremely beautiful.
When the Battle of Britain was on I went into the R.A.F. One of my leaves, much later, coincided with one of Ivor’s, and he called at hour house, out of the blue. This time, as we were men, we shook hands firmly. He looked me up and down.
“I’m bloody well not going to call you ‘sir’,” he said.
“You’d bloody well better not try,, either,” I replied, “or I’ll stick you on a fizzer!”
He swung a playful punch at me, which, knowing Ivor, I was half-expecting. I dodged it and clouted him in the midriff, hard enough to make him wince.
“You rotten sod!” he gasped, “come on, let’s have a walk on the
[page break]
cliffs!”
I handed him a Players’, we lit up and strode away. The cliffs were partly wired off as an anti-invasion measure but we managed to get near enough to hear the same waves crashing on to the same rocks, and to smell the salt air as we walked. Until I looked at us, I felt nothing had changed; then I knew it had, really, and that you could never, ever, put the clock back to what had been.
It was about this time that the inevitable, impersonal and cruelly clinical process of the dissection of our little crowd began.
Norman was unfit for military service because of his deplorable eyesight. He was working for one of the Government Departments in London when a German bomb killed him. Peter, who lived in the next house down the street, and whose father had been drowned at sea a couple of years before, went into the R.A.F., became a Navigator, and was killed when his Wellington, from Finningley, crashed one night. I visited his mother on my first leave after it happened.
She was in a state of near-hysteria at mention of his name, and bitter, it must be said, that everything seemed to be going well for me. She did not know, of course, about my crew. I left her staring into the small fire, locked in her private world of abject misery. Then there was Jack, who was also an only son, strangely enough, also a Navigator on Wellingtons, also killed in a night crash.
By the time Alan, whom I had met in London while I was on my Intelligence course, had qualified as a Radar Operator on Beaufighters, the Germans had ceased flying over England at nights and he was transferred to non-operational flying. George also went into the R.A.F.., qualified as a pilot, then, almost immediately, the war ended. He emigrated to the U.S.A., where he had been trained.
Connie and I had a few months together at Moreton-in-the-Marsh, until I was grounded for good. I left him there, bumped into him once more, on leave, then learned of his death. He had crashed his Stirling, towing a glider, over England.
When it was all over, I asked Alan to be my best man. I would have done so anyhow, but in practical terms I had no choice – there was no-one left in our crowd now but he and I.
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So much had happened since I had last seen Ivor that he rarely had entered my thoughts. There was little reason for him to have done so, as he was a Fitter, in a pretty safe ground job in the R.A.F. Like thousands of other friends, we had been separated by the war and we would either bump into each other on some R.A.F. station, or in some outlandish place in the Far East, or eventually, we’d see each other back in the U.K. When he did enter my head occasionally, I thought perhaps he might have met and married a girl from some other part of the country, or, like George, had seen service in foreign parts and emigrated. I visualised him in a fez, thought about John’s remark about his brother, and smiled to myself at the happy recollection. But gradually, Ivor faded out of my mind.
Until I bumped into a chap who owned a shop, and who had been in our form at school. He had lived within a few hundred yards of Ivor. He, also, had served in the wartime R.A.F., as an armourer, and strangely enough, he told me he had been on the nearest Station to Breighton, at the same time as I had met J – there. I don’t know how he managed it, but he was a mine of information as to what happened to the chaps in our form. Ivor’s name did not come up immediately, as, of course, he had left school before we had done so. But in a pause during his cataloguing of old friends and acquaintances I asked him, “Where’s Ivor got himself these days? I haven’t seen him for years.”
P – was solemn, bespectacled and deliberate in manner and speech. He looked earnestly at me through his thick lenses for a moment or two, as though sorting through some mental card-index and trying to decide whether I could be trusted to hear the information which he had in store there.
“Ivor,” he said slowly, “Ivor Bradley. Yes. he went into the Raf, of course – you knew that?”
“yes,” I said, “He was a Boy Entrant, a Halton Brat, as they were known.”
A smile flicked on to and off his face, like the headlights of a car signalling ‘come on’.
“That’s right,” he continued, then paused. “Yes, well he went missing, you know.”
[page break]
For a moment I could not think what he meant. Rather obtusely I said, “You mean he left town? Went off somewhere suddenly?”
“No, no, he was aircrew, he went missing on a raid over Germany,” P – said, looking more owlish than ever.
“But – he was a fitter, surely?” I exclaimed, with an awful feeling, which I had hoped never again to experience, beginning to overtake me. Then, as the light dawned, I said, “Did he remuster to aircrew?”
P – nodded.
“Yes, that’s what happened. I saw him just after he volunteered for aircrew – you remember we lived near to one another? – and he said he wanted to do something a bit more active. So he became a Flight Engineer.”
“Good God,” I said softly, I’d no idea at all. I never dreamed that Ivor would go – like that.”
He nodded again, solemnly.
“Well, he did, I’m afraid,” he said.
He shuffled through a few more cards.
“How long were you at Breighton, by the way? I saw your name in the Visitors’ Book in the Church there, on the day after you’d been in.”
“That’s remarkable,” I said, “what a small world, isn’t it?”
I remembered very vividly going into the church with J - , the day after Johnny P – went missing.
P – said, “You must call in again sometime. I’ll shut the shop and we’ll have a cup of tea and a proper chat.”
I said yes, I would do that, and I felt I should really have made more of an effort to do so. But I was a bit of a coward about the rest of his card index, I’m afraid.
It was several more years before I learned what had happened to Ivor. Searching through a volume of aircrew losses I finally found his name. He was lost without trace, with his crew, during a raid in a Pathfinder Lancaster in the summer of 1943.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I poured myself a cup of the green tea and took a sip as I looked out of the window. But it was terribly tepid, so I threw it all away
[page break]
and found I wasn’t really thirsty after all. The sun had long since moved off the chequered tea-cosy, and it was starting to get dusk. I shivered suddenly and found I was feeling extremely lonely and extremely depressed. I looked across at the white telephone and wished to hell that someone would ring, anyone at all, even a wrong number would have done, just so that I could have heard a voice. I sat for a while, waiting, but I knew it was a stupid thing to do. Nobody did ring, so I put on my anorak and went out quickly.
I walked around for a bit. I passed a lighted pub which looked very inviting and cheerful with people smiling at one another and chatting while they drank their beer. I wished I could go in and have a few beers, with Connie, like I used to. I stopped and thought about it, but I knew it would be no good, and as M – had said, it wouldn’t solve anything. So I kept on walking and feeling bloody miserable when I thought about Ivor and Connie, and about Jack and Peter and Norman, and all my crew. And about J - . Her especially. Then I had a strong craving for a cigarette, but I knew that would be a stupid thing to do, too.
It started to rain, so finally, I made my way back to the flat. It felt empty and cold, like somewhere someone had once lived, but didn’t any more. If no-one rings before nine o’clock, I told myself, I will ring M - , just so that I can talk to someone, for Christ’s sake. I sat and looked at the telephone again for a bit and thought about it. But nine o’clock came and I didn’t do anything about it in the end, because I knew it wouldn’t be very cheerful or very much fun for her, and as I was tired and cold I swallowed a couple of aspirin and got into bed.
While I was taking them it occurred to me that there was a stack left in the bottle which could be put to very effective use, but then I thought that wasn’t exactly any part of a pressing-on-regardless effort, so I shoved the bottle firmly to one side.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to go off to sleep after all this business, and I was damned right. I kept thinking about Ivor, then I started thinking about the crowed and how much I realised I was missing them. And about J - ; her, most of all. Then I thought,
[page break]
“My God, there’s only me left now, and I’m not much damn good to anyone like this, even if there were anyone,” which made things worse. I would have given a great deal if I could have turned the clock back, to have gone back to Breighton, to that lovely summer, to have started all over again, to be meeting J – for the first time, that wonderful morning when I saw her walk into the Ops Room, when she came to attention smartly and saluted and said, “Good morning, sir.” Little did I know, little did we both know what was to happen to us.
But this was getting me nowhere, so in the end I said aloud, “Oh, Christ, I just don’t want to wake up in the morning.” Then I said goodnight to J – ‘s photograph, in our own very special way, like I always had done, to her, once upon a time, when we were together, when we were happy.
And then I put out the light.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
[inserted] [underlined] Photograph in a book. [/underlined] [/inserted]
[page break]
[underlined] PHOTOGRAPH IN A BOOK [/underlined]
“Frankie, do you remember me?”
(Late 20th century pop song.)
I realise it is very trite to say that the unexpected is always happening. Nevertheless I have to say that something completely unexpected happened recently to me, which produced, out of the blue, a violent cocktail-shaking of emotions which I thought were firmly and peacefully laid to rest.
I flatter myself that usually I am among the first to obtain, or at least to see, newly-published books on the subject of Bomber Command in the second world war, but for one reason or another, this was not the case in relation to a recently-published history of No. 4 Bomber Group.
4 Group included the aerodromes at Linton-on-Ouse, (my initial posting as an Int/Ops Officer), Holme-on-Spalding-Moor, to which I was moved when the Canadians were about to take over the northernmost aerodromes of 4 Group to form their own 6 Group, and Breighton, the satellite of Holme, where I was to meet, fall in love with and become engaged to J - , who, when the war was over became my wife.
I should have, to have been true to form, snapped up the book on its first appearing, but for various reasons, I did not. Instead, I heard reports – all good – of it from D - , an Ex-W.A.A.F., who features on a whole page of it, complete with her charming photograph, and with whom I had been corresponding. And I heard of it from Alan, a friend who was instrumental in having a memorial installed on the village green close to the place where Pilot Officer Cyril Barton, V.C., of 578 Squadron in 4 Group, sacrificed his life in bringing back his crippled and half-crewed Halifax after the disastrous Nuremberg raid. Alan was a schoolboy at the time and was among the first on the scene of Cyril Barton’s crash. He has, most worthily, devoted a considerable amount of his time and energy to ensuring
[page break]
that Cyril’s sacrifice will never be forgotten. It was as a result of this that, just before J – died, I met Alan, a very caring man, a man who has become a true friend to me. He was given the book as a birthday present.
He and I live in neighbouring towns. We speak on the telephone quite often; we meet whenever we are able and always find much to talk about, as Alan was also in the Royal Air Force. He was thrilled to receive the book, which, naturally, contains material concerning Cyril Barton. I had been searching bookshops for it, but without success; I had been waiting for the local Library to obtain it for me.
Early one evening there was a ring at my doorbell. Alan was standing there, cheerful as ever, a welcome sight indeed. He was carrying something flat in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. With typical generosity he said that as he and his wife were shortly going on holiday, I might as well have the benefit of the book while he was away. I was grateful to him, and leafed through it while we chatted for a while before he had to leave to go to work. He showed me a picture in the book of Cyril’s wrecked aircraft and of Alan himself, as a schoolboy, standing near to it, very soon after the crash occurred.
When Alan had gone, impressed by the high quality of the book and by the photographs in particular, many of them amateur pictures taken by wartime aircrew members, I leafed through its pages, then worked through them systematically.
There were many poignant, familiar scenes. Of aircraft and their crews, of aerodromes and their buildings, targets in Germany and the occupied countries, pictures of people I had known of by reputation, people I had known personally, many I had never known. I found myself wondering how many of those young faces smiling at me from the pages were now, like myself, turning these same pages thinking, as I was thinking, “Oh, yes, I remember a scene like that”, or how many if them were no longer able to do this. A lump was gathering in my throat as I turned to a particular page and saw, among a group of captions, one which read ‘Interrogation for 78 Squadron crews as others await their turn, following the raid
[page break]
on Berlin on 31st August/1st September 1943.’
Reading it, I thought, “Well – I was an Intelligence Officer to 78n Squadron at that time.” Then I looked at the photograph and saw myself pictured there, in the far corner of the room, writing down the replies to my questions to the crew – heaven only knows who they were – at my table.
“My God,” I exclaimed.
I could not help it and I am not ashamed to admit that my eyes flooded with tears. I had no idea that the photograph had been taken; the author’s credit was to Gerry C - , who was a pilot on the Squadron at that time, whom I knew, and with whom I am still in contact.
I felt as though I had been wrenched back in time to that night, almost fifty years ago, as though the intervening years had never been, as though I were still at Breighton, working those long and irregular hours in the windowless Operations Room alongside Derek and Pam, with one or other of the W.A.A.F. Watchkeepers – Freda, or the attractive and much sought after Billie, or with J - . I felt, strangely, that all I needed to do was to walk out of the door of this cottage and I would find myself, miraculously, back on the narrow concrete road leading from that house in the hamlet of Breighton with its tall gable-end, along past the W.A.A.F. site to the Nissen huts of the Intelligence Library, the Window Store and the Ops. Room, where the armed sentry would be on duty, where the cornfield would be stretching away to my left, up towards the perimeter track and the runways of the aerodrome. I would return the sentry’s salute and his greeting and I would open the heavy door of the Ops. Room to see, on my left, the huge blackboard with the captains’ names and their aircraft letters already entered for the night’s operation. At the top, the target for tonight, perhaps Duisburg or Mannheim or Essen – or Berlin. The route written underneath that – Base – Southwold – Point A, with Lat. and Long. positions for the route-marking flares to guide the bomber stream to the target. The time of briefing, of the operational meals, of transport out to the aircraft, of starting engines, and of take-off. Of ‘H-Hour’, the time on target. On the wall facing me I would see the huge map of the British Isles, the S.D. 300, blotched in red with gun-defended areas, stuck with broad-headed pins and coloured threads carrying information
[page break]
about navigational hazards.
In the middle of the room the big map table where, after the raid, we spread the mosaic photograph of the German town which had been the target and would plot the crews’ bombing photos. And, to the right, the place where I shall sit, near to the telephones and next to J – who is there behind her switchboard and Tannoy microphone, ready for the night’s operation. If she had been born a man she would, I know, have been a member of a bomber crew, for she thought and talked of little else but bombing operations.
Except on stand-down evenings, in the twilight, when we met secretly in the village at a quiet angle of buildings on the main road, near to the bus stop, then cycled to the ‘Plough’ at Spaldington, the nearest village to the bombing range, where, amazingly, there were no other uniforms to be seen in its homely bar. Where we would spend the long, warm evenings over two or three beers, sitting in the high-backed, high-sided wooden seats made for two, made for people like we were then, people who were young and who had met and who loved each other deeply and desperately. And sitting there, talking gently together, we would hear, above the murmur of the farm workers’ talk, the drone of some aircraft, perhaps on a night cross-country flight, perhaps heading for the other side on a raid. Then we would both sit silently, listening, not saying anything, but I know we were both praying for its safe return to base.
Sometimes, when our own aircraft had gone on a raid and we were not due on duty until they returned, we would steal a precious hour together, sitting with our arms around one another in the darkness, on a low grassy bank under some trees, not far from the unmanned railway level crossing at Gunby, the Sandra lights from the aerodrome shining distantly through the trees, heavy with their summer foliage. For some reason, whenever I hear Delius’ ‘The Walk to the Paradise Garden’ I invariably and inevitable think of J – and I at that place and those wonderful, warm summer nights we shared in the countryside of East Yorkshire, around Breighton.
The tears which came to my eyes when I saw my photograph, and the sadness which overwhelmed me, were because now, that Interrogation Room, whose walls, had they been possessed of ears, would have heard
[page break]
small, unemotionally told tales, couched in the understated phrases of flying men, of achievement, of failure, of heroism, of desperation, triumph and tragedy, that Interrogation Room is now an unoccupied ruin, and the Ops. Room is no more, now part of an isolated dwelling house. I know, for I have been back there, where among so much tragedy, I was so happy.
And J - , now, is no more, except in my memory. I sat with her, taking her cold and unfeeling hand in mine, one beautiful summer morning, such as we used to have at Breighton, and I watched her life slip away from the loveliness that had been her. But we shall meet again, I know, she and I, and all the many crew members who came into our lives and went again, and were forgotten by us, like the many dawns and the many sunsets which we shared.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
[underlined] GLOSSARY [/underlined]
Abort – to abandon an operation and return to base.
A.C.P. – Aerodrome Control Pilot, a ‘traffic policeman’ for those aircraft within visual distance.
A.G. – Air Gunner.
Alldis lamp – high-powered lamp capable of flashing Morse letters.
A.P. – Air Publication, usually a book; Aiming Point.
A.S.I. – Airspeed indicator.
Astrodome – transparent blister half way back along the fuselage of the Wellington.
A.S.V. – Anti-surface vessel.
A.T.A. – Air Transport Auxiliary, civilian aircraft delivery service.
Base – parent Station of one or more satellite aerodromes. Three, four, or even five Bases and their satellites constituted a Group.
base – one’s home aerodrome.
Best blue – best uniform.
Bind – (noun) nuisance, annoyance. (verb) to complain, tiresomely.
Bomb plot – plan of the target area annotated with the positions of each of the Squadron aircraft’s bombing photos.
Bombing Leader – senior Bomb-Aimer on a Squadron, responsible for instruction and training of other Bomb-Aimers.
Bombing photo – vertical photo taken automatically on release of an aircraft’s bombs, thus showing the point of impact.
Boost – petrol/air mixture pressure at the engine inlet manifold.
Buck House – Buckingham Palace.
Bullseye – bomber exercise in conjunction with friendly searchlights.
Circuits and bumps – take offs, circuits and landing, the staple diet of training pilots.
C.O. – Commanding Officer.
Cookie – 4000 pound High Capacity blast bomb, nicknamed by the press and B.B.C. ‘blockbuster’.
DC3 – Douglas Dakota twin-engined transport aircraft. Also known as a C-47.
Defiant – Boulton Paul single-engined fighter/night fighter. Two-seater, the rear seat being in a rotatable 4-gun turret.
[page break]
D.R. – Dispatch rider.
Drem lighting – aerodrome runway and perimeter track lighting, protected by metal dish-shaped hoods so as to be invisible from above. First used at R.A.F. Drem, Scotland.
Early return – (later knows as ‘boomerang’) aircraft returning from an abortive sortie.
E.F.T.S. – Elementary Flying Training School.
Erk – Aircraftman.
E.T.A. – Estimated time of arrival.
Feathering – device which enabled the pilot to turn the blades of a propeller edge-on to the direction of flight, thus minimising the drag on the aircraft in the event of an engine failure.
Flak – German anti-aircraft fire.
Flights – Flight Offices and crewroom.
Flying the beam – flying from A to B by means of an aural signal transmitted by B.
Fresher – a new crew; such a crew’s early operational flights; the target for such a crew.
Fizzer, stick (or put) on a – charge with an offence.
Gee – radar navigational aid which enabled an aircraft to fix its position. Had a limited range which just covered the Ruhr and was susceptible to jamming.
Gen – information, news, divided into ‘pukka’ (true) and ‘duff’ (false). (Meteorological Officers were invariably known as Duff Gen Men.)
Geodetics – aluminium girders formed into spiral basket-work construction which made up the fuselage and mainplanes of the Wellington.
Get weaving – get going, get started.
Glim lamps/lights – low-powered lights which formed the flarepath of an aerodrome.
Glycol – Ethylene glycol, liquid coolant.
Gong – medal.
Goose-necks – paraffin flares housed in watering-can-shaped containers. Supplemented Drem lighting.
G.Y. – Grimsby.
Gyro – gyroscopic compass.
[page break]
1 Group – Bomber Group in north Lincolnshire consisting of, originally, 4 R.A.F., 3 Polish and 2 Australian Wellington Squadrons, latterly, of Lancaster Squadrons.
3 Group – Bomber Group in East Anglia consisting of, originally, Wellington Squadrons. Converted to Stirlings, latterly to Lancasters.
Halifax – Four-engined Handley Page bombers with crew of seven. Nicknamed Hali or Halibag.
Hampden – Twin-engined Handley Page medium bombers, crew of three.
Harvard – single-engined North American Aviation Co. advanced fighter trainers. Also know as Texan or AT – 6.
“Have a good trip” – Between close friends on a Squadron this parting remark was occasionally varied by the addition of “Can I have your egg if you don’t come back?” This was part of the grim humour current among bomber aircrew.
H.E. – High explosive.
High – anticyclone, high-pressure weather system.
H2S – Radar device which showed a ground plan of the earth below an aircraft.
Ident. light – identification light, a small nose-light used for flashing Morse.
I.F.F. – Identification friend or foe. Radar set carried on an aircraft to identify it as friendly to British ground defences. Set to ‘Stud 3’ it gave a specially-shaped distress trace on ground radar screens.
Int. – Intelligence.
Intercom – internal ‘telephone system’ in an aircraft.
Interrogation – now known, in view of the current overtones of ill-treatment which have become implicit in the term, as ‘de-briefing’.
I.T.W. – Initial Training Wing.
Juice – petrol
Kite – aircraft.
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L.A.C. – Leading Aircraftman.
L.A.C.W. – Leading Aircraftwoman.
Line-shoot – boast.
Link Trainer – a simulator which gave practice in instrument flying.
Lysander – Single-engined Westland Aviation Army co-operation (originally) aircraft.
Mag drop – the reduction in r.p.m. of an engine when one of its two magnetos was switched out.
Mae West – Inflatable life-jacket which gave to its wearer the contours of the famous film actress.
Mosaic – collage of aerial photographs, taken probably at different times, but from the same height, making up a complete picture of a German town, and used to plot bombing photos.
Nav. – navigator, navigation.
N.F.T. – night-flying test.
Nickels – British propaganda leaflets dropped over enemy territory. To drop the leaflets was known as nickelling.
Observer – Navigator/Bomb-aimer in twin-engined bombers prior to the establishment of these as separate categories.
Occult – white flashing beacon showing one Morse letter whose latitude and longitude was carried by Observers or Navigators (in code).
On the boat – posted overseas, or, when overseas, posted to the U.K.
One o’clock – slightly to the right of dead ahead (twelve o’clock). Dead astern was six o’clock.
Ops – operations.
O.T.U. – Operational Training Unit.
Oxford – twin-engined advanced bomber-trainer, made by Airspeed Ltd.
Peri. track – perimeter track, a taxying track connecting the ends of the runways on an aerodrome, and having aircraft dispersal points leading off it.
Pigeon – homing pigeon carried in bomber aircraft to carry a message back to base giving the aircraft’s position in the event of ‘ditching’ (landing in the sea), when the aircraft would be too low for its radio transmissions to be heard.
[page break]
Pit – bed.
Pitch controls – varied the angle of the propeller blades and consequently controlled the r.p.m. of the engine.
Pitot head – (pronounced pea-toe) fine-bore tube facing forward which supplied air pressure from the movement of the aircraft through the air and showed this pressure as airspeed on a ‘clock’ in the cockpit.
P/O – Pilot Officer (not necessarily a pilot!)
Poop off – shoot off.
P/O Prune – a cartoon character in Tee Emm (q.v.), an inept pilot forever involved in accidents of his own making.
Portreath – R.A.F. Station in Cornwall
Prang – crash, wreck, break.
Press the tit – press the button.
Prop – propeller, more properly, airscrew.
P.R.U. – Photographic Reconnaissance Unit.
Pundit – aerodrome beacon, flashing two red Morse letters which were changed at irregular intervals. The beacons were always within two miles of the parent aerodrome, although their position was changed nightly.
R.A.A.F. – Royal Australian Air Force.
R.C.A.F. – Royal Canadian Air Force.
Resin lights – low-powered lights at the rear of an aircraft’s wingtips, illuminated over this country as a warning to friendly night-fighters. Colours were changed at irregular intervals.
Revs – revolutions.
Rolling the bones – gambling with dice.
R/T – radio telephone (speech).
Sandra lights – cone of three searchlights stationary over an aerodrome, to assist returning aircraft.
Scrub – cancel.
Second dickey – second pilot.
S.D. – secret document.
S.D.300 – wall-map of the U.K., kept in the Ops Room and maintained by the Watchkeepers, showing positions of all gun-defended areas, navigational hazards and convoys.
[page break]
S.F.T.S. – Service Flying Training School. (Stage following E.F.T.S.)
Spit – Spitfire.
Spoof. – feint.
Sprog – newly arrived, newly joined, raw, inexperienced.
Square-bashing – drill.
Stall – lose flying speed.
Stirling – four-engined bomber manufactured by Short Bros.
Stooge – boring, casual or haphazard flying.
Stud 3 – Distress frequency setting on I.F.F. (q.v.)
Sullom Voe – R.A.F. Station in the Shetlands.
Sweet Caps – Sweet Caporal cigarettes, a popular Canadian brand.
Tee Emm – Air Ministry Training Magazine. Humorously written and comically illustrated aid to safe flying and good navigation and gunnery. It was extremely popular with all aircrew.
Trailing edge – rear edge of mainplane or elevators.
Trimmers – (or ‘trimming tabs’). Small adjustable sections of the aircraft’s control surfaces, enabling it to be flown, when they were carefully adjusted, without undue pressure on the controls by the hands and feet.
Undercart – undercarriage.
u/s – unserviceable.
u/t – under training.
Vic – V.
W.A.A.F. – Women’s Auxiliary Air Force; a member of same.
W.A.A.F. (G) – Officer responsible for the discipline and well-being of all W.A.A.F. on a Station.
Watchkeeper – W.A.A.F. Sergeant who acted as a clearing house for all telephoned outgoing and incoming secret operational and other information, and who was responsible for its prompt and correct transmission to the appropriate person(s).
Wellington – twin-engined Vickers bomber with a crew of six.
Wimpy – Nickname for the above. Derived from the character in a ‘Daily Mirror’ cartoon – J. Wellington Wimpy, a friend of Popeye.
[page break]
Wingco – Wing Commander. (C.O. of a bomber Squadron).
W/T – wireless telegraphy (Morse code).
Y.M. – Y.M.C.A.
Dublin Core
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Title
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Loose on the wind
Description
An account of the resource
Starts with a poem and then a series of stories which together form the memoirs of Harold Yeoman, an officer who served in Bomber Command during the war, initially as a pilot on Wellingtons and then as an Intelligence Officer. He relates his activities both professionally and personally during this time and recounts the many friends and colleagues he lost whilst on operations. He recalls his flying training on the Tiger Moths at Sywell, then on to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada for further training. He was then posted to Bassingbourne O.T.U. to train to fly Wellingtons, before going to Binbrook on operational flying duties. Harold flew a number of operations before being grounded due to medical reasons. It was whilst he was grounded that his crew were reported as missing and subsequently recorded as killed in action. While waiting for his Medical Board, Harold was stationed at the Operational Training Unit at Moreton-in-the-Marsh ferrying brand new Wellingtons from Kemble and flying them to Moreton to hand over to pupil crews. He was then moved to ‘X’ Flight of the O.T.U and trained new pilots before being grounded again for medical reasons when he transferred into Intelligence for Bomber Command. He completed his R.A.F. career in Penang as an Adjutant.
Creator
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H Yeoman
Date
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1994-11
Contributor
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Tricia Marshall
Format
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Multipage printed document
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Memoir
Text. Poetry
Coverage
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Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Canadian Air Force
Royal Australian Air Force
Spatial Coverage
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Great Britain
England--Northamptonshire
England--Northampton
England--Devon
England--Torquay
England--Cheshire
England--Wilmslow
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
Canada
Nova Scotia--Halifax
Nova Scotia--Cape Breton Island
Saskatchewan--Moose Jaw
England--Suffolk
Germany
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Netherlands
Netherlands--IJssel Lake
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Essen
England--Lincolnshire
England--Grimsby
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Cologne
England--Berkshire
England--Reading
Netherlands
Netherlands--IJmuiden
Germany--Essen
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Sylt
Germany
Germany--Helgoland
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Germany--Lübeck
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Bochum
England--Gloucestershire
England--Yorkshire
Burma
Burma--Rangoon
Malaysia
Malaysia--Kampong Sungai Gelugor (Pinang)
Malaysia--George Town (Pulau Pinang)
Malaysia--Butterworth (Pulau Pinang)
England--Buckinghamshire
Wales--Vale of Glamorgan
Germany--Nuremberg
Saskatchewan
Nova Scotia
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
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1942-09
1942-05
Identifier
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BYeomanHTYeomanHTv1
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
1 Group
12 Squadron
4 Group
578 Squadron
78 Squadron
air gunner
Air Transport Auxiliary
aircrew
animal
Anson
anti-aircraft fire
arts and crafts
B-17
B-24
bale out
bombing
bombing of Hamburg (24-31 July 1943)
bombing of Nuremberg (30 / 31 March 1944)
control tower
crash
crewing up
Defiant
faith
fear
final resting place
flight engineer
flight mechanic
forced landing
Fw 190
Gee
Gneisenau
grief
ground crew
ground personnel
Guinea Pig Club
H2S
Halifax
Hampden
Harvard
In the event of my death letter
Ju 88
killed in action
Lancaster
love and romance
Lysander
Manchester
McIndoe, Archibald (1900-1960)
medical officer
mess
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
navigator
observer
operations room
Oxford
pilot
prisoner of war
RAF Bassingbourn
RAF Bawtry
RAF Binbrook
RAF Breighton
RAF Finningley
RAF Halton
RAF Holme-on-Spalding Moor
RAF Kemble
RAF Linton on Ouse
RAF Little Rissington
RAF Mildenhall
RAF Moreton in the Marsh
RAF St Athan
RAF Sywell
RAF Torquay
RAF Tuddenham
Scharnhorst
searchlight
shot down
Spitfire
sport
Stalag Luft 3
Stirling
Tiger Moth
training
Victoria Cross
Wellington
Window
wireless operator
wireless operator / air gunner
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1538/28537/MDowningJJ418648-160914-03.1.pdf
beab808db51726727bc3bb56488a3df6
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Downing, Jeffery John
J J Downing
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-09-14
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Downing, JJ
Description
An account of the resource
19 items. The collection concerns Flying Officer Jeffery Downing (1922 - 1945, 418648 Royal Australian Air Force) and contains documents, objects and photographs. He served as bomb aimer with 460 Squadron and was killed 10 February 1945.<br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Elizabeth Dillon-Hensby and catalogued by Barry Hunter. <br /><br />Additional information on Jeffery Downing is available via the <a href="https://losses.internationalbcc.co.uk/loss/106456/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Transcribed document
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Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[indecipherable front cover of diary]
[inserted] newspaper cutting]
So you crossed over and the trumpets sounded for you on the other side.
PRIVATE.
Jeff!
Waiting beyond life's sunset for you. M.
Without farewell you passed into the Great Beyond. A happy face a loving smile a broken link I can never replace.
[page break]
You gave yourself generously, knowingly devotedly.
[page break]
[indecipherable word]
11-4-45
Dear Jeff.
I just feel I must write to you. It is just 9 weeks last night that the tragic news of your death came to me. I was home alone. Guy Wells brought it. The shock was profound. I couldn't believe it. I was home alone except with Peter he understood what it all meant, at once, he said he was very sad. Guy Wells took him home to [indecipherable word] and I was here alone, at quarter past 6pm the news came so I stayed here alone. I don't know what I did all that time until Dad and Pat and Henry arrived at 1-45 a.m. We talked about you and wondered how such a thing could happen. We were grief stricken our hearts torn to shreds, after a while there was nothing
[page break]
2
to do but go to bed, I couldn't sleep. I got up about 7am and did the usual chores, got the breakfast, we couldn't eat it.
By 9 o'clock the news had got round the town the people were horror struck. Mr Onion died on the Monday afternoon so you can imagine the state the towns people were in, your death and his so close together. People came continuously to express their sorrow, and admiration for you, everyone loved you, the boy with the frank open face and the erect carriage as you were so often described.
Your last letter came on 15th two days afterwards, I was so glad to get it I knew it would be the last, but I cherish that one, and all your letters, & have them in safe keeping, they are very precious to me.
Friday 15 your photos came, they are just “you” it was very good of you to
[page break]
3
send them, they are away being framed now, they are going to stand on your table in the sitting room and when I walk into the room I can say “Hello Jeff” you look just as though you want to speak. The tweed came about a fortnight later, it is just lovely I'm going to have it made into a skirt and long coat and I'm going to make it carry me through the remaining years of my life whether they be few or many, and I hope if ever I get a chance to go to England I'll wear it to go and see where you are resting. I hate to feel we are all over here and you in England alone. We have had many comforting letters from Padre Anderson and another Padre, George Kloeden, Mrs Robinson, Tony's mother, you wrote such a lot of Tony. Mr. & Mrs. Dockery came up to see me on the week following, they,
[page break]
4
needless to say are grief stricken too especially his father. We have had three very nice letters from “Micky” also from Jerry and Peggy. Jerry was shocked. We let Margot know that night, both Mr. Jackson and Margot were, and still are as stunned as me. Dad and Mary had visited Micky's sister Mrs McChrohen, only a few days prior to your death.
On 4th March Dot Peter and I went to Ocean Grove for a fortnight the holiday had been planned long before Xmas, it was very restful, I was able to be very close to you down there, it is a very nice place untouched by the modern trend of civilisation, a lovely beach, lovely scrub country and countless well built gay week-end homes, it is just where I would like to have a little house.
[page break]
5
Jeff: I have had agonising days during these last eight weeks, sometimes I work and knit and that helps me, there is no mistake about it, work does take your mind off trouble. I have three or four photos of you in my room, you remember where my desk is and how my bed is situated to it, consequently I am able to talk to you first thing in the morning and last thing at night and I always do in the day time. I am endeavouring to live up to the sacrifice you have made for me, but I did want you back. I felt I needed you so in my declining years. You were always so generous in thought and deed. I won’t forget how fearlessly you drove home through that burning forest. I wonder if you remember that. It was Jan 14th 1944
[page break]
6
on your final leave. O! that I wish now that you hadn’t gone. 12th April.
My thoughts have been with you all day today, my mind never strays from you no matter what I am doing. By this mornings post we had a nice letter from Rhod Pope’s father with a memorial card to Rhod and his photo attached, what a nice lad he looks just a mere child, how they must grieve for their boy too. We hope to let the Popes have a photo of you.
I have done the usual chores today, Mary made some scones this morning I made a cake. I’m finding the meat coupons hard to go round but the folk in England are finding it still harder. We are none the worse in health for rationing.
Hilary Jasper came this afternoon with her young son, Graham, nearly 5 weeds old a very intelligent little chap, strong.
[page break]
Do you remember your last trip home? Dad went down to Essenden to meet you and you weren’t there and you rung an S.O.S. and you arrived home here about 12-30 and left again at 4-30 and that was the very last I saw of you and to think I am never going to see you again O! it is terrible too terrible to think over for long.
I feel better for writing this Jeff, I’ll write again later. Ever so much love. Mother.
[page break]
7
I wish you could see him. Mrs Gordon from Nth Drummond, and Mrs Green came later, we had a fire in the breakfast-room it was very cosy, we had afternoon tea of course, the room is rather crowded when there are so many in it.
We had the saw bench during the week the thing does make a beastly noise too, consequently we have sawn wood all over the back yard until Hocking comes tomorrow to stack it. We have had the front hedge cut right down to the level of the fence its a vast improvement one doesn’t feel so shut in now.
I have planted all, or I should say nearly all your tulip bulbs, there are about 18 left I’ll put them in later. A wretched cow got in the other night and trampled on them. I have levelled the ground again I hope they will be alright. I have asked Auntie
[page break]
8
Dorrie to take some yellow tulips to you before she leaves England. O! Jeff the world is much poorer by the loss of you six very fine lads, you could all have faced the troubles that lie ahead. Good night my boy. My prayer every night is “Please God help me to bear it all”. Mother.
[underlined] Friday 13th. [/underlined]
Hello Jeff! I have looked at your photo scores of times today and have had such a craving to talk to you, and I do and I feel you very near to me sometimes. The day has had its usual chores. Hocking has been and stacked half the wood. The day has been beautiful but no rain yet, I’m afraid. I don’t go out much I just feel I can’t face the people and have my thoughts directed from you. Mary is trying patiently to teach me to knit gloves, I’m afraid I’m not a very apt pupil. I must say it is a fairly
[page break]
9
hard pattern, I’ll persevere with them though. They will look nice when they are finished, a good emerald green. I hope to make some socklets to match, not that I’ll wear the socklets. I don’t know whether [inserted] I told you [/inserted], I finished the cardigan and it looks quite nice especially with a mustard coloured blouse I wear. I haven’t been very well today, I have a nasty pain in my side, I’ll see how it is tomorrow before I say anything about it. I expect Pat home tomorrow night, she has the Monday holiday, it will be good. I wish you were coming too. I’m writing this in bed, I’m pretty tired so I’ll say goodnight and ever so much love Mother.
Sunday 15 t h
Yesterday was a glorious day in the afternoon Dad had to go to Nth Drummond I went also, it is ages since I have been out that way. I remember when you were about
[page break]
10
2 we went out with Dad one Sunday morning it was a gloriously warm spring day the dandelions and wild flowers were out and we both sat down and pick and pick and made dandelion chains, somehow that morning has frequently cropped up in my memory all through the years, and now you are 22 how time fly’s.
The journey yesterday passed Pattern’s Hill is terribly rough the track narrower and rougher, crossing frequent dry fords and the country side all charred from the fires of last year, you would remember them, finally we came to a pretty clearing with a new up to date house the original house burnt in the fire. Such a lovely spot it is, the little lady of the house invited me in to a cup of tea, any suburban girl would envy her her nice home and all the things a young girl likes in her first home. She gave me some cream
[page break]
we weren’t to have that pleasure. Now you have gone on that long strange journey – with those five other lads who were your pals in a Lancaster Bomber – and you have left me here to carry on – not alone altogether because I feel you very near to me. I speak and you seem to answer me. You are still so real to me. I hope I can be as brave on my journey here as you have been on yours.
Pat’s home for the week-end she and Mary have gone out to Greens’ it is a very lovely day for a drive. Au revoir Mother.
It does me a tremendous amount of good to write to you.
I have been picking tawny chrysanthemums and Autumn foliage today, you were with me, and will always be in my Gardening Treasured Memories. Mother.
[page break]
These Autumn days are delightful it is still and hot. I’m sitting under the Walnut tree and the leaves are fluttering down, red, yellow and brown, the glory, the peace and the quietude are just what you are enjoying. It would be lovely if I could see you here. I feel you very near to me, I know you are enjoying it too.
President Roosevelt passed over the Great Divide last Friday, I can just imagine you lads who went before he did forming a guard of honour for his triumphant entry into the Great Beyond, he was a great leader and the whole allied world is sorry to have lost him. My love, Mother.
Sat 21st .
Princess Elizabeth’s birthday, 19 yrs no celebration. Jeff, I have had two wretched days, I have no right to depress you with my troubles
[page break]
there is no one else who understands as you do, I thought I was better but it all came back again and I have been swallowing lumps all the time. I went down to the [indecipherable word] at Baynton St with my thoughts today I always feel better down there, I sit on the rocks and just think, it was very pleasant I felt you so near. I could talk with you so quietly. I used to go there about 16 years ago when another great calamity came upon us, I always felt better, I’m glad you didn’t know about it, the calamity I mean. There were some children racing and calling across the paddock this afternoon, some sheep browsing, a flock of big black birds with white parts. I don’t know what they were, and a lonely swallow flitting around just where I was sitting. Kirkhams’ bridge is still there. I wandered towards the weir and some how passed the hospital.
[page break]
I met Mrs Matthews just at our corner we discussed mutual thoughts and feelings, her boy has gone on also, he left before you, she is a very nice soul. We had word today Gerry had his D.F.C. just as you predicted, I felt quite envious of Mrs Jackson and Margot almost grudged them their good fortune. O’dear, I must not cultivate grudging thoughts. I’ll try to do better. It is good to get out as I did today, the house seems like a prison, I feel I’d like to get away from it altogether. This is badly written, I’M in bed, I hope I sleep better tonight. Love from Mother.
Monday 23rd
Jeff; I’ve had a dreadful day today, I’m sorry to tell you my trouble, but who can I tell them to, but you, I know you are so patient and understanding. I think it was because a letter came from Mrs Jackson telling of Jerry’s D.F.C.
[page break]
I know you will be as pleased as all the Jacksons, but it broke me up absolutely if I could only have had “you” back without the decoration I would have been just as honored [sic], but I must try and go through with it for your sake, I wonder if I will see the reason for it before I get too old.
I didn’t tell you Mary had her tonsils out and for a week she has been much off color [sic], is better today though, and should go ahead now. Peter is going to the Blind concert tonight, he’ll have a good laugh I guess. Love from Mother. Tuesday. Again I am writing this in be it is 10-30 pm so you see it is time I was in bed but I don’t sleep until late, I couldn’t read tonight somehow so thought I would have a talk with you although I talk to you frequently during the day
[page break]
and you help me such a lot, your memory is very precious to me. I have been feeling better today although I don’t seem to be able to mix with other people yet, I suppose it will come in time. Dad has been quite busy the last few days and I always think he is better when he is busy provided he doesn’t make himself too tired, he is much improved since his long holiday although I have been worried about him on two or three occasions. I’ll make another effort at reading and then try and get to sleep. Cheerio for the time being. Much love Mother.
Jeff; Anzac day today 30 years since that dreadful slaughter on Gallipoli, I remember how the wounded came back to us in hundreds, there should never be another such war after this. O, how I wish you had been spared to return to us. I put
[page break]
some roses and berries for you today for precious remembrance of you, there were other flowers there from other mothers. Mrs Lewes and Mrs Sanderson have been very good to me since you left. I do appreciate it. I don’t know what I would do if I hadn’t them to go to. Mrs L. has her niece staying with her a very nice woman much the same age as I am, I showed her your photo and she at once said you were like me it made me so happy because I am so proud of you. Off to bed I am. Good night, Mother.
Jeff – I have such an urge to write to you tonight, I haven’t written for some time, I haven’t forgotten you don’t think that for one moment, I talk to you two or three times a day. I’m always thinking of you. Mary, Peter and I are sitting by the fire in the breakfast room, it isn’t really
[page break]
very cold yet, although it is raining a little today the first for some considerable time. Mary and I are knitting a jumper for Mary, I’m doing the front, Mary doing a sleeve having already done the back. We are listening to some beautiful music, my thoughts always fly to you when I hear good music I know how you loved it so. I was always so sorry you hadn’t had the opportunity to learn when you were young, I do miss your little recitals although they were self taught. I picked some violets and roses for you today they are so sweet smelling, I know you love to have them.
Mrs Bakley came to see me the other day on account of you she said you visited her with the Jacksons prior to the Xmas you left, she spoke so well of you what a fine upright man you had grown, I’m so proud of you, I did want you for my
[page break]
later years especially, I know you will guide and help me because you are so near to me.
The war in Europe has almost ended, what rejoicing there will be in England. I did hope you could share in that rejoicing, but it wasn’t to be.
The frosts have come and finished the dahlias our Autumn ones were quite good, the Chrysanthemums are well out and I find very useful. O’ Jeff I do hope the opportunity comes for me to go and see where you are resting it is my one hope and desire. Cheerio my boy. Mother.
May 6th The day has been very pleasant hasn’t it Jeff. I have had the usual household duties, they have gone well, of course Mary is a great help although she doesn’t seem to me to be as well here as in town, perhaps it is there is not the mingling of girls her own age here, she had a lot of interest in the city.
[page break]
This lacking energy is a fearful trial I know it so well. Jeff; I went with Dad this afternoon to Chewton he gave the Mother’s Club at the State School a talk on infection as there is so much Scarlet Fever there and they were all worried stiff. The drive to Chewton after you leave Taradale is very pretty tree lined, winding undulating road with the hills ahead. I always think of you when I am out I know how you love the countryside and nature. I remember how in your letters you described the country round Crieff in Scotland I almost see you cycling along those beautiful roads and smelling in all that marvellous scenery it is all so magnificent and you are magnificent too in all the glory of the Great Beyond. O’ Jeff how I song to see you, you won’t go far from my will you? My love to you Mother.
7-5-44 This day peace declared.
8. today – a holiday. Thanks giving
[page break]
day for the cessation of hostilities. I have never felt so lonely in my life before, my heart is so full of sorrow. I hear over the wireless where Australians in England are making merry. I wonder in their excitement if they have given those who have lost their lives a single thought? or a thought to those who are suffering that loss. Joys and sorrows are very unequally divided in this world. I’m afraid I sound bitter, I cannot help it I have had much to try me through the years. I know you were never bitter or felt harsh with life, you have been avoided that. You are better off than I am, although had you lived, life would have been full of happiness for you. Don’t think I am asking for pity, I have never wanted pity I feel I would like less of the harshness of life. Thursday and Friday were hard
[page break]
although Thursday I took my turn at Red Cross tea I was well occupied and certainly felt better, as soon as it was all over that fearful emptiness came over me and that great longing to see you. Friday too was bad, I knew Mr Swanson was going to town so I rang him to see if he could take me, it was alright with him we left about 3 pm and arrived home about mid-night, the change of everything was good for me. Every time I drive to town I recall that last drive I had with you, that day of the fire Feb 14 1944 we left in such a beautiful morning to return through that blazing country. Jeff; my boy, I am always thinking of you and longing for you, I can’t understand why I was not [indecipherable word] to have you back. Cheerio Love and thoughts Mother.
20th May. Last Thursday we had a letter
[page break]
Jerry he and Peg had been to Scotland for a few days they also had been to visit you and left you some flowers for themselves and for us. Jerry had finished operations and was feeling fit after his leave. We also had a letter from Ian Douglas he had been with you frequently during yours and his training you cabined together on the voyage to England. I hope to meet him when he returns to Australia he will be able to tell me a lot I want to know. Also a letter from George Kloden he also had had a trip to Scotland and called on Mrs Walker and Micky, they liked him. The days weary along there is plenty to do I try to keep myself employed, in everything I do I think of you I miss you terribly it is going to be worse when they all come home though. Cheerio Jeff – Mother.
[page break]
23rd May.
Peter is having school holidays this week, he went to town with Mary yesterday for the day only he apparently had a good day brought home 1 bag of banana skins and another with a few grapes he apparently had a good feed in the train he also bought 3 history books which he was very thrilled about. Mary and Pat caught the 7 am train to Buffalo they are staying for a week. Bet Hardy is in the office up there. I’m running the house alone of course whilst Mary’s away. I’m afraid I can’t do so much as I used, I suppose it is to be expected. Jeff; I have longed for you today, not only today but every day, I talk to you a lot, if I could only hear your voice all would be well. I’m waiting, I’m waiting. I can still gather a few roses for you although it is May. They are so sweetly perfumed, I put Rhod’s and your photo together so you can share them. My love and constant thought for you. Mother.
[page break]
Mary and Pat had a very nice holiday at Buffalo. Bet being there made it easier for them. They did a lot of riding and altogether they enjoyed themselves. Pat remained home since, this morning she left here to enter the Royal Melb on Monday Morning. For about 10 days while Pat was home we had Enid and Gill Ballantyne staying it was a full house and there was plenty to do, it was good to have them they cheered us up, I miss them too now they have gone.
Jeff; the days weary on, some days are terrible I’m very unhappy at times, I do long for you and wish it had been your luck to come home with the other boys. I would like to know if you had anything to say to me before you passed on. I can still find a rose or two (although it is middle June) to give to you on the mantlepiece and some violets for you on my desk. I talk to you
[page break]
every night I get such a lot of comfort from that conversation and I feel happier.
May has joined Golf she played this afternoon and brought in her card of 154 I think it was. Mrs McPherson very kindly took Mrs Montgomery Mrs Angel and myself out the other day we did 9 holes had a lovely afternoon tea, it was beautiful out there the scenery is glorious, it did us all good. Mrs M is a very small person but a very generous large hearted woman she is always doing some good for somebody, she has a little nephew living with her at present who has recently lost his mother she is good to him and he is marvellously happy so she must be happy too. You know all the things I have done today, you must know all my thoughts because you are always so near to me. I’m afraid sometimes my thoughts are not always worth knowing I have much that that worries me here sometimes.
[page break]
I’m writing this in bed again Jeff, it is poorly written but I’m reminded of the times you used to come and sit on the side of my bed and talk, I did enjoy those talks Jeff I wish there had been more of them. I know you are happy. Good night, my boy. Mother.
Jeff; With the war ended, men returning from England, the gladness of some hearts and God bless them all I’m happy for those whose lot it is to be happy, but alas it is not mine nor a good many other Mothers. No one knows the agony of heart, some days are torturous to me, knowing you who I loved so much will never return.
The papers are full of the joyful tidings of prisoners of war, but I’m afraid not all are returning consequently there are some more hearts town to threads.
[page break]
No one except those who have lost those so dear to them know the agony of it. Why should some of us suffer so? I do want you Jeff my life is so empty. I planted 3 1/2 doz Petunias today with you in my thoughts all the time, the garden is a wonderful place to reminisce in I am reminded of you so much out there, your tulips are beginning to bud. The Spring flowers are very lovely lots of hyacinths, daffodils, the anemones are coming on well too, the flowering trees are thick in bud.
Mary has gone off to Mitchells’ to a party Pat was to have come home and gone too but poor girl missed the train, little things like Pat missing the train upset one very much she was very upset and so were we. I suppose it is the strain under which we have been living.
I’m having the material made up you sent me from Durban
[page break]
I hope it is going to look nice, the tweed is to be made after Xmas, it’s very difficult to get anything made up these days. I feel better for having a talk with you Jeff. Good night my beloved boy – Mother.
Contact with you does me such a lot of good I feel so refreshed afterwards. In boundless love you’ll live, such souls as yours endure forever.
Jeff; The mail boats are leaving England about every fortnight, the two last I have watched their movement and thought how thrilled and happy you would be to be coming, the day before you would have sailed how busy you would be packing, paying last visits to friends you had made in England, sending a farewell telegram to Michie and buying last minute odds
[page break]
and ends to bring home and can you imagine my joy – but no it wasn’t to be – instead -splendid you passed, the great surrender made. Into the light that never more shall fade.
Precious memories on your birthday 29th Sept. Very much love and very much thought for you today and always.
30th It is my birthday today as of course you know, the 29th and 30th I have always felt were just our days and so they always will be but this morning I woke up feeling very bitter, I’m sorry about it and almost feel ashamed because I have tried not to feel bitter but I got over it when the rest of the family got up. Pat was home she and Mary came last by car. Mary went down in the morning by train and brought the gib car back after it having been repaired and painted it looks so nice
[page break]
too and we had hoped to meet you in a seemingly brand new car. Mary gave me a lovely pair of lamb’s wool slippers and Pat a very nice blouse and Peter and Dad each gave me a casserole so I did very well didn’t I. The day on the whole has been a happy day and I feel better tonight than I did this morning. What a marvellous day it would have been if you had been here Jeff.
15th Oct.
Time moves on I miss your letters more and more they were so full of the joy of life you seemed so happy with your crew your little jaunts together or in twos or threes made me realise that and the joy you found in nature especially in Scotland. What a wonderful country it must be especially the north and especially in the Autumn. When I look at Scottish pictures I think of you such a lot and feel you are
[page break]
enjoying them with me.
News that Jerry has left England and he is to arrive on 16th Nov, the Jacksons are all so very excited.
The day has arrived Jerry is home, I sent him a telegram he wrote saying he would come up.
Jerry came it was wonderful to see him he’s well. He says but he looks rather hollow eyed and drawn I thought – it was hard to greet him and not greet you too – but I stood up to it – it was wonderful to have him – he thinks the table is wonderful he is very pleased – it is a bit hard to let it go I had hoped you were to have it and when you had a home of your own you were to have had the chairs. He talks of course a lot of Peg and expects her on 23rd Dec, - he has gone up to Harcourt for 2 or 3 days and then back home
[page break]
Peg did not arrive on 23rd Dec instead it is the 29th her photo was in the paper looking through a port-hole she looked so sweet. I can just imagine Jerry’s delight so can you I guess, I’m sure they are very suited to each other. I must go down and see her as soon as possible, they were coming by here for a few days but owing to the reduced train service were not able but will later on. I know you will be happy that all has gone well with them. Again I’m writing in bed. Good night much love. Mother.
3rd Jan ’46 The Athlone Castle arrived with 2000 R.A.A.F but you were not one. Many wives and children arrived too, I suppose it won’t be long before all R.A.A.F men are home.
Barbara Mitchell is here she came to tea, Jeff I am always thinking of you especially over the past 6 weeks for 12 months ago you were so happy you had finished
[page break]
your course. You were expecting any time to take off over Germany instead you had to make a last trial flight, I know how disappointed you were that you were not allowed to fly any more and you crashed. I saw the picture, “I live in Grosvenor Square” and in it a plane came down and I saw [inserted] and heard [/inserted] you so plainly sticking to your position speaking out your direction and saying the plane couldn’t hold up any longer. You were so brave and so were all the others, I did long to catch you. I realised how disappointed you felt that you were not allowed to accomplish what you had set out to do. O Jeff what a gap there is in my life now, I am so very much alone, I have no companion to go out with, it is all work and far too much for me here, I get so dreadfully tired and worn. I so seek in Mary and Pat companionship when they are home. I’m alone, there is no one at home.
[page break]
Your clothes came some days ago and today I have been going through them. I suppose it’s the last thing I can ever do for you. I am putting them in the bottom drawer where Peter sleeps and as he grows to fit them I’ll let him have them there are lots of things more than I thought would be there such as your jacket the [indecipherable word] you and I bought at Clemens and books I thought you should have had but of course I can’t do anything about it, I’m very sorry though. Beloved boy you are always with me, you’ll never leave me, will You?
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Jeff Downing's Notebook
Description
An account of the resource
A book of messages for Jeff from his mother. Written after his death in the form of a diary. She describes her daily life and friends that visit her.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Jeff Downing's Mother
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1945-02-10
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
38 handwritten pages
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Diary
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MDowningJJ418648-160914-03
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Jan Waller
aircrew
grief
killed in action
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1543/28339/ETansleyITGroves[Date]-010001.jpg
8e73aecb95ca84ffc384892780fa449c
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1543/28339/ETansleyITGroves[Date]-010002.jpg
64cfc0007f3ca390dcfbd9805a8352be
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Tansley, Ernest Henry
E H Tansley
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-09-22
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Tansley, EH
Description
An account of the resource
98 items. <br />The collection concerns Pilot Officer Ernest Henry Tansley (1914 - 1943, 149542 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a pilot with 57 Squadron and was killed 2 December 1943. Collection consists of photographs, letters, memoires, biographies, accounts of operations, logbook extracts and official/personal documents.<br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Anne Doward and catalogued by Nigel Huckins. <br />Additional information on Ernest Tansley is available via the <a href="https://losses.internationalbcc.co.uk/loss/122894/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
“Poplars”
Cedar Rd
Thundersly
Essex
Dear Mrs Groves,
No doubt by this time you have heard similar news to me, informing us that our boys are believed to have lost their lives and buried in “The Old Cemetary” [sic] Trebbin.
I suppose we must accept this as final and I cannot tell you how terribly sorry I am. We had been hoping all these months that they were safe.
I am sorry I cannot say much to comfort you. They were grand lads and we must be proud of them. I'm sure they would not wish us to grieve over
[page break]
them. Fortunately I have three Kiddies to look after, my baby is only 10 weeks old. So I have little time to brood.
Please try to be brave and remember that our boys are happy and better off than we are. There is so much wickedness in the world today that it seems wrong to pine over those luckier ones that have gone before us.
Please accept my deepest sympathy and my God give us strength to bear our great sorrow.
Yours sincerely
Irene F. Tansley
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Letter from Irene Tansley to Mrs Groves
Description
An account of the resource
Acknowledging that they both now know that their husbands had been killed in action. Says they should be proud of them and mentions she is fortunate because she has three children. Offers sympathy.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
I Tansley
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Two page handwritten letter
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
ETansleyITGroves[Date]-01
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Essex
England--Thundersley
Germany
Germany--Trebbin
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Jan Waller
faith
grief
killed in action
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1590/25418/MNichollsJEK2011088-200201-26.1.jpg
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Nicholls, Jill Ethel Kathleen
J E K Nicholls
Thomson, Jill Ethel Kathleen
Goodfellow, Jill Ethel Kathleen
Description
An account of the resource
57 items. The collection concerns Jill Nicholls (b. 1921, 2011088 Royal Air Force). The collection contains documents, photographs, mementos and a considerable number of poems. It also contains an album in a sub-collection with documents, newspaper cuttings and photographs.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Julie Stocks and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2020-02-01
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Nicholls, JEK
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[Royal Air Force crest]
Lost! afar in distant lands,
Where death extends her ever reaching hands,
To grasp the youth, lifeblood from race,
Who day by day meet evil face to face.
Lost! we who are left to bear,
The lonely years midst memories & care,
And count the hours till peace again resolved,
To heal the hurtful wounds within our souls.
Lost! in a future soon revealed
As a world of love & pardon yet concealed
Striking out the past in one swift blow
Tis then we’ll find the light, God deemed it so.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Lost! afar in distant lands
Description
An account of the resource
Describes loss, the grief of survivors and hope for future redemption.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One page handwritten document
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Poetry
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MNichollsJEK2011088-200201-26
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Tricia Marshall
aircrew
arts and crafts
grief
killed in action
missing in action
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1590/25361/MNichollsJEK2011088-200201-140001.1.jpg
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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1590/25361/MNichollsJEK2011088-200201-140002.1.jpg
13ae2606635e5a5c5d9475287f17ebdf
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Nicholls, Jill Ethel Kathleen
J E K Nicholls
Thomson, Jill Ethel Kathleen
Goodfellow, Jill Ethel Kathleen
Description
An account of the resource
57 items. The collection concerns Jill Nicholls (b. 1921, 2011088 Royal Air Force). The collection contains documents, photographs, mementos and a considerable number of poems. It also contains an album in a sub-collection with documents, newspaper cuttings and photographs.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Julie Stocks and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2020-02-01
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Nicholls, JEK
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[Royal Air Force crest]
To a wounded Hero.
I lived in a world so snug and small
Each evening watching the shadows fall
So safe behind a barrage of skill
Oblivious of bloodshed and kill.
Never realizing men died to save me
My eyes were blind I couldnt [sic] see
Further than a sweet country home
Nestled midst trees and a licacs [sic] bloom
War to me was a mythical name
But of course I had only myself to blame
I was a coward and cowards must die,
For I still watched the days go drifting by.
And then a blow struck deep at my heart
The sorrow of which I can never impart
The boy I loved lost his life in the air
I wanted revenge I didnt [sic] care.
Didnt [sic] care for my safety nor if I died
I lost all my happiness lost all my pride.
Gone were the thoughts of the home I adored
And thoughts in their place were thoughts I deplored
But they gave me courage to carry on
To do my best for some mothers son
Whose bullet racked body was shot to hell
And the flesh still bled where the shrapnel fell
They say a nurse can understand
Can soothed the troubled with the touch of her hand
[page break]
Sometimes I pause and wonder why,
God took him away from me far in the sky.
At times I forget that he died to save me
Died like a Hero to keep Britain free.
Sadness and sorrow is stamped on my brow,
My face has changed so he wouldnt [sic] know
The girl he once loved, Im [sic] glad he cant [sic] see
The wreck that is left where his dream girl should be.
But darling your memory will ever remain,
Within my heart, neer [sic] again Ill [sic] blame
The fate that claimed that claimed [sic] you the day you flew
The fate that severed our lives in two.
But [deleted] soon [/deleted] [inserted] one day [/inserted] we will meet in Gods heavenly home,
Together well [sic] stand by his sacred throne
For out of the War clouds bright sunshine will pour
And well [sic] be reunited for evermore.
I think when you died my heart died as well
I wanted revenge – to live was hell
But since then far from me those foul thoughts Ive [sic] hurled
And welcomed with glad faith a brilliant new world.
[page break]
Well I tried to comfort I tried to heal
The wounded hearts where death would steal.
But the thankful look in those dear brave eyes
As they turned so slowly to the skies
Will ever remain like a message of love,
Blessed by the Mercy of God above.
Someday I shall visit that peaceful grave
Where a tiny cross marks the memory of the brave
Who sacrificed their all, and could smile
Even when pain racked them al [sic] the while.
Id [sic] like to be buried by their side
To share the glory of the ones who died
For what is life when youth is gone
Haunted by memories of Sons from home.
In the summer sun, through the winter snow
Ill [sic] remember those [deleted] heroes [/deleted] [inserted] men [/inserted] especially you.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
To a wounded hero
Description
An account of the resource
Poem about losing a loved one and subsequent memories.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Three page typewritten document
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Poetry
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MNichollsJEK2011088-200201-14
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Tricia Marshall
arts and crafts
grief
killed in action
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1590/25359/MNichollsJEK2011088-200201-120001.1.jpg
93fe3dfa078a8c28233a3ee477cc3107
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e106c242e3101c4f7aba3b7411b77492
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Nicholls, Jill Ethel Kathleen
J E K Nicholls
Thomson, Jill Ethel Kathleen
Goodfellow, Jill Ethel Kathleen
Description
An account of the resource
57 items. The collection concerns Jill Nicholls (b. 1921, 2011088 Royal Air Force). The collection contains documents, photographs, mementos and a considerable number of poems. It also contains an album in a sub-collection with documents, newspaper cuttings and photographs.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Julie Stocks and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2020-02-01
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Nicholls, JEK
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[underlined] Imagination [/underlined]
Have you ever imagined your whole world is dead,
And you wished you could die right there in your bed.
To shut out forever the sorrows & fears,
To close your eyes over blinding tears.
Have you ever wondered if hes [sic] thinking of you,
Hoping that someday those dreams will come true,
And can you still see that last hungry glance.
That pierces your heart like the thrust of a lance
And does his voice whisper each night in your ear,
And can you still feel him terribly near,
Does his memory invade every inch of your heart,
Even though now you are so far apart.
[page break]
[Royal Air Force crest]
Imagination.
Have you ever imagined your whole world is dead
And you wished you could die right there in your bed
To shut out forever the sorrows and fears
To close your eyes over blinding tears.
Have you ever wondered if hes [sic] thinking of you
Hoping that someday those dreams will come true
And can you still see that last hungry glance
That pierces your heart like the thrust of a lance.
And does his voice whisper each night in your e [sic] ear,
And can you still feel him terribly near,
Does his memory invade every inch of your heart,
Even though now you are so far apart.
And every time that you see a plane,
Does your soul feel scorched with a fiery flame,
Do you curse the war and curse the sin
That wrecked the world and took away Him.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Imagination
Description
An account of the resource
Poem about the effect of losing a friend.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One page handwritten document and one page typewritten transcription
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Poetry
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MNichollsJEK2011088-200201-12
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
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IBCC Digital Archive
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Tricia Marshall
arts and crafts
grief
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1281/22222/SValentineJRM1251404v20013-0001.2.jpg
66dc6edc107ddb20205f75c741ad5438
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1281/22222/SValentineJRM1251404v20013-0002.2.jpg
d3e8ba7b84e996f2485ce0c0d518e787
Dublin Core
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Title
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Valentine, John
John Ross Mckenzie Valentine
J R M Valentine
Description
An account of the resource
674 Items. Collection concerns navigator Warrant Officer J R McKenzie Valentine (1251404 Royal Air Force). The collection contains over 600 letters between JRM Valentine and his wife Ursula. It also contains his log book, family/official documents, a book of violin music studies and other correspondence. Sub-collections contain family photographs, prisoner of war photographs and a scrapbook of newspaper cuttings of events from 1942 to 1945.
He joined 49 Squadron in April 1942 and flew 10 operations on Hampdens. The squadron converted to Manchester in May when he completed two further operations. His aircraft was shot down on the Thousand Bomber raid of 30/31 May 1942. Five crew, including him bailed out successfully and became prisoners of war. The pilot and one air gunner were killed when the aircraft rolled over and crashed.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Frances Zagni and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2018-09-06
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
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Valentine, JRM
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Kriegsgefangenenlager [underlined] Datum: 13 – 8 – 42.[/underlined]
I had the honour to be Navigator on your son’s machine. I flew with him for many months & had a great admiration for his skill as a pilot & character as a man.
It is with deepest sorrow that I have to inform you of his terrible death. On our last [indecipherable word] trip he had tremendous difficulty to face & six other lives depended on his handling of the ‘plane. During the period of acute danger, he acted with amazing coolness and skill enabling five of us to bale out un hurt. The machine was then too low for him to follow us & it crashed with our gallant skipper still inside. The five survivors and their families owe him a tremendous debt of gratitude & will ever more respect his memory.
Yours very sincerely, J. R. M. Valentine Sgt. R.A.F.
[page break]
Kriegsgefangenenpost
Postkarte
P. FLOYD ESQ
AYIAN
REDGARD RD
MINEHEAD
SOMERSET
ENGLAND
Dublin Core
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Title
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Letter from John Valentine to father of his pilot
Description
An account of the resource
Letter to P Floyd, father of his pilot Philip expressing his admiration for his skill as a pilot and sorrow in having to inform him of Philip's probable death. Gives an account of being shot down.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1942-08-13
Format
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Two sided handwritten postcard
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
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SValentineJRM1251404v20013
Coverage
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Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
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Poland
Poland--Żagań
Great Britain
England--Somerset
England--Minehead
Temporal Coverage
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1942-05-30
1942-05-31
Creator
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John Ross Mckenzie Valentine
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
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David Bloomfield
grief
killed in action
prisoner of war
shot down
Stalag Luft 3
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/743/20634/BCleggPVWilsonDv1.1.pdf
52fe453884f3b8aa4fb3ff000cb8677a
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Title
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Clegg, Peter Vernon
P V Clegg
Description
An account of the resource
Eight items and five sub-collections. Main collection contains a log of Pathfinder operations from RAF Wyton 1943 -1944, histories of the Avro repair facility at Bracebridge Heath, and Langar, a biography of Squadron Leader David James Baikie Wilson, biography of Squadron Leader Lighton Verdon-Roe, a book - Test Pilots of A.V. Roe & Co Ltd - S.A. 'Bill' Thorn, and two volumes of book - Roy Chadwick - no finer aircraft designer, Sub-collections contain a total of 29 items concerning the Aldborough Dairy and Cafe as well as biographical material, including log books for Alan Gibson, Peter Isaacson, Alistair Lang and Charles Martin. <br /><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1772">Aldborough Dairy and Cafe</a><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1768">Gibson, Alan</a><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1769">Isaacson, Peter</a><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1770">Lang, Alastair</a><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1771">Martin, Charles</a><br /><br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Peter Clegg and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2015-07-02
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Identifier
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Clegg, PV
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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[underlined] A bomber pilot’s journey through WWII. [/underlined] Page 1.
(A Veteran from 617 Squadron – David Wilson).
Sqd. Ldr. David James Baikie Wilson, DSO, DFC and Bar – Head of Aerodynamic Development and Testing, and Test-Pilot, A.V. Roe & Co Ltd.
April 8th 1946 to August 23rd 1947 (killed in Tudor crash)
David James Baikie Wilson was born on January 16th 1917, in Highgate, London, to his Scottish mother and Norfolk-born father. His mother came from a tough sea-faring family called Baikie living in [inserted] Brisbane Street, [/inserted] Greenock, on the River Clyde, to the west of Glasgow. From her, David inherited a great resolution of character, and from his father he acquired a brilliant academic brain – a combination that does not often lead to its owner becoming a test-pilot.
David was the only child in the family, and his mother inserted the name of her Sea-Captain father, James Baikie, between “David” and “Wilson” to perpetuate the family name – as is the wont of many Scottish families.
David’s father and mother had moved down to North London prior to the birth, and remained in that area while he grew up. Attending the local Kingsbury County School, and later Berkbeck College in Fetter Lane, David soon proved himself extremely bright, academically, obtaining [inserted] School Certificate [/inserted] “Distinctions” in Pure Maths, General Physics and Chemistry and “Credits” in Advanced Maths, French, History and English. He left the College with Higher School Certificate in Pure and Applied Maths, Chemistry and Physics, and then went straight to London University, to try to gain a degree in some of these subjects. True to his academic form, he gained a B.Sc. (General) in Chemistry, Physics and Pure Maths in July 1937 and then studied Chemistry for a further two years, gaining a “First” in the “Special” B.Sc. category and [inserted] starting work at the British Oxygen Company in November 1938. [/inserted]
Combining a taste for something more exciting, with his studying, David was already very keen
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on aircraft and flying, and as the inevitable War loomed up he joined the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve (RAFVR), and was called up for deferred service in January 1940, training at Hendon (his nearest RAF base) for six months until June that year. Then he was called up properly to attend initial RAF training and selection, and spent the next two months being drilled and graded – as David had hoped – for pilot training in the Commonwealth. September 1940 saw him arrive in Southern Rhodesia at No 25 Elementary Flying Training School at Salisbury, and his pilot training started on September 18th with his first flight there in a Tiger Moth flown by his instructor, Flt/Sgt Marsden.
[Underlined] Pilot Training in Rhodesia [/underlined]
Flying in the [inserted] dry, [/inserted] sunny climate of Southern Rhodesia, David was able to [inserted] thoroughly [/inserted] enjoy his airborne experiences, and progress rapidly with the training routine. He went solo after 18 hrs 25 mins dual flying – indicative not so much of his own ability but the steady and rigorously adhered to procedures followed at the EFTS there, to cut down the early accident rate. It was not a spectacular time in which to go solo – rather the opposite – but David learned slowly but surely, and once learned, he never forgot, becoming a very sure-handed pilot.
Training progressed rapidly – David making three or four flights a day at times, and a lot of attention was paid to aerobatics, spinning, forced landing practice, and even night flying on the Tiger Moth! Some instrument flying was also done on the Tiger, and – a curious exercise – “abandoning an aircraft in flight”. His qualifying Cross-Country on October 31st was from Salisbury to Gatooma and back, and then he was posted out the same day, categorised a “Average” as a pilot, and recommended for “twin-engined types” in furthur training. He had gained his “Wings” on the Tiger Moth.
After a weeks’ leave, David now attended the No 21 S.F.T.S. at [inserted] Kumalo, [/inserted] Bulawayo, Southern Rhodesia, to start training on Oxford aircraft. He had by now clocked up 65 hrs flying, 28 hrs 30 min of which
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was solo. His first flight in an Oxford was now made on November 11th 1940, with his [inserted] new [/inserted] instructor, Flying Officer Wood. David actually failed his first solo test on the Oxford, but managed all right on the second occasion, on November 14th, and from there on never looked back. As the training progressed, he passed a “Height-Test”, “Navigation”, “Navigator Test”, “Cross-Country”, “Low-flying”, “triangular cross-country on instruments”, “Formation”, “Progress”, and finally his passing-out test by the Chief Flying Instructor, Sqd. Ldr Hendrikz. With a total of 115 hrs now (55 hr 55 mins solo), David passed the first stage of the twin-engined Oxford Course on Dec 18th 1940, again classified as “Average” as a pilot.
The second stage started on December 30th now concentrating on tactical flying – making reconnaissance sorties, low-level bombing practice, and a lot of instrument and cross-country flying. There were night landings by floodlight, and many more low-level bombing runs at 1,000 ft, during which David’s mean bomb-dropping error crept down from 126 yds to 88 yds, and finally to 42 yds on average. Then they indulged in a bit of aerial gunnery from the Oxford, firing 90 rounds off from the Oxford’s single target gun. Near the end of the course, there were “ZZ” approaches, photography – “stereo pairs”, and “line-overlap”, and finally, formation flying. David passed out of No 21 S.F.T.S on February 12th 1941, with an “Average” grading again, having now flown 163 hrs 35 mins, of which 99 hrs 15 mins was solo. He was now posted to No 11 Operational Training Unit on Wellington bombers, at Bassingbourn, back in England.
[Underlined] Operations with 214 Squadron [/underlined]
At Bassingbourne [sic] David rapidly completed a further 75 hrs 40 mins flying on Wellington IO and IA aircraft, starting on May 21st 1941. He solo-ed on the Wellington after some 21 hrs 10 mins “dual” and “2nd pilot” flying, and then started to do a lot of night flying ranging from “circuits and bumps” to cross-country flying, mock bombing raids, air-to-air firing [inserted] and [/inserted] a North Sea Sweep. [Deleted] and [/deleted] Cross-country instrument flying was invariably from Bassingbourne [sic] to Wittering and Andover
[Page break]
4.
to Upper Heyford and return. At the end of all this, on June 26th 1941, David passed out of the O.T.U. and was posted to No 214 [inserted] (Federated Malay States) [/inserted] Squadron based at RAF Stradishall in Suffolk. This Squadron – as its name implies – was supported by the Malay Federation in WWII and several aircraft were paid for by funds raised in the States, including a Wellington II, W5442* coded BU-V, which David Wilson flew the first evening he arrived at the Squadron. After having an “Air Test” with one of the Flight Commanders, Sqd. Ldr. Field, in the morning of July 9th, David flew as Second Pilot to the Squadron Leader that same evening on his first operation – carrying a 4,000 lb “dookie” to drop on Osnabruk.** The raid was carried out by a total of 57 Wellingtons from No 3 Group, and, as discovered after the War, not many bombs fell on the target area. Two Wellingtons were lost that night, but David returned safely.
Only five days later, David was off on his next operation – this time to Bremen, to drop three 500 lb bombs and clusters of incendiaries. After this, raids followed in quick succession every two or three nights; Cologne, Rotterdam, Mannheim, Hamburg, Hanover, Duisburg, Keil, etc. Each time David was flying as Second Pilot to the Squadron Leader, or to a Sgt. Foxlee. On the night of July 25/26th, after raiding Hamburg with Sgt. Foxlee, they had to divert to Debden on the return, as their own base had poor weather and low visibility. The same thing happened on August 12th, on their return from Hanover, but this time David and Sqd. Ldr. Field diverted to Newmarket instead.
At this time, these attacks were mostly being directed at German ports, shipping and naval bases, or railway yards, but [inserted] their [/inserted] accuracy – or [inserted] the [/inserted] damage [inserted] caused [/inserted] - at this stage in the war, in hindsight, did not reach any great measure of success.
David recorded his longest operational flight so far on September 7th 1941, when he acted as Second pilot again for a Pilot Officer Barnard, and they bombed Berlin, taking 8 hrs 15 mins for the entire flight. Two sorties later – and on his own 6th operation – David was
* This Wellington was named “Sri Guroh” and had already completed some 25 successful raids before David flew it.
** See appendix 4 for details.
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the Captain of the aircraft for the first time, and this particular trip was a short one across the Channel to Le Havre. He flew a Wellington IC, N2850, but there was ten tenths cloud over the target, and they eventually dropped their bombs in the sea before returning to base
After this, David was the Captain on all his future operations, which included an attack on Hamburg on the night of September 29th carrying a 4,000 lb High Capacity blast bomb – and flying W5442, the old aircraft of the O.C. “B” flight, Sqd Ldr Field.
David was now allocated Wellington IC X9979 for his own crew to use, and this “Wimpy” stayed with him from October 2nd 1941 right up to the end of David’s tour of operations on January 31st 1942.
Many of his raids in October over the German sea ports were plagued by solid cloud cover, or bad weather, and they often bombed “blind” over the top of the targets. On November 7th David set out for Berlin again with six 500 lb bombs, but there was extremely bad cloud and icing over Germany, and Berlin, and so he unloaded his bombs over Osnabruck instead, on the return journey. This was one of Bomber Command’s biggest raids on Berlin to date, and there would be no more large raids on the capital until January 1943. The weather was equally bad over England on the return, and David [inserted] had to [/inserted] divert to another airfield.
Back [inserted] on [/inserted] September 1st, David and others in 214 Squadron began a series of low-level bombing practices, flying over their ranges at [inserted] Foxcote at [/inserted] 200 ft and dropping six bombs at a time. By December 9th they were dropping up to eight practice bombs a time, and on the 11th David, again flying at only 200 ft, dropped a massive 4,000 lb bomb from this low altitude! The end of the year 1941 arrived with David bombing Brest on December 23rd and 27th, trying to hit the Port area.
In January 1942, David was sent to Brest on four more occasions, having to divert to land at Harwell on one of these raids because of bad weather on the return. On January 21st he flew to Bremen to drop a 4,000 lb HC bomb, and then on the 28th came the final “Op” of the Tour – a raid on Münster. The cloud cover was again so bad that they returned home without dropping the bombload, and diverted to Waterbeach to land. David had safely completed his first Operational Tour, having flown
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289 hrs 50 mins in all with 214 Squadron, of which 199 hrs 35 mins were on actual operations. * He was now graded as “Above Average” as a pilot by 214’s C.O., Sqd. Ldr. Carr.
[Underlined] Becoming a Flying Instructor [/underlined]
For his traditional rest from operations, David was now posted to No1 Flying Instructors School at Church Lawford, near Rugby. He arrived there on February 24th 1942,[inserted] to start on the No22 War Course, and [/inserted] to be trained to teach others how to fly multi-engined aircraft. This course here lasted to April 21st, and during this time he was given intensive instruction on Oxford I’s and II’s, and (surprisingly enough) on some single-engined pre-war Avro Tutors!
David underwent day and night instruction, his mentor being a Flt. Lt. Mann, and sessions of any of the half dozen Avro Tutors were interspersed with the twin-engined flights on Oxford trainers. Between March 27th and April 2nd, he was sent down to Upavon to pass the 24th “Beam Approach” Course with flying honours (being graded “Above Average” again, and “Fit to Instruct”). This Course, in fact, was run as part of the Central Flying Scool [sic] of the RAF.
Then it was back to Church Lawford on the Oxford and Tutor, until he was finally passed out as a qualified instructor on April 20th 1942, rated as “Average” on both single and twin-engined aircraft.
[Inserted] David had been commissioned as a Pilot Officer out in Rhodesia, and on completion of this Course was made up to a Flying Officer, preparatory to commencing duties as an Instructor at RAF College Cranwell. [/inserted]
He arrived at Cranwell on May 1st [inserted] as a “B” Category Flying Instructor [/inserted] to start to instruct pupils at the College [inserted] Flying Training School [/inserted] how to fly the Oxford. Most of these were ordinary Leading Aircraftsmen (LAC’s) or Corporals, or Lieutenants (presumably the College Officer Cadets). By late June, a few Miles Master II single-engined trainers had been acquired, and David instructed on these as well. And at the
* See appendix 4 for details.
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end of July he was posted to No 7 Flying Instructors School at Upavon. This time to train others how to become “Instructors”!
David was becoming restless to be back on operations again, but had to put up with the daily round of flying Oxfords, Magisters and Masters again at Upavon, until the beginning of November 1942, when the CFI, Wing Cmdr GFR Donaldson, graded him out as “Above Average” again on David’s posting to 196 Squadron – a brand new night-bomber squadron formed on November 7th at Driffield in Yorkshire.
[Underlined] Second Tour, with 196 Squadron [/underlined]
David reported to 196 Squadron at Driffield on November 7th, and then was immediately sent off on a new Course called the “Captains of Aircraft” at Cranage [inserted] near Holmes Chapel [/inserted] in South Cheshire. It was the 12th intake at this Course, and David was lectured there on Navigation, and had to undertake six long cross-country exercises on Ansons, flown by a Course pilot, with David and two others on board having to act as Navigators in turn. The Course was an adjunct of the RAF’s Central Navigation School, and was intended to refine operational Captain’s navigating skills, for posting them to Coastal Command, or to Bomber stations where new 4-engined bombers with only one pilot were the norm.
While he was posted to Cheshire over the Christmas period of 1942/43 [inserted] Dec 21st to January 3rd [/inserted], David had some chance to attend some local functions and festivities, as he did not have time to return to his parents in Hendon. It was while the Station was giving a Dance for local people that David met a Cheshire girl called Elsie, who worked at a nearby I.C.I. Works connected with the Salt industry Elsie was a very personable girl, with a number of boyfriends, and David was a shy and quiet person, but the two became immediate friends, and kept up correspondence with each other when David re-joined 196 Squadron (now moved to Leconfield) after Christmas. One other course David had to attend for a few days, was at Westcott in Buckinghamshire, at No 1 Engine Control Demonstration Unit (E.C.D.U), to learn “Engine Handling”
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and “Petrol Consumption” there on the Wellington Mk III. (No flying was involved). Finally, on January 14th 1943, he took to the air at Leconfield on Wellington X HE179, to try some “circuits and bumps” on this new Mark of the bomber He then had a few “working-up” flights to get his [inserted] brand- [/inserted] new crew shaken down, trying out air-to-air firing with his gunners, and practice bombing using [inserted] new [/inserted] infra-red photography to record the results.
David’s first sortie with 196 Squadron [inserted] and the Squadron’s second operation [/inserted] was on the night of February 7th 1943, when he dropped seven 500 lb bombs on a new type of “area-bombing” raid on French ports with German U-Boat pens. This directive had been issued by the War Cabinet on January 14th, and because the new U-boat pens of solid concrete were too thick to penetrate, the towns themselves were obliterated instead (the French civilians had been warned to evacuate them).
Some 323 aircraft bombed Lorient that night, with the [inserted] new [/inserted] Pathfinders marking the target well. Seven aircraft were lost, two being Wellingtons. David’s crew obtained a good infra-red photograph of the bomb bursts.
It was back again to Lorient on February 13th, this time forming part of a raid of 466 aircraft in all, and dropping over 1,000 tons of bombs for the first time on a Bomber Command target. The French town of Lorient received more devastation, but the U-boat pens survived. Then it was Cologne on the 14th, and Emden on the 17th, but the latter raid was abandoned by David’s aircraft, due to heavy cloud cover. Just six Wellingtons had been sent to Emden that night to test the infra-red bomb sights, but only three found the target, and bombed it. David brought all his bomb load back.
Before February finished, David had been to Cologne again on the 26th (where two of his three 500 lb bombs “hung up” and he had to return to base with them) and St Nazaire on the 28th (again dropping a “mix” of 500 lb bombs and incendiaries).
In March David went to Hamburg, Essen (twice) Duisberg and Bochum, dropping a 4,000 lb “Cookie” on one of the Essen raids. This was the beginning of the “Battle of the Ruhr”, devised now by Bomber Command to paralyse German Industry. There was an increasing flow of new four-engined bombers to the Squadrons, and a build-up of the Pathfinder
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Force and their new marking techniques using Mosquitos guided by Oboe equipment, * and Lancasters etc, to continue illuminating the markers dropped by the “Mossies”. All this now led to ever more accurate raids on the German Ruhr industrial zone.
The first Essen raid, on March 5th, was well marked by the Pathfinder Force (PFF), and David’s Wellington was in the second of three waves over the target – the Krupps industrial complex. This night marked Bomber Command’s 100,000th sortie of the war, and it is likely that David’s 4,000 lb bomb was one of the many that helped destroy an area of the Krupps works that night. A week later he was over the same target again, with the more usual mixture of 500 lb bombs (many fuzed for a long delay action) and incendiaries. Even more of Krupps was reduced to rubble that night.
David normally flew with a crew of four in his aircraft, and his regular crew consisted of Pilot Officer Parkin, Sgt. Wakeley, Flt. Sgt, Allen and Sgt. Lund. Occasionally he would take another Sgt. Pilot on board to give him operational experience for the odd flight or two (before he went off to captain his own aircraft). His O.C. in “A” Flight was Sqd Ldr Ian R.C. Mack, and the 196 Squadron C.O. at this time was Wing Cmdr. A.E. Duguid.
David only had one “Op” in April, to Kiel on the 4th, but May was another intensive month, with successful visits to Dortmund, Duisburg, Bochum and Düsseldorf. Most of the aircraft sent on these raids were now four-engines types, and of 110 Wellingtons sent to Dortmund, six were lost. The equivalent numbers [inserted] of Wellingtons [/inserted] sent to the other three points were: Duisburg 112 (10); Bochum 104 (6); and Düsseldorf 142 (6). The last two raids did not have the desired effects as the Germans were now starting decoy markers and fires outside the cities, to lure the PFF and bombing aircraft away. But the Duisburg raid had been highly successful, the Port and August Thyssen steel factories being badly hit.
[Inserted] On May15th [inserted] 1943 [/inserted] the [deleted] Press [/deleted] [inserted] London Gazette [/inserted] released the news that David had been awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross (D.F.C.), for (as the citation stated) “completing numerous [inserted] operational [/inserted] missions, flying on many occasions to targets such as Cologne, Berlin, Kiel and Hamburg, where the fiercest opposition is encountered.
“Since the beginning of his operational career, his single aim has been to press home his attacks as accurately and efficiently as possible, and in this he has had many successes. His courage, skill and determination against all hazards have been an inspiration to the Squadron”. [/inserted]
In June 1943, David flew sorties to Düsseldorf, Krefeld and Wuppertal, using his normal Wellington X HE901 on most flights (he
* “Oboe” was a system in which radio beams were sent out from English points, to cross over a specific target, and the RAF aircraft fitted with the receiving equipment could tell exactly when to drop their markers.
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9a
[Insert on previous page]
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had previously used HE170 and MS488 for long spells at a time, all with 196 Squadron’s code letters ZO-. Two of his crew had been commissioned by now – Wakeley and Allen had been made Pilot Officers. (David himself was now a Flight Lieutenant). The Düsseldorf raid was very successful, and that on Krefeld equally so, devastating the city centres. Just prior to the Krefeld raid on June 21st, some “Monica” sets had been fitted to some of 196 Squadron’s Wellingtons, HE901 being one of them. David and his crew had conducted air teats with the new equipment on June 16th and 17th, and aerial exercises with fighters, to try out the operational aspects. “Monica” was the code name given to equipment which, installed in RAF bombers, would give warning of the approach of German night-fighters from the rear. This radar equipment gave out its own transmissions however, and later in the war, when a German Ju88 night fighter landed by mistake at Woodbridge on July 15th 1944, it was discovered that its “Flensburg” radar transmission detector set could “home in” from 50 miles away onto an RAF aircraft using Monica. The increasing losses of Allied bombers was being blamed on Monica, [inserted] “H2S” radar, [/inserted] and “I.F.F.” (Identification Friend or Foe) signals emanating from their aircraft, and instructions were immediately given to remove all “Monica” sets, use “H2S” only sparingly, and switch off “IFF” altogether over German territory.
The raid on Wuppertal on June 24th 1943, in which David dropped an entire load of incendiaries, devastated the Elberfeld half of the town (the other half had already been hit). Some 94% of the town was destroyed that night. 630 aircraft having taken part, and 6 Wellingtons out of 101 being lost (together with 28 Lancasters, Halifaxes or Stirlings).
David now made the last operational sortie of his second Tour, to Cologne again on July 3rd 1943. He was flying Wellington X HE901 [deleted] again [/deleted], with a new member of crew, Flt. Lt. Reaks (who had replaced P/O Allen), and the PFF successfully marked the industrial area of the town, on the East bank of the Rhine. Again, David’s load consisted entirely of incendiaries, and they bombed the target accurately, but on returning to England after a flight lasting 5 hrs 5 mins, had to divert to Westcott, Bucks, because
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of ground fog and bad weather in the North. This raid was noted for something else – the beginning of mass night-time attacks by German night-fighters over the target area – something not met before by the RAF – where the Luftwaffe units attacked from above, using the mass of fires, target indicators (T.I.’s) and searchlights below as illumination for the bombers. On this raid 30 aircraft were lost out of 653 despatched – 12 being claimed by the Luftwaffe night fighters. In hindsight David was lucky to finish his second Tour at this point, as the RAF raids over Germany began to meet increasing fighter opposition, leading to many losses.
[Underlined] Lancaster Conversion Unit [/underlined]
Again classed as “Above Average” [inserted] in his recent capacity as “Master Bomber” of 196 Squadron [/inserted], David Wilson was now posted to a Lancaster Conversion Unit [inserted] No 1660 [/inserted] at RAF Swinderby, to convert to flying four-engined heavy bombers. The reason he had had a shorter Tour than usual at 196 Squadron was because the Squadron was moving [inserted] its [/inserted] base down South now, and re-equipping with Stirling bombers. David neither liked the Stirling, nor the future role of the Squadron, which was to be on glider-tug and troop dropping rôles, and so he had quickly opted to go for a Lancaster Squadron posting. [Inserted] He had in fact volunteered to join 617 Squadron (now known as the “Dambusters”), who were now looking for a few more seasoned and “Above Average” graded pilots to replace the eight lost on their famous raid of May 16th/17th. Only men of exceptional experience and calibre would be accepted, and all crews had to show a very high accuracy in their bombing experience. David’s name had gone forward for consideration by 617’s C.O., Wing Cmdr. Guy Penrose Gibson, V.C., DSO and Bar, DFC and Bar, who was still in charge but about to be posted onto a temporary staff duty as a rest (against his wishes!). Provided he converted to the Lancaster successfully, he would be accepted. [/inserted]
And so Flt. Lt. David Wilson started at Swinderby on July 23rd 1943, learning the tricks of flying the mighty Lancaster – an aircraft that would endear itself to him for life. The Course was not long, only five weeks, and finished on August 30th, when David had completed his multi-engine transition to the big Avro machine designed by Roy Chadwick. The Lancasters at the Unit were old Mk I’s from early production runs by A.V. Roe & Co Ltd at Manchester, or Metropolitan-Vickers at Trafford Park, and some had originally been laid down as Manchesters, and converted on the line.
David firstly had “circuits and landings” practice, then “stalling”, “three and two engine flying”, “fire action”, and “three-engine overshoots”. Then came cross-country exercises, “time and distance”
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runs (practicing dropping bombs after a measured run-in from a known geographical position) “corkscrewing” (to avoid fighters at night), and “fighter affiliation” (practice in being “attacked” by fighters). Finally David made some bombing runs, dropping four bombs on Wainfleet Sands, then eight (getting a mean error of only 71 yds from the target), and finally a round-the-UK cross-country flight at night, from Swinderby to Ely, Bicester, Sidmouth, St. Tudwells (where he dropped two bombs, and hit the target), Strangford [inserted] Lough [/inserted] in N. Ireland Dumfries in Scotland, Aberdeen and back home! A large part of the return trip was flown on three-engines, the whole flight taking 5 hrs 35 mins – just like a typical raid over Germany.
Wing Cmdr. Everitt, the CO. of 1660 Conversion Unit, passed David out [inserted] on August 30th [/inserted] as “Above Average” once again on the Lancaster this time, and David thus had his posting to 617 Squadron confirmed, and joined them the same day at Coningsby, Lincolnshire. [Deleted] – the already famous 617 Squadron, otherwise known now as the “Dambusters”. [/deleted]
[Underlined] Joining the “Dambusters” [/underlined]
David Wilson joined 617 Squadron on August 30th 1944, the date the Squadron moved its home from Scampton to Coningsby, in Lincolnshire. Since its famous [inserted] first [/inserted] raid on the German dams on the night of May 16th/17th 1944, [sic] the Squadron had [inserted] briefly [/inserted] returned to [deleted] a rest period, and started [/deleted] operations again on July 15, raiding power stations in Northern Italy and landing [inserted] at Blida [/inserted] in N. Africa afterwards. [Inserted] (Blida was a [inserted] captured [/inserted] Allied aerodrome a few miles south-west of Algiers, in French North Africa). The Squadron’s third raid had been on the Italian port of Leghorn on the way back from Blida. And its fourth was a mass leaflet raid on major Italian cities on July 29th 1943, after which the aircraft landed at Blida again. (This time they positioned back to England without raiding any target on the way). [/inserted] With its high level of training [deleted] and accuracy [/deleted] in bomb dropping especially [inserted] at low level [/inserted] the Squadron was now being used for attacks on major targets which required a great deal of accuracy in placing their weapons. These targets by definition, were also likely to be very heavily defended.
David was airborne on September 1st, the second day after he arrived at Coningsby, and was promptly sent off on a low-level cross country. (With the “Dambusters”, low level meant just that – at 200 to 330 ft altitude! [inserted] all the way [/inserted]). Wing Cmdr Guy Gibson, VC, DSO and Bar, DFC and Bar had just relinquished command of the Squadron [inserted] on August 3rd) [/inserted] to [inserted] Acting [/inserted] Wing Cmdr George Holden, DSO, DFC [inserted] and Bar? [/inserted]
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and there were 10 [deleted] complete [/deleted] Lancaster [deleted] crews [/deleted] pilots left at that moment out of the original 21 that had been in the Squadron when the raid on the Dams was mounted. * Apart from David, the other new pilots [inserted] ① who had joined 617 since the Dams raid were F.O. W.H. Kellaway, DSO; at the end of June; P.O. B. [deleted] (“Bunny”) [/deleted] W. Clayton, DFC, CGM, early in July; [deleted] and [/deleted] Flt. Lt. R.A. Allsebrook, DSO, DFC, also early in July; [inserted] and Flt. Lt. E.E.G. [inserted] (“Ted”) [/inserted] Youseman, DFC, at the end of July. (Ted came from David Wilson’s old 214 Squadron). [/inserted]. All these pilots – like David – brought their old crews along with them as well, and so all eight men in each Lancaster found themselves suddenly flying with the famous “Dambusters”. One of these new arrivals had also crashed on August 5th on Ashley Walk Bombing Ranges, when it hit the slipstream of another Lancaster, but luckily the crew survived, but with the exception of one gunner did not fly with 617 again. [/inserted]
The [inserted] surviving [/inserted] Lancasters which had been used for the Dams raid were in the process of being returned to A.V. Roe & Co to have the special fittings removed and the enlarged (bulged) bomb doors put in their place. For the purpose of keeping the crews in training, however, other Lancasters had to be borrowed or drafted in, and the Lancaster which David flew on September 1st was one such – ED735 (KC-R) from 44 Squadron (where it had been called KM-K). This Lancaster had just [inserted] ② been fitted with new “deep-section bomb doors by Avros, to take the new 12,000 lb High Capacity Blast bombs, and was sent to the A&AEE at Boscombe Down this month, to measure the Position Errors. [/inserted]
The Dambusters had moved from a grass airfield at Scampton, to one with hard runways at Coningsby and were sharing the latter airfield now with other Lancaster Squadrons. [Deleted] No 619 [/deleted] (Another Lancaster Squadron that would henceforth [deleted] to [/deleted] work closely with 617 was No 619 [inserted] - based nearby at Woodhall Spa - [/inserted] ) David flew Lancaster EE144 (KC-S) on September 14th – this aircraft was normally used by Sqn Ldr. Holden.
David was [inserted] then [/inserted] engaged in intensive low-level cross-country flying for the first two weeks of September, working himself and his crew up to the required accuracy of bombing, air firing, and low-level navigating as befitted the high standards expected of the specialist squadron. Two of these flights were on aircraft that had originally been on the Dams raid – ED886 (AJ-O flown then by P.O. Bill Townsend) and ED921 (AJ-W of Flt. Lt. Les Munro). These had been altered back to carry normal bombs, and in common with 617’s other permanent Lancasters were now fitted with new radio altimeters which could be set to give the pilot warning of dropping below, say, 75 ft above the ground (where a “hiccuph” could mean flying into the deck”).
All this preparation was for 617’s next scheduled raid on one of the War’s earliest, and by now most heavily defended targets – the Dortmund-Ems Canal. It had been decided to try to breach this by moonlight, and at low level. The canal was of vital importance to the German War industry, as it joined the steel plants of the Ruhr
*(for Note see over →③
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[Underlined] footnote ③ FOOTNOTE [/underlined]
* The original [inserted] 21 [/inserted] pilots of 617 Squadron at the time of their first operation – the Dams raid – consisted of Wing Cmdr. Guy Gibson, VC, DSO and Bar, DFC and Bar; Flt. Lt. J.V. Hopgood, DFC; Flt. Lt. H.B. Martin, DSO and Bar, DFC and two Bars, AFC; Sqd Ldr. H.M. Young, DFC; Flt. Lt. W. Astell, DFC; Flt. Lt. D.J.H. Maltby, DSO, DFC; Sqd. Ldr. Henry Maudslay, DFC; P.O. L.G. Knight, DSO; Flt.Lt. D.J. Shannon, DSO and Bar, DFC and Bar; Sqd. Ldr. J.C. McCarthy, DSO, DFC; Sgt. [inserted] V.W. [/inserted] Byers; Flt Lt R.N.G. Barlow; P.O. Geoff Rice, DFC; Flt. Lt. J.L. Munro, DSO, DFC; F.O. W.C. Townsend, CGM, DFM; Flt Sgt. K.W. Brown, CGM; Flt. Sgt. Cyril [inserted] T [/inserted] Anderson; P.O. [inserted] Warner [/inserted] Ottley; P.O. [inserted] L.J. [/inserted] Burpee (all of whom had flown on the raid); and P.O. W. [inserted] G. [/inserted] Divall and Flt. Lt. Harold [inserted] S. [/inserted] Wilson (both of whom had not been included on the Dams raid).
The [inserted] eight [/inserted] killed on the raid were Hopgood, Young, Astell, Maudsley, Byers, Barlow, Ottley [inserted[ and [/inserted] Burpee; Guy Gibson, of course, had now been rested from “Ops”; Cyril Anderson had decided to return to his original Squadron, and Bill Townsend had been posted away to 1668 Conversion Unit. All this left just 10 of the original pilots.
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with the Baltic, enabling iron ore from Sweden to be barged to the steelworks, and finished parts (Eg of U-boats) to be sent North to the German ports.
It was lucky for David that he was still getting into training at that moment. On a cross-country on September 13th, he practiced low-level bombing from 300ft and 500 ft, and gained a mean error of 73 yds from the target centre; and on September 14th he dropped bombs on the ranges from 200, 300, [inserted] and [/inserted] 400 ft high, and got his average error down to 36 yds.
David was assigned to “B” Flight, under the leadership of Flt. Lt. J.L. (“Les”) Munro (a survivor of the Dams raid who had been hit by flak en route to the Sorpe Dam and had had to turn back because the radio/intercom had been destroyed). But due to his “working-up” period, he was not selected for the raid on the Dortmund-Ems Canal on September 14th/15th. This was meticulously planned – as usual – and eight of 617’s Lancasters would take part, dropping new 12,000 lb High Capacity thin-cased, bombs from low level (fuzed for an adequate delay). The crews selected were the new C.O., George Holden, Dave Maltby, Les Knight, Dave Shannon, Harold Wilson [inserted] (no relation to David) [/inserted], Athelsie Allsebrook, Geoff Rice and Bill Divall. All but Holden, and Allsebrook [deleted] and Divall [/deleted] were survivors of the original 617 Squadron, and they set off on the evening of the 14th, but en route to the target received news back from a “recce” Mosquito in front, that the weather was too bad over the target area for low-level bombing. Regretfully they turned for home, but as they did so at low level over the North Sea, Maltby’s Lancaster hit someone else’s slipstream, dipped a wing into the sea, cartwheeled – and that was that. Maltby and his crew all perished.
Back home at Coningsby, they re-planned the raid for the next evening, the 15th, and Mick [deleted] y [/deleted] Martin just back from leave, filled Maltby’s place. [Inserted] David Wilson flew two more cross-country flights on this day, using one of the original Dams raid Lancasters, ED886 (AJ-O) [deleted] glued back again [/deleted] They were his last practices, and he was not called up for the raid that night. [/inserted] As the [inserted] others [/inserted] flew low over darkened Holland, Holden, flying with [inserted] Guy Gibson’s old crew [/inserted] and leading the two flights, was hit by flak and he climbed to avoid a church steeple in a small town while the others behind swung low around the outside of the built-up area. Holden’s Lancaster, trailing flames, went down and his 12,000 lb bomb exploded with a blinding flash of light.
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It was his 30th birthday.
Over the target area, a ground mist obscured the markers they dropped, there was a lot of light flak about, and the escorting Mosquitos found it difficult to silence the flak, and the 617 pilots found it very difficult to see the canal. Allsebrook, who now acted as leader, dropped his bomb and helped to direct others onto the target, but then disappeared. He had been shot down leaving the area. Knight, flying low, hit some trees which damaged his two port engines, and asked Mick Martin’s permission to jettison the bomb. He tried desperately to get home, but after allowing his crew to bale out over Holland, was killed trying to crash land the Lancaster alone.
Rice tried in vain for an hour to find the target, was holed by flak, jettisoned his bomb and managed to return home to Coningsby. Harold Wilson was hit by flak too, and had to crash-land his Lancaster with the bomb on board. It went up soon after, killing all on board before they could escape. Divall was [inserted] also hit and crashed. [/inserted]
// Dave Shannon flew around for 70 minutes, before he managed to spot the Canal and drop his bomb. It hit the towpath and did not seem to breach the canal banks. And Mick Martin flew around for a long 90 minutes, repeatedly getting hit by flak, and finally dropping his bomb on his 13th run in. He was two hours overdue when he landed back at Coningsby, to find only Shannon and Rice there before him. There were just the three Lancasters back, out of the eight that had set off. And nothing to show for the losses.
Next day Mick Martin was made a Squadron Leader by the A.O.C. No 5 Group, Air Vice-Marshal the Honourable Ralph Cochrane, and temporarily given command of 617 Squadron. Martin immediately volunteered to go back to the Canal the next night, and said there were six of them left who could try it (Martin himself, Shannon, Rice, Les Munro, Joe McCarthy and Ken Brown). In addition to these Martin could now call on the newly posted Captains - David Wilson, Ted Youseman and Bunny Clayton.
Fortunately Sir Ralph insisted on the three latest survivors being rested for 617’s next raid, on the Antheor Viaduct near Cannes in the South of France, on September 16th. And because
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this operation followed on without a break, the three “new boys”, and [inserted] the three veterans, [/inserted] Munro, McCarthy and Brown [deleted] (all had taken part on the original Dams raid) [/deleted] were supported by six Lancasters from 619 Squadron as well, and all placed under 619’s C.O., Wing. Cmdr. Abercromby.
[Underlined] The Anthéor Viaduct [deleted] preparing for the Tirpitz [/deleted] [/underlined]
It was against this backdrop of tragedy that David Wilson now flew his first “Op” for 617 Squadron. The atmosphere couldn’t have been worse, but morale was still high. Other Squadrons were [inserted] now [/inserted] beginning to call 617 the “Suicide Squadron”, and there were [inserted] noticeably [/inserted] fewer requests from other pilots to transfer to it [deleted] now [/deleted]! However, the intensive training, and the work involved in the briefing to the raids, kept David’s mind off all that (and the fact that his namesake, Harold Wilson, had died the night before).
This was 617’s seventh operation (including the first abortive Dortmund-Ems sortie), and the target was difficult to find, not counting hard to bomb accurately when they reached it. The main railway link between Central and Southern France and Italy, ran along the coast from Fréjus/St. Raphael to Cannes, and a typical curving viaduct lifted it across a ravine at a point just east of Cap du Dramont, a few miles on the Cannes side of St. Raphael. This little place was called Anthéor, and was 617’s next headache.
David flew in [inserted] company with the other 617 veterans, [/inserted] his “B” Flight Commander, Flt. Lt. John Leslie Munro, DFC, [inserted] RNZAF [/inserted], Pilot Officer Kenneth Charles McCarthy, DSO, DFC, [inserted] RCAF [/inserted], Pilot Officer Kenneth William Brown, CGM, RCAF, and two other “new boys”, Flt. Lt. “Ted” Youseman DFC, and Pilot Officer “Bunny” Clayton, DFC, CGM. Although the target was on France’s South coast, they were expected to return to England on this raid – not land in N. Africa.
David took Lancaster JB 139 on this raid, (coded KC-X and recently transferred from 49 Squadron). His bomb load included one 4,000 lb “Blockbuster” and three 1,000 lb bombs, and his crew consisted of Flt Sgt Hurrel, F.O. Parkin, Flt. Sgt. Barrow, P.O. Allen, Sgt Lowe and Sgt Mortlock. When they found their target, they jockeyed for position down the
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ravine to the sea, and David [inserted] and the others [/inserted] released their bombs from 300 ft. [Inserted] The idea was to lob the bombs onto or between the arches of the bridge, but all seemed to go through the arches instead. [/inserted] The viaduct seem [sic] unscathed, however, - although it and the rail tracks were peppered with holes – and they flew back in the knowledge it would probably need further attempt.
After a flight of 10 hrs 20 mins, David Wilson put his Lanc down at Predannack in Cornwall, to refuel, before flying back to Coningsby later.
[Underlined] Preparing for another Dams raid [/underlined]
Mick Martin was firmly in charge of the Squadron now, interviewing new would-be 617 pilots, thinking about a method of them taking flares with them on future raids to mark the target and make it easier for all to bomb, and liaising with the A.O.C. 5 Group with regard to future targets for 617.
In fact Cochrane was scheming up another attack on a dam, this time the big installation at Modane in Northern Italy, which lay deep in the hills. But Cochrane duped even Mick Martin for a time – he pretended it was to be a raid on the German battleship Tirpitz in a Norwegian fjord, and this required flying over the hills, down the steep slope, across a short stretch of water and then over the ship (in reality, the dam in Italy)!
So Martin went looking for a suitable site to practice on, and found a hillside near Bangor in N. Wales, near the coast, where he could get 617 to try flying down the face of the slope to level out over the sea. He experimented with putting down his landing flaps, to 40° or so, but found although the Lanc would sink down the hillside better, he had to exceed the max speed with flaps down by some 60 mph, and thus risk [inserted] their [/inserted] collapse – with undoubted fatal results to aircraft and crew.
David flew in [inserted] Mick Martin’s [/inserted] Lancaster (EE150 [inserted] coded KC-Z [/inserted]) to the scene on September 18, with Dave Shannon, (one of the three Flight Commanders, with Munro and McCarthy) in the cockpit beside him, and the two of them took it in turns to try flying up and over the hills that Mick Martin had found. Next day David was up in the Midlands [inserted] in the same aircraft [/inserted], this time with his
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own Flight Commander, Les Munro, the two of them doing practice runs across the Derwent reservoir at very low level, and then they tried the hill near Bangor again, Les trying it out and handing over to David. It was all intensely demanding work, and the adrenalin flowed very freely!
Between September 19th and 23rd, the “dams” type training intensified, David flying dummy attacks over Derwent reservoir in ED735 (KC-R) [inserted] on the 19th, [/inserted], then on September 20th he used Guy Gibson’s old aircraft ED932 (AJ-G) of Dams raid fame to take up one of the special “Upkeep” weapons that they still held in store and he dropped this on a dummy low-level attack in the Wash. (Guy Gibson’s old aircraft, unlike the majority that had survived the Dams raid, had [inserted] not yet [/inserted] been converted to have the bulged bomb-doors, and the old cylindrical “Upkeep” canister was used on the original Barnes Wallis-designed release mechanism). Then, in the next three days came low-level cross-country formation flying, dropping bombs on the Wainfleet ranges. David dropped the first lot (of four bombs), getting a mean error of 64 yds, and on the second occasion dropped eight bombs from 800 ft high. Then came a night time cross country at low level on astro fixes only, and finally a trip to Castle Kennedy, and Turnberry in Ayrshire, carrying 14 [inserted] staff [/inserted] passengers in connection with these trials.
However, the very next day, September 24th, came a complete change of policy, and training. The reason was the development of a new, more accurate bomb-sight, and its ability to deliver two large new weapons that Dr Barnes Wallis had been developing recently – the 12,000 lb streamlined “Tallboy” bomb, and its big brother, the 22,000 lb “Grand Slam”. The Chief of Bomber Command, Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Harris, had been agonising over the future rôle of 617 Squadron with Sir Ralph Cochrane, and had concluded that it should stay in the latter’s 5 Group, and now become a “Special Duties” Squadron. Cochrane, on his part, decided to press ahead with Wallis’ new weapons, and get 617 equipped as fast as possible with the new bob-sight, to start dropping these expensive weapons.
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[Underlined] The Stabilising Automatic Bomb-Sight. [/underlined]
This SABS sight had been developed at the RAE at Farnborough back in 1941 by a man called Richards, and used the gyro principle in its stabilising system. It had been held up in its development by the fact that although it was a great deal more accurate than its predecessors, it did require a very careful straight and level approach at high altitude, on the run in to the target. Consequently the likelihood of Bomber Command taking heavier casualties from flak and fighters because of this, had resulted in its being “shelved” for the time being. But now, the development of these special weapons merited another look at it. A certain Sqd. Ldr. Richardson was now despatched post haste from the RAE to 617 Squadron at Coningsby, to see the SABS fitted, and perfected, in their Lancasters.
From September 24th, therefore, everything changed in David’s training. No longer was it low-level dams-type exercises, but he flew in EE150 [inserted] (KC-Z) [/inserted] this day, with Joe McCarthy acting as Captain for some of the time, making [inserted] the first [/inserted] high level dummy runs with the new SABS fitted. The next day, David took Bunny Clayton up with him, and Sqd Ldr. Richardson (by now dubbed “Talking Bomb” by the Squadron, for his propensity to talk bomb-sights from the moment he woke, until the moment he went to sleep), to check out the SABS in EE150 again.
Sqd Ldr Richardson was busy fitting the new SABS into all the aircraft, and then checking the installation by flying with it. He also knew that it took two to be accurate – the pilot on the one hand (to fly at a given height, and airspeed, on the final run in), and the bomb aimer on the other (who had to feed the correct data into the sight, and advise the pilot when he strayed off the necessary heading/approach speed). With the Squadron C.O. (Mick Martin), Richardson then evolved a system of each pilot being checked out, by someone senior, and each bomb-aimer being paired with different pilots – cross-checking the results against each other.
Thus David [sic] third flight (on September 26th) was with Mick Martin (now elevated to Sqd. Ldr. status),
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and they did high level bombing (HLB) from 6,000 ft gaining an average bombing error of 60 yds (this altitude was not “high” in the view of most other squadrons – but where 617 was normally flying below tree-tops and between haystacks, 6,000 ft really was “high” to them!
Next day (the 27th) David had two training sorties – one taking up Ken Brown to show him the ropes, dropping bombs at Wainfleet from 10,000 ft this time, and recording a mean error of 61 yds; the next sortie being with Bunny Clayton and flying at 5,000 ft and 7,000 ft, recording an error of 50 yds. (It was getting better!)
Next day David took Geoff Rice up, and also made a sortie by himself. On the latter he dropped three bombs from 10,000 ft, but an error in the altimeter setting led to a mean drop error of 143 yds this time. All this showed how essential it was to get all the readings correct, and here they ran into the problem of calculating the exact [inserted] ground level [/inserted] barometric pressure reading over the target so as to be able to correct the altimeters to give their exact height. Another problem was to obtain absolutely accurate outside air temperatures, and the exact speed of the Lancaster (determined by a combination of airflow and Static Pressure vents in the instrumentation, and known errors (Position Errors) in the Static Pressure System (caused by the location of the vents in the fuselage airflow). All this was essential but complicated and the RAE and A&AEE had to make tests on the Lancasters to give 617 the most effective results, and to increase the accuracy of information fed into the SABS.
For a few days the weather held up training, but it resumed in October with a vengeance. David was flying different Lancasters on each sortie, a new [inserted] Mark III [/inserted] DV246 (KC-U) that had just been delivered, ED932 (Gibson’s old aircraft now recoded AJ-V) [inserted] for low-level sorties [/inserted], JB139 (KC-X), ED915 (AJ-Q), or EE146 (KC-K). He [inserted] sometimes [/inserted] went up three times a day, usually it was twice each day, and his bombing errors read consecutively: 74 yds from 10,000 ft, 182 yds (10,000 ft) then only 21 yds from a 200 ft high low-level sortie, 26 yds (200 ft), 96 yds (10,000 ft), 88 yds (10,000 ft), 101 yds [deleted] (10,000 ft) [/deleted], 86 yds [deleted] 10,000 ft) [/deleted], 57 yds (all at 10,000ft)
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60 yds (from 12,000 ft), 47 yds (1,000 ft), and so on. They had great difficulty getting the accuracy to any greater limits – which really was going to be essential if Barnes Wallis’ big, expensive bombs were to be dropped (These had streamlined aerodynamic fins, and would spin at an increased speed as they dropped, giving different trajectories to the normal, unstreamlined weapons).
Slowly the results of the RAE and A&AEE testing were incorporated on the Lancasters, and Sqd Ldr Richardson’s observations, and things at last began to come together.
Mick Martin went up with David and acted as the bomb-aimer himself on October 16th, flying in ED932 on a low-level sortie. He managed a mean error of 105 yds from 250 ft altitude – not very good! (He obviously then appreciated the level of accuracy David’s normal bomb-aimer could achieve – of 21 to 26 yds!)
David tried a run at 15,000 ft on October 17th – getting an error of 70 yds. But next day doing exactly the same, he only registered a mean error of 128 yds. (On both occasions he was flying ED932, now fitted up with the SABS system).
In the meantime, Mick Martin had been told by Cochrane to get the Squadron up to strength again in pilots and crews, and a good deal of interviewing had been carried out. Martin knew now that an extremely high degree of training and ultimate accuracy in dropping the new bombs was going to be needed, but the crews were going to have to be well blooded already with records to show that they could unflinchingly carry out day after day, the steady, straight run in to the target, whatever flak or defending fighter status. He sought only the very best and bravest of men, therefore, and rejected many applications on instinct. By the first week or so in October, however, he had selected a few more, including Pilot Officer F.E. Willsher – a young fair-haired boy of 19, only a year out of the school classroom; Flt. Lt Thomas Vincent O’Shaughnessy; Flying Officer Gordon Herbert Weeden; [deleted] and [/deleted] Warrant Officer “Chuffy” Bull; Flying Officer
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Geoffrey Stevenson Stout, DFC, [inserted] Flt Lt. R.S.D. Kearns, DFC, DFM; [/inserted] Pilot Officer Nicholas R Ross; [inserted] Sqd. Ldr William [inserted] R [/inserted] Suggett (to take over “A” Flight) [/inserted]; and Flying Officer J. (“Paddy”) Gingles. They all soon settled into the training routine, although both Ross and Bull hit trees on low-flying exercises, narrowly avoiding disaster each time.
David Wilson took up young Willsher on October 9th, to show him how the SABS worked on a 10,000 ft high-level bombing run, and in the afternoon of the same day, he flew ED932 at low level all through the Lake District and the Scottish Glens, taking 5 hrs 30 mins for the cross country. On the 11th he tried the SABS at 12 000 ft and got his error down to 60 yds, and then over the next few days he used it at 1,000 ft (Error=47 yds), 250 ft (with Mick Martin acting as bomb aimer again (Error=105 yds), then at 15,000 ft (Error=70 yds, with Sqd Ldr Richardson on board), then 15,000 ft again (128 yds). And so it went on with David flying his new Lancaster DV 246 [inserted]KC-U) [/inserted], or the two originals from the Dams raid, ED932 (AJ-V), or ED 924 [inserted] (AJ-Y) [/inserted], which had been flown by Cyril Anderson.
David took “Talking Bomb” down to the RAE at Farnborough on October 18th to have some modifications made to the SABS, then he flew the Sqd. Ldr. (who had been a Great War pilot in the RFC) up to the bombing range at West Freugh (near Stranraer) where they checked the bombsight out again at 14,000 ft and 8,000 ft.
As October drew to a close, the bugs seemed to be getting ironed out of the SABS system, as the various modifications were made to it, and after the sight went U/S two days running on practice bombing on 22nd and 23rd, at long last, on the afternoon of the 23rd, David flew over West Freugh again at 14,000 ft and dropped one 4,000 lb “Cookie” this time. It hit the 3-storey target building [inserted] at Braid Fell [/inserted] fair and square in the middle, demolishing it! (Average error = Zero!). On his next run, on the 25th, he dropped six 1,000 lb bombs from 14,000 ft, hit the target with one, gained a very near miss with a second, and put the other four close by ([inserted] Mean [/inserted] Error = 79 yds). Things were getting better!
[Underlined] Restarting Operations [/underlined]
November started off the same way – with more
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high and low level exercises. David had been allocated Guy Gibson’s old aircraft (ED932, AJ-V) on a permanent basis now, and he flew it on most of the practices. He did a run at 12,000 ft and dropped four [inserted] bombs (with [/inserted] an average error of 146 yds), then three bombs from 2,000 ft (53 yds), and then switched to one of Mick Martin’s latest ideas – bombing a PFF red Target Indicator from 15,000 ft. He scored a “bullseye” on it on November 5th (appropriately for Guy Fawkes night!), and with things now obviously getting to the stage where 617 Squadron was ready for operations with the SABS, David showed a VIP around his aircraft on November 6th (believed to be Roy Chadwick, Avro’s Chief Designer) and flew him back to Ringway in the afternoon.
Cochrane at Group had meanwhile decided it was time to test the SABS in action, and so Mick Martin was informed [inserted] that [/inserted] they were to raid the Anthéor Viaduct in Southern France again on November 11th – this time from 8,000 ft to avoid the flak from recently installed German defences.
On the morning of November 11th, David made one more practice flight in ED932, dropping 6 bombs from 15,000 ft and getting his mean error down to 89 yds. It was the best they could do, and he [inserted] then [/inserted] prepared for the evening’s operation. The Squadron despatched 11 aircraft, starting at 18.15, with Ted Youseman first off, and each being bombed-up with one 12,000 [inserted] lb [/inserted] H.C. Blast bomb. Mick Martin himself was leading the raid, and Dave Shannon and Les Munro were also flying, but Shannon had engine failure on take-off and had to abort. The others all got off safely – O’Shaughnessy, Rice, Bull, Clayton, Brown, Kearns, and David Wilson – and set course for Anthéor (David had two new members of his → [inserted] crew on this “op” – Flying officer Chandler and Warrant officer Holland, who were to stay with him ‘for some time (“Chan” Chandler had already survived 8 days in a dinghy in the N-Sea, after ditching in a 49 Sqd Hampden, returning from Düsseldorf in the early hours of July 1st, 1941). [/inserted]
They found the viaduct in half moonlight this time, but there were guns and searchlights to avoid, and there was another similar viaduct just to the West, in the bay by Agay, and this confused some crews sufficiently enough to aim at that. There were no direct hits, but Mick Martin’s bomb hit the railway line to one side of the viaduct, and several more got near misses, David’s bomb [inserted] being 30 yds out. [/inserted] But the viaduct survived, and the 10 Lancasters flew on to Blida again,
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in Algeria. There had been some ships just off the shore at Anthéor which had opened fire on some of the Lancasters, but none had been hit, and they all landed safely in N. Africa. They had a four day break there (taking full advantage of it as they had done before, to sample the local wines and unrationed food and fruit. [sic] They left on November 15th for Rabat in Morocco, and on the 17th flew home from Morocco to Coningsby, via the Bay of Biscay, loaded with Forces Christmas mail for home and fruit and wine. But one Lancaster never made it back – Ted Youseman and his crew were probably picked off by a German fighter, and were believed to have ditched in the sea south-west of Brest, perishing in the process.
{Underlined] New C.O.; new ideas. [/underlined]
While they had been away in N. Africa, a new C.O. had arrived to take command from Mick Martin (who had only been in charge on a temporary basis). His name – Wing Commander Geoffrey Leonard Cheshire, DSO and Bar, DFC – and he had dropped a rank from Group Captain, in order to take over 617. Mick Martin had some burning ideas now about marking targets first with flares, so the rest could bomb with the SABS system, and so did Cheshire too. He was to change 617’s role quite dramatically with his ideas – how dramatically, and how successfully none of them would have guessed in their wildest dreams!
After they were once more back at Coningsby, David tried out his SABS from 18,000 ft now, gaining an error of 137 yds for [inserted] dropping [/inserted] six bombs, and made a few routine air tests of his Lancaster (ED932) early in December. Cheshire also loaned out from 617 crews with McCarthy Clayton, Bull and Weeden, for a few days to the Special Duties Squadrons at Tempsford. They were needed to make pinpoint drops of guns and ammunition to the French Resistance [inserted] near Doullens (on the River Outhie in Northern France) [/inserted] on December 10th. The raid went badly, flak bringing down both Bull and Weeden’s aircraft with two of Bull’s crew, and all in Weeden’s being killed. McCarthy couldn’t find the target, and so he and Clayton went back on December 11th, and were successful this time. Cheshire and 617
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had lost two more valuable crews.
Almost immediately after this, 617 was detailed to bomb a [inserted] V1 [/inserted] Flying Bomb [inserted] launch [/inserted] site in the Pas de Calais, and Group decided to try out the SABS again at night, but this time, working on Martin and Cheshire’s ideas, arranged for the P.F.F to mark the wood concerned with incendiaries. [Inserted] → Mick Martin [inserted] – as Cheshire’s Deputy - [/inserted] had now taken over as O.C. “B” flight from Les Munro, and David Wilson was now flying as Mick’s right hand man. [/inserted] Nine Lancasters were [inserted] therefore [/inserted] sent off from 617 Squadron on December 16th, [inserted] led by Cheshire with Martin as his Deputy [/inserted] to bomb the “Ski-site” ** at Flixecourt on the Somme between Abbeville and Amiens. A single PFF Mosquito used the “Oboe” beam system of marking the target [inserted] with incendiaries [/inserted], and all nine 617 Lancasters dropped their single 12,000 ln H.C. Blast bombs as close to the burning wood as possible. David dropped his, and his bomb-aimer took a photograph of the aiming point to check on their return. [Inserted] His sortie lasted for 3 hrs 40 mins in all. [/inserted] Subsequent “recce” pictures showed the Squadron had collectively achieved a mean error of 94 yds – but the “Oboe” Mosquito had marked 350 yds from the target – and so all the bombs were wide! Cheshire was not amused.
David was up again on December 18th, doing a practice drop from 2,500 ft (Error-70 yds), and on the [inserted] morning of the [/inserted] 20th from 15,000 ft (Error=60 yds). This was a good, consistent result from differing altitudes and in different aircraft (ED932 and ME557). In fact ME557 [inserted] (KC-O) [/inserted] was a brand new Lanc, and David took a Ministry of Aircraft Production official up on the practice to check the [inserted] Napier [/inserted] compressors [inserted] supplying air to the SABS system [/inserted]. * It was also one of the first Lancasters fitted out to carry Barnes Wallis’ new 12,000 ln Tallboy streamlined bomb to be delivered to 617.
The next operation was on [inserted] the evening of [/inserted] December 20th to [inserted] the Cockerill steelworks [/inserted] [deleted] an armaments factory [/deleted] in a residential area of Liege, in Belgium. The bombing had to be accurate to avoid civilian casualties, so eight PFF Mosquitos preceded eight 617 Lancasters. The Mosquitos marked the target, but [deleted] as [/deleted] low cloud prevented the markers being seen, [inserted] Cheshire dived low to see for himself, and found the markers were well off the target. He therefore ordered [/inserted] the force [inserted] to [/inserted] return without bombing. David (and the [inserted] others [/inserted]) brought their 12,000 lb H.C. bombs back, and Geoff Rice was shot down by a night fighter, miraculously surviving alone out of his crew, to be taken prisoner. One more of the original 617 founders had gone.
* Recoded later as KC-S, this was the aircraft in which Flt. Lt. “Bill” Reid, VC, was shot down on July 31st 1944 (he survived).
** So-called because of the shape of the curved ramp V1 launch site.
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Two days later, on December 22nd, David was off again [inserted] (in AJ-V) [/inserted] to attack a [inserted] V1 [/inserted] Flying Bomb [inserted] launch [/inserted] site near Bellencombre, south-east of Dieppe, this time taking Flying Officer Len Sumpter, DFC, DFM as his [inserted] bomb-aimer [/inserted] [deleted] crew [/deleted] instead of F.O. Parkin. Sumpter had flown on the original Dams raid, been rested, and had just come back for a second tour with 617, [inserted] normally flying with Dave Shannon [/inserted]. But the PFF Mosquitos failed again, and David brought all 11 x 1,000 lb bombs back. There were no casualties, fortunately, but Cheshire was not impressed by these PFF failures
David had a few days leave, and resumed flying on the 31st, after Christmas. He missed the new attempt by 617 on December 30th to bomb Flixecourt again, with 10 Lancasters helped by six PFF Mosquitos. Once more the markers were 200 yds off target, 617 accurately straddled them, but because [inserted] of their accuracy [/inserted] missed the main target.
[Underlined] Sorting out the marking problem; a new base [/underlined]
At the beginning of January 1944, David was up on bombing practices again – high level from 15,000 ft (with an average error of 127 yds – and one bomb that toppled); then another of the same height with a better error (98 yds). That was on the morning of the 4th, and in the evening David was one of 11 Lancasters put up for attacking another Flying Bomb [inserted] launch [/inserted] site in the Pas de Calais area [inserted] – this time at Fréval. [/inserted] With the others, he bombed a PFF Target Indicator that they had dropped at very low level this time – but the T.I. was four miles from the target, however, and David brought a photo back to prove it. He blamed the PFF once more! This was obviously not good enough, and whereas 617 Squadron was now trained up to be the RAF’s most accurate bombing squadron, it was the Pathfinders who were now plainly not up to scratch! It was no good having accurate bombing on inaccurate target markers, and so Cheshire, Martin and Bob Hay (Flt. Lt. Robert Claude Hay, DFC and Bar, RAAF – 617’s bombing leader, and Mick Martin’s own bomb-aimer from the first raid on the Dams) put their heads together to work out their own in-house method of marking a target, and then bombing it with the rest of the Squadron. But they first had to prove that the System worked, and to do this they needed Cochrane’s
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permission from Group to discontinue using PFF assistance Cheshire, with his innocently youthful and matter-of-fact ways, soon got this.
Meanwhile, determined to get everyone’s accuracy up even further, David and the rest of 617 went on practicing, day after day, over the next 17 days of January. They made high-level bombing runs, low-level cross country flights, and usually pin-pointed targets all the way round in woodland areas – just like the V1 Flying Bomb sites. David flew these separate and original 617 Lancasters during this period – ED915, ED924 and his own ED932
On January 9th, after a practice over the Wainfleet Sands at low level, he and the others landed at Woodhall Spa – to be their new base from now onwards. Cochrane had decided that 617, with its special techniques, top priority targets – and more importantly, the forthcoming new Tallboy and 10-ton Grand Slam bombs they were to use – deserved a special one-squadron base secluded away from other camps. Woodhall Spa was a one-squadron aerodrome, and so 619 Squadron there moved to Coningsby (which could hold several squadrons), and 617 transferred in the reverse direction on January 9th 1944. → [Inserted] A few more pilots joined 617 at this time, including Lt. Nick Knilans, DSO, DFC (USAF), Flying Officer Geoffrey Stevenson Stout, DFC, and Flying Officer J.L. Cooper. [/inserted]
Over the next few days, operations now from Woodhall Spa and billeted in the delightful Petwood House Hotel (which served as the Officer’s Mess) David flew on low-level cross country sorties, but this time in formation. He flew his (and Guy Gibson’s old aircraft) ED932 for the last time on January 18th [inserted] across to Coningsby, [/inserted] and this veteran Lancaster was left there to be used by 61 Squadron in future (it survived the war intact, only to be eventually scrapped). On the 20th, David started some new tactics that Cheshire was devising – low flying over the Wash at only 60 ft high, and then flying across, and down, the aerodrome’s flarepath at 60 ft, practicing the tactics of dropping more Target Indicators onto a cluster dropped already by the leader (using the runway lights as imaginary markers). It was during this practicing on → [inserted] the 20th that O’Shaughnessy misjudged his height and hit a sea wall at Snettisham, crashing on the beach. He and one of his crew were killed, but the rest (one badly injured) survived to fight again. The Squadron had lost another [inserted] good [/inserted] pilot. [/inserted]
Next day, January 21st, Cheshire announced he had got permission to strike at a V1 [inserted] launch [/inserted] site again – but this time without using the PFF at all. That evening, they set out with even greater excitement than usual, for they knew they had to get a good result
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this time, to substantiate all their training.
David took another of his old mounts, JB139 [inserted] (KC-X) [/inserted], on this raid, and 617 put up 12 aircraft in all. The target was at Hallencourt, a few miles South of Abbeville, and Cheshire and Martin carried out their own new “Pathfinder” technique. First of all the leading pair dropped [inserted] Red Spot [/inserted] flares from 7,000 ft, then dived down [inserted] to about 400 ft, [/inserted] using their illumination of the target area to drop long-burning Target Indicators right on top of the Ski-site.* The rest of 617 then flew over, dropping their bombs on the T.I’s. David, in fact, carried 2 x 1,000 lb, 13 x 500 lb bombs and 6 flares in his Lancaster, and, in common with others, would have used the flares if necessary to help Cheshire and Martin to go on marking the target if their first T.I’s had gone out. But David didn’t need to use the flares on this occasion, nor did he drop all his bombs – only 7 x 500 lb and 1 x 1,000 were let go, and he brought the rest back. He got a good photograph of the aiming point [inserted] from his bombing level of 13,000ft, [/inserted] and when the crews got back to Woodhall Spa, they were jubilant. It had worked, and later “recce” pictures confirmed they had blasted the main target area – for a change!
Once again, in the next few days, David was hard at Cheshire’s new tactics again, doing low-level [inserted] (60 ft high) [/inserted] runs over Uppingham Reservoir, and practicing aiming at the flarepath at their base – or carrying out “Tomato” exercises (as they now referred to them). Then on January 25th came their second “Op” using their own marking [inserted] techniques [/inserted] on a V1 [inserted] launch [/inserted] site. Now it was Fréval [inserted] again [/inserted], and David was one of 12 617 Lancasters to head for the target, flying a Mk I (DV385, KC-A). [deleted] from 50 Squadron for a few days [/deleted] He carried 13 x 500 lb and 2 x 1,000 lb bombs and Cheshire and Martin dived in low again aided by a green Target Indicator dropped [inserted] in the general target area by the PFF, [/inserted] marked the target [inserted] with Red Spot flares [/inserted] in very gusty wind conditions, and David and the rest dropped their bombs exactly on target. It was a case of two out of two “bullseyes” for 617, and there were no losses from either raid.
[Underlined] Picking off the targets [/underlined]
Cochrane now realised that Cheshire and 617
* Cochrane had insisted that the marking had to be done from above 2,500 ft, but Cheshire and Martin had worked out the dive-bombing technique down to 400 ft!
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were now thoroughly capable of using their low-marking techniques on any number of specialised targets – and Cheshire had eventually told him of their habit of dive-bombing their Lancasters right down to 400 ft over the target. So Cochrane now picked a beauty for them – the new engine works at Limoges, in mid-western France. This was to be on February 8th, and so in the days leading up to this, David found himself practicing once again, this time dropping bombs on the ranges from 1,500 ft, 2,000 ft, then at 8,000 ft, 10,000 ft and finally 14,500 ft (at West Freugh). At low-level his mean error was 222 yds, but at 10,000 ft he got it down to 39 yds, and at West Freugh to 65 yds.
Finally, the 8th dawned, and in the evening 12 Lancasters took off for the Gnome et Rhône aero engine works at Limoges. Cheshire and Martin left 15 minutes before the rest – led by Dave Shannon and consisting of David, Ken Brown, Bob Knights (a new pilot), Knilans, Ross, Kearns, Willsher Clayton and Suggitt.
Para // Cheshire had worked out a special technique for this raid , as most of the workers were French, and the factory was close to a built-up area where many of them lived. There was cloud right along their route, but it broke just before they reached Limoges, on the River Vienne. Cheshire then flew over the factory roof three times, down to about 100 ft to warn all the night shift workers to leave, and take shelter. His aircraft, DV380 (Coded KC-N) had had some modifications to accommodate an RAF Film Unit crew, led by Sqd Ldr. Pat Moyna. Half its fuselage door was cut away to instal [sic] two 35mm movie cameras, and two large mirrors were fitted underneath to reflect as much light as possible (had Roy Chadwick, the Lancaster’s designer known, he would doubtless have considered it as sacrilege)!
After Cheshire’s third run, his crew could see the French workers streaming out of the factory, to their air raid shelters, and after waiting a few minutes, Cheshire went in to drop his cascading incendiary markers and Red Spot fires directly on top of the centre of the factory roofs. The Film crew had a beanfeast, obtaining some of the most remarkable shots of the War, as the cascades of light lit up the factory, river and railway yards nearby.
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Mick Martin then followed Cheshire in, flying his Lancaster DV402 (coded KC-P), and dropped his markers on top of Cheshires – After that Cheshire told the main force overhead to bomb, and he cruised around the area at 5,000 ft, to let the film crew record the event. They had a grandstand view, as the other 10 Lancasters (David was flying ME559, KC-Q) unloaded their weapons on the factory. Five of them carried 12,000 lb H.C. Blast bombs, the other seven – like David – [inserted] each [/inserted] dropped 12 x 1,000 lb bombs, and most of them were within the factory perimeter. David reckoned his stick fell slightly off target, and straddled the railway lines away from the factory.
Cheshire then ordered all crews home, but he flew around the burning, smoking factory in the moonlight at 100ft (or less) for half an hour, letting the Film crew complete a unique task. Even Cheshire’s crew got fidgety, trying to egg him on gently to start for home. As Moyna said afterwards: “Cheshire seemed as unconcerned as an assistant arranging a group photograph in a studio”! Finally, they turned out to the Bay of Biscay, and flew back over the sea. They all arrived back safely – Cheshire about an hour behind the rest. And the main achievement (for Cheshire) was a perfect record on film to show the AOC and all the others at Bomber Command HQ, illustrating how effective low-level marking could be.
[Underlined] Third attempt at Anthéor. [/underlined]
After the attack on Limoges, David’s next flight with 617 was another operation on February 12th – back to the Anthéor viaduct again. The Squadron had already attacked it twice, and the USAF once, but it was still intact and carrying almost 100,000 tons of German supplies down to the Italian Front each week. All these attacks had, however, served only to get the Germans to defend it more heavily each time, and the defences were formidable this time.
Once again 617 fielded 10 Lancasters for the “Op”. but Cheshire was concerned about the range at their disposal, for Cochrane refused permission for them to carry on to Sardinia this time, saying he needed 617 back in the UK after the raid. In order to squeeze every gallon of petrol into their tanks, they flew
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their Lancasters down to Ford aerodrome, between Bognor Regis and Littlehampton on the South Coast, using it as an advance base to refuel. Then Cheshire and Martin took off ahead of the others, climbing through bad icing conditions, and arrived some five minutes ahead of the main force.
It was a pitch black night and the narrow valley was full of all types of ack ack guns, which opened up in an absolute hail of flak. Cheshire tried three times to dive down the valet over the viaduct, and drop his load of markers and flares, but each time he was blinded by the flak and forced off course and out to sea. Martin then had a go, and Cheshire tried to get back inland to draw off the fire as he ran in, but was out of position as Mick slid down the dark ravine. As Mick levelled out over the viaduct, a 20mm cannon shell exploded through the bomb-aimers’s cupola, and Bob Hay was killed instantly, and the Flight Engineer, Ivan Whittaker injured in his legs.
Cheshire ordered Martin to fly on to Sardinia, and land there (where he had wanted the entire Squadron to go), and then he went in again himself, this time at 5,000 ft, above the ravine and out of range of the cannon fire. There was still a mass of heavy flak bursts, and David [inserted] in Lancaster ED763 (KC-D), [/inserted] and the others flying overhead thought it looked impossible for anyone to survive in that holocaust. Cheshire managed to drop some of his Red Spot markers, but they drifted to the beach side of the viaduct. With time over the target limited by having to return to the UK, Shannon up above now commenced the high-level bombing, and David and the others followed. David dropped his single 12,000 H.C. Blast bomb [inserted] from 9,500 ft [/inserted] and turned for home. Only one of these weapons dropped close to the viaduct, the rest falling closer to the beach, and once again the bridge remained intact! Finally, after a flight lasting seven hours exactly *, David touched down at Ford again, to refuel and rest, before flying back to Woodhall Spa that morning. [Deleted] The Lancaster he had used this time was ED763 (KC-D). [/deleted]
But fate had not finished with the Squadron yet, for next morning, as the 617 crews left Ford to fly up to Woodhall Spa, Sqd. Ldr. Bill
* David’s previous sortie to Limoges lasted 7 hrs 25 mins altogether but this was from Woodhall Spa. It took about an hour each way from there down to Ford.
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Suggitt climbed out to the West, and turned to starboard in DV382 (KC-J) to set course to the North-east. He had to climb up through the clouds shrouding [inserted] the [/inserted] South Downs, and just after 08.30 a tractor driver at Duncton Hill Farm saw the Lancaster impact on Littleton Down, above him. Wreckage spread everywhere, and all Suggitt’s crew died instantaneously, although Suggitt himself died two days later, still in a coma. Flight Sgt. John Pulford, DFM, the last but one survivor of Guy Gibson’s original raid crew, died in the crash. (The last survivor, Flt. Lt. Richard Trevor-Roper DFC, DFM, was killed on a 97 Squadron operation just 20 days later).
[Underlined] Improving the techniques. [/underlined]
After Mick Martin returned from Sardinia later, his Lancaster temporarily patched up, Cochrane sent him off for a rest period – much against his will. But Cochrane preferred living Flight Commanders to dead ones, and he had few survivors left now, of the original 617 founding pilots.
Then came some top-level Group and Command meetings – at one of which Cheshire appeared on the one hand, proposing greater use of his and Martin’s low-level marking techniques (preferably using Mosquitos in future), and on the other hand Air Vice Marshal Don Bennett [inserted] of 8 Group [/inserted] was strongly defending his PFF high-level marking (and being generally dismissive of 617 Squadron’s techniques).
Cochrane, however, gave Cheshire some leeway in his 5 Group, and set a string of targets now for 617 to attack where Cheshire could devise the necessary low-level marking himself. With Martin gone now, Cheshire took Les Munro as his Deputy, and Les became “B” Flight Commander, with David Wilson as his right hand man. Cheshire did not yet put in a bid for two Mosquitos (but he was busy making the necessary high-level contact in the RAF in order to obtain them quickly and painlessly when he needed them). He knew that the light, fast and manoeuvrable Mosquito would help to make diving onto the target so much easier, and also assist in avoiding the defensive flak.
The last half of February 1944 passed for David with no more than four training flights or air tests
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being flown, due to bad weather. The last of these, on February 29th, was a bomb-dropping exercise from 15,000 ft, where David’s crew scored a 100 yd average error. Then came another practice from 10,000 ft on the morning of March 2nd, followed by 617’s next operation the same evening – this time to the aero-engine works at Albert in the Pas de Calais, between Amiens and Bapaume. Because this was believed to be heavily defended (repairing as it did, vital BMW engines for Focke Wulf FW 190 fighters) Cochrane ordered Cheshire not to mark below 5,000 ft this time. This was Leonard Cheshire’s 75th operation, and David Wilson’s 67th, yet 617’s three Flight Commanders – Dave Shannon, Joe McCarthy and Les Munro were some way behind these totals themselves. Both McCarthy and Munro were now promoted to Squadron Leaders.
David’s aircraft, DV246 (KC-U) was loaded up completely this time with [inserted] 248 x 30 lb [/inserted] incendiaries, and Cheshire and Munro (as deputy) went ahead to position themselves down to 5,000 ft so as to identify the target when the flares were dropped by the leading 617 Lancasters [inserted] of the 13 flying [/inserted] overhead. Cheshire went in under the flares to drop his markers, but his aircraft’s SABS bombsight went U/S on the approach, and while he stood off [inserted] for his bomb-aimer [/inserted] to try to get it working, he called in Munro to drop markers [inserted] just [/inserted] as the flares burnt out. Munro’s markers were spot on, and 617 bombed the factory from higher up, practically all their bombs and certainly David’s load of incendiaries [/inserted] (dropped from 9,200 ft) [/inserted] hitting the factory dead-centre. It was a text book operation, and Cheshire’s diary entry was almost right when he wrote: “This factory will produce no more engines for the Hun!”
Two nights later, on March 4th, 617’s target was the small, but important [inserted] La Ricamerie [/inserted] needle-bearing factory at St. Etienne (to the South-west of Lyon). It was a very small target, in a narrow valley with 4,000 ft hills on either flank, and once again in a built-up area, meaning it had to be picked out surgically, without harming the French citizens if possible.
Again, 15 Lancasters were put up that night, Cheshire and Munro leading (the latter on three engines, as one had packed up after take off). But there was ten-tenths cloud over the target, as David Wilson recorded. He was carrying a Sqd Ldr. Doubleday that night in his usual mount, JB139 (KC-X), and 1,000 lb
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bombs. But Cheshire couldn’t mark the target because of the bad weather, and so they all brought their bombs back that night. David’s flight there and back lasted exactly four hours.
Six days later, with better weather forecast, 617 tried to hit St. Etienne again. This time 16 Lancasters set off for La Ricamerie factory – on the same night that 5 Group bombed the Michelin works at Clermont-Ferrand. This time Cheshire made six attempts to mark at very low level in the blackness, dropping them accurately on the last run, but they bounced beyond the factory. Munro followed, and dropped short, Shannon tried and his markers bounced beyond, and finally Arthur Kell (a new Australian pilot) made a low-level dive and planted incendiaries in the factory. The rest of 617 then bombed the incendiaries (to Cheshire’s commands), and David unleashed his 11 x 1,000 lb bombs [inserted] from X “X-Ray” on the second run in [/inserted] in two sticks, [inserted] dropping them from 8000 ft. [/inserted] When they returned safely, David’s bob-aimer believed they had missed the target, but when “Recce” photographs were obtained, 617 was delighted to see the target had been completely destroyed, and there was no damage to the built-up area outside!
There was no more training at the moment, and the next “Op” was on March 15th, to an aero-engine works at Woippy, on the Northern outskirts of Metz (on the R. Moselle, East of Paris). It was freezing cold weather and 617 and 619 Squadrons sent a combined 22 Lancasters up this night, but the target was hidden by cloud [deleted] again [/deleted]. David was carrying a single 12,000 H.C. Blast bomb in his [inserted] JB139 [/inserted] X “X-Ray” again, but there was no hope of bombing, and so they all brought their bombs back. This was a longer sortie – 5 hrs 30 mins – and one [inserted] 617 [/inserted] crew, flying with Flying Officer Duffy, were attacked by three night fighters on their return leg, and claimed all three shot down!
Next day, March 16th, 617 was off again, this time to bomb the Michelin tyre factory at Cataroux, Clermont-Ferrand. The 15 Lancasters they put up were joined by six from 106 Squadron that were fitted with [inserted] the [/inserted] new [inserted] H2S [/inserted] radar bombing equipment. These latter aircraft dropped the flares this time, and Cheshire
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Made his usual low-level dives over the Cataroux Michelin factory to warn the [inserted] French [/inserted] workers to take cover, dropping his markers on the third run – but a little short. He was being extremely careful once more, because the factory had these major sheds in its complex, but a fourth large building – the French workers canteen – had “on no account to be damaged, if possible”, (Group’s instructions). Cheshire then called in his three Flight Commanders, Munro, Shannon and McCarthy, and they all managed to drop their markers directly on the factory sheds. To do this, they had to have a constant rain of flares to illuminate the target, and David Wilson in JB139 released his six, to help their aim. Then Cheshire called up the others to bomb the newly laid markers and David released his [inserted] single [/inserted] 12,000 Blast bomb *, right on target, and turned for home. This trip lasted 6 hrs 40 mins in all, with the separate run-ins to drop flares, and then the weapon, and with poor weather conditions back at Woodhall Spa, David landed at Coningsby on the return, positioning back to base [inserted] later [/inserted] in the morning.
The “recce” pictures next morning showed the works entirely in flames – and yet the canteen was intact! In fact Cheshire had once again carried Sqd Ldr Pat Moyna and his Film Unit in his Lancaster, and filmed the progress of the bombing from low-level.
Off again on March 18th, David was one of 13 Lancasters this time from 617 Squadron, to bomb the French [inserted] “Poudrerie Nationale” [/inserted] explosives factory at Bergerac, on the R. Dordogne east of Bordeaux. Cochrane had meanwhile told Cheshire that he would try to obtain two Mosquitos, to carry on the low-level marking in greater safety, and therefore until they came, Cheshire must not do any more low-level marking below 5,000 ft. On this raid therefore, six other 5 Group Lancasters, using H2S, joined 617 Squadron, and Cheshire marked from 5,000 ft – spot on – followed by an equally accurate Munro. Shannon and McCarthy both marked an ammunition dump close by. Then the others started to bomb, and before David [inserted] (in JB139 again) [/inserted] dropped his 12,000 lb weapon on the factory [inserted] from 10,000 ft [/inserted], Bunny Clayton dropped his on the nearby
* Six crews carried this weapon on the raid (those with the most accurate bombing averages). This weapon was now referred to as “The Factory Buster”.
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ammunition dump, which exploded in a 15-second long, gigantic flash that blinded everybody. Cheshire, down below, looked up and saw the rest of 617’s Lancasters silhouetted above him against the sky. Then David’s bomb slammed into the powder works, and it disappeared in turn beneath a series of vast explosions. “The powder works”, Cheshire noted, “would appear to have outlived their usefulness!”
This route also took 6 hrs 40 mins from take-off to touch-down, and two days later (as usual now) on [inserted] March [/inserted] 20th, David was off again [inserted] in JB139 [/inserted] to another explosives works – this one at Angoulême, [inserted] North-east of Bordeaux [/inserted]. The pattern was repeated, six 5 Group Lancasters using H2S to drop flares, Cheshire leading 617’s total force of 14 Lancasters and marking from 5,000 ft again. This explosives factory, on a bend on the R. Charente there, performed in the same manner as the one at Bergerac. David dropped 1 x 8,000 lb and 1 x 1,000 lb bomb from 8,300 ft on top of this works, and the factory was completely – and spectacularly – destroyed. Some 6 hrs 5 mins later, David was safely back at Woodhall Spa, as were all 617 crews, and the Film Unit in Cheshire’s aircraft again.
[Underlined] Lyon – third time lucky [/underlined]
The fact that 617 would never leave a “demolition job” half-finished was becoming equally well known to Germans and British alike. The Germans were, in fact, beginning to draft in more defences to the vital plants in France that were supplying their War Effort. But nowhere was this reputation more tested than with their attack on the SIGMA aero-engine works near Lyon on the night of March 23rd 1944. Again six Lancasters of 106 Squadron were to act as the Flare droppers, and 617 put up 14 aircraft.
Cheshire told the 106 crews when to drop their flares, but the first lot were too far North, the second try fell short to the South, and final corrections failed to illuminate the actual target. Cheshire now had to send in his own 617 flare droppers, at altitude, and he just managed one dive over the target at 5,000 ft before they went out. He was not sure his markers had hit, but ordered the rest of 617 to bomb them. David was carrying 11 x 1,000 lb bombs [inserted] in JB139 [/inserted] this time, all fitted with long delay fuses (for the safety of the French
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civilians), so Cheshire had to fly around on his own afterwards to assess the results. They exploded eventually, and certainly something had been hit fair and square.
On the return, all but one 617 aircraft diverted to Tangmere – a fighter station near Chichester – only Nick Ross getting back to Woodhall Spa [inserted] (David’s sortie had lasted 6 hrs 45 mins by this time). [/inserted] There was very limited accommodation, and Cheshire and his Flight Commanders slept with some of the 617 crews in their billets, and on the floor – being last in that morning! When they returned to Woodhall Spa after resting, it was to discover that their target was untouched – they had bombed the wrong factory!
So, next day, March 25th, they went back again to finish the job. This time there were 22 Lancasters in all, including the half dozen from 106 Squadron, but Cheshire had re-organized the Flare-dropping force this time, putting 617’s Kearns in charge of all such flare usage – be it by 106 or 617 Squadron. Cochrane had allowed Cheshire to mark at low-level this time, if required, and as the flares went down Cheshire once again realised they were off target. Eventually he and Kearns got them back on the right target, and Cheshire and McCarthy simultaneously marked underneath. Cheshire then realised they had dropped their spot markers on the wrong buildings, and went in again, his second lot of red spot incendiaries again overshooting. Finally he called in McCarthy again, who hit the target with his last markers, and Cheshire ordered these to be bombed by the rest. Due to problems of communication, however, all the 617 crews orbiting overhead then bombed the early markers – missing the target once again! David’s load this time consisted entirely of 500 lb incendiary clusters and they obtained a good aiming point photograph – proving once back home again 7 hrs 20 mins later, that they had missed the right aero engine works for the second time!
Once more, therefore, 617 set out again on March 29th to try and complete the demolition job. This time 106 and 617 put up 19 Lancasters, and Cheshire was ordered to mark from 5,000 ft again. The flares
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dropped by 106 this time failed to ignite, and Kearns therefore ordered 617 crews to drop their flares. These were accurate, and Cheshire then marked carefully, getting his spot fires just a few yards out of the target centre. When David and the rest above bombed these, their average error put their bombs within the target area this time. David was carrying 1 x 8,000 lb and 1 x 1,000 lb bomb [inserted] in JB139 [/inserted] this occasion, [deleted] flying his usual X “X-ray” [/deleted], and his crew knew immediately that they had at last scored a “bulls-eye”. It took just 7 hrs this time, before they were back at base, third time lucky!
[Underlined] Mosquito marking; and marshalling yards. [/underlined]
Two days before this operation – the last that Cheshire flew and marked in a Lancaster – Cochrane said he had obtained the use of two Mosquitos for marking in future. Cheshire went to see them at Coleby Grange on the 27th, and then later on the day he returned from Lyon (the 30th) he had an hour’s dual instruction on it before flying it to Woodhall Spa. He decided that [inserted] McCarthy [/inserted], Shannon, Kearns and Fawke should join him on the Mosquitos as pilots, and they did some rapid dual instruction and test flights. And within two weeks Cochrane had given them two more Mosquitos.
David Wilson was on a few days leave at the beginning of April, and missed the next operation to the aircraft repair plant at Toulouse-Blagnac aerodrome on April 5th. This was the first time Cheshire used his Mosquito to do the target marking, and this time he was marking not just for 617 Squadron – in the lead – but for the whole of 5 Group which joined in the raid for the first full scale rest of operations to come. In addition to Cheshire’s Mosquito, 617 Squadron fielded 17 Lancasters, and 5 Group put up another 127 altogether. Cheshire found the target clear of cloud, and dived three times, dropping his markers right on target, despite considerable flak of all types. But the Mosquito was fast and agile, and the flak was inaccurate because of this. Munro and McCarthy had marked with Lancasters, and then 617 and other 5 Group Lancasters unloaded their bomb
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loads on the aircraft factory, and on other nearby targets too. All were destroyed, but Cheshire had to leave the scene early, as he was not sure of the range of the Mosquito at low altitude, without extra wing tanks.
When David returned from leave, he was immediately scheduled on the next raid on April 10th, this time to the Luftwaffe’s Signals Equipment Depôt at St. Cyr, by Versailles. He was given the new Lancaster, LM485 (KC-N), which Les Munro had flown in the Toulouse raid on the 5th, and bombed-up with 1 x 8,000 lb and 6 x 500 lb bombs. This raid was just carried out by 617, using Cheshire’s Mosquito and 17 Lancasters, and Cheshire eventually dive-bombed the target [inserted] down to 700 ft [/inserted] with his markers, after having trouble finding it in the dark. But he was spot on again, and David and the rest bombed the target [inserted] from 13,600 ft, [/inserted] destroying most of it.
Discussions at Bomber Command HQ now led to the C-in-C, Harris, agreeing now to let Cochrane have his own Pathfinder Force, within 5 Group, built around the special marking techniques developed by 617 Squadron. Thus Cochrane now received back two Lancaster Squadrons – 83 and 97 – which had originally been seconded to 8 PFF Group, and one Mosquito Squadron – 627 – [inserted] also [/inserted] from 8 Group, (much against the wishes of their A.O.C., Don Bennett).
The object now was to use the Mosquito squadron, and 617’s Mosquitos, for marking large targets, have the Lancasters of 83 and 97 Squadrons dropping the flares and acting as back-ups, and use 617 as the lead bombing squadron, and the others to bomb from a higher level. The next target was just such a place – the marshalling yards at Juvisy, 10 miles South of Paris.
David, meanwhile, had been back over the ranges again with 617, honing their skills all the time. He had “Talking Bomb” up with him on one high level from 15,000 ft, did some low-level flying, and then, on April 18th, was off to Juvisy with 201 other Lancasters in the Group, plus 617’s four Mosquitos [inserted] flown by Cheshire, Fawke, Shannon and Kearns.) [/inserted] Flying LM 485 [inserted] (KC-N) [/inserted] again, David was designated (as was the whole of 617 Sqd) to mark the target for the [inserted] Group’s Lancasters. [/inserted], and carried 6 x Red Spots,
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[inserted] 6 x 1,000 lb, and [/inserted] 4 x 500 lb bombs. The railway yards were on the West bank of the R. Seine, just on the south-east corner of Orly aerodrome, and [deleted] they covered such a large aera that the raid was split into two waves – one to attack the Southern half, the next (one hour later) to attack the Northern section. [/deleted] Cheshire found the Southern aiming point under flares dropped by 83 and 97 Squadrons above (although he had suffered a compass [inserted] failure [/inserted] in the Mosquito). He marked the yards successfully, and was backed up by the other [deleted] of the [/deleted] 617 Mosquitos, and David and the 617 Lancasters then unloaded their markers and bombs from 6,500ft fairly accurately on the target, [deleted] David and his 617 colleagues being the most [/deleted] with the rest of 5 Group – being trained in area (rather than spot) bombing – then carpeting the whole area. [Deleted] soon marked for the second wave, in Northern half of the yards, and again the results were accurate. [/deleted] The combined 5 Group method was becoming one of Bomber Command’s [inserted] most [/inserted] successful weapons!
On [inserted] the morning [/inserted] April 20th, David made his highest practice bombing run yet on Wainfleet Ranges – from 20,000 ft this time. He did not know it, but Cochrane was anticipating the arrival shortly of Barnes Wallis’ new Tallboy Bomb, and the higher it would be accurately dropped, the deeper it would penetrate in the ground before exploding, and creating an “earthquake” effect – bringing any building crashing (even if made of solid concrete).
The same evening (April 20th) David took part in another massed 5 Group attack – this time on the marshalling yards on the North side of Paris, at Porte de la Chapelle, just up the line from the Gare du Nord. He was flying LM485 (KC-N) this evening, and because these yards were very close to the residential tenement blocks surrounding them, extreme care was needed in dropping both markers and bombs. This raid was also even bigger than the one in Juvisy, because 5 Group also borrowed the services of some 8 Group PFF Mosquitos to drop markers by their Oboe equipment (using converging radio beams from UK stations), before 617’s Mosquitos, and Lancasters [inserted] of [/inserted] all three 5 Group marking Squadrons (617, 83 and 97) did their marker and bomb dropping, and then the 5 Group’s Lancasters bombed the target. There was a total of
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247 Lancasters, and 22 Mosquitos in all involved this night, and the raid was split into two waves, each about an hour apart, which attacked the Southern and Northern halves of the yards separately.
The Oboe markers were a little late over the target and there were inevitably some communication problems with all the aerial units involved, and Cheshire trying to control the different facets of the operation. But these were overcome, and another accurate blitzing of the target was achieved. David dropped [inserted] 6 x Red Spots, 6 x 1,000 lb and 4 x 500 lb [/inserted] bombs this time [inserted] from 6500 ft [/inserted], and achieved a direct hit on the aiming point. His sortie lasted 4 hrs 10 mins this time, and once again, all 617 aircraft – Mosquitos and Lancasters, returned safely, although 6 Lancasters from the other squadrons were lost. On the subject of Squadron losses, 617 itself was now very much below the average of most squadrons in this respect, helped no doubt by its training, and the fact that it had concentrated recently on French targets, rather than those in the most heavily defended parts of Germany. There were other reasons too – such as Cheshire’s acquaintance with an RAF officer who was [inserted] the [/inserted] Senior Controller of Beachy Head radar station, near Eastbourne. This had some new American equipment that gave long range cover for Fighter Command deep into France and the Low Countries, and the officer suggested that it could be used at night to warn 617’s Lancasters if they were being stalked by German nightfighters. Cheshire then had 617’s Lancasters fitted with special crystal pick-ups and the latest VHF sets (all with Cochrane’s approval) and from there on, they had valuable radar protection on their missions into the Continent.
[Underlined] Tallboys, and “Taxable”. [/underlined]
The next operation Cochrane planned for 617 was an attack on a German railway centre, and the first he chose was Braunschweig (Brunswick), to the east of Hannover, on the evening of April 22nd. This was historically important, as it was the first time that 617 and 5 Group employed their low-level marking activities over German soil. David, however, missed this operation, and the next ones on Munich [inserted] on April 24th [/inserted] (marshalling yards again) and the German
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tank and troop park at Mailly-le-Camp (May 3rd) – because he was busily engaged in working [inserted] up [/inserted] himself and a few [inserted] other [/inserted] specially selected 617 crews on the Barnes Wallis Tallboy bomb technique. For the most accurate bombing crews on the squadron had been selected to drop these new 12,000 lb weapons (and later, the 22,000 lb Grand Slam bombs too).
It is worth recording, however, that the Braunschweig raid saw 238 Lancasters and 17 Mosquitos of 5 Group, and 10 Lancasters of 1 Group take part, The result was not good, chiefly because there was low cloud and although 617 marked the yards successfully (in the light of flares dropped by 83 and 97 Squadron Lancasters above), other H2S aimed markers were inadvertently dropped farther South, and much of the main force bombed these. One Lancaster of 5 Group had left its radio transmitter on, and it jammed every direction Cheshire tried to give to the other crews. Four Lancasters were lost, but none from 617.
The Munich raid, on April 24, was by contrast an immense tactical success. A mixed force of 260 aircraft once more struck the railway yards there (as well as spreading out over other areas of the town) after Cheshire and 617 Mosquitos had marked the target, [inserted] and Cheshire flew around at low level through a considerable curtain of flak and searchlights. Diversionary raids were flown to Karlsrühr (by the main force), and on Milan (a spoof “Window” dropping exercise by six 617 crews), and the only casualty 617 suffered this time was Flt. Lt. J.L. Cooper (a recent joiner from 106 Squadron). His Lancaster was shot down en route to Munich as Aichstetten, just North-east of Lake Constance, and although his bomb-aimer was killed, the rest of the crew survived to be taken prisoner. [Inserted] Eight other Lancasters of 5 Group were also lost this night. [/inserted] They were lucky to be in Bavaria – for there was now a large price on the heads of 617 crews caught in France!
[Inserted] After this raid on Munich, Cochrane ordered 617 crews to have a weeks complete leave, and most used the rest to good effect. But one or two stayed behind, David Wilson being one.
One factor worth noting about this raid was that Cheshire could not obtain extra fuel tanks for 617’s four Mosquitos. They had to fly these to Manston, refuel on the runway and take off without warming up the engines, to be sure of getting to Munich. None of them believed they could get back to Manston, and yet all just made it – despite a German night fighter in the circuit when they landed! [/inserted]
The Mailly raid upset 617’s and 5 Groups recent success patterns with a vengeance – but it was [inserted] just [/inserted] one of these things (C’est la Guerre”). Mailly was a large French military training area South of Chalons-sur-
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Marne (itself just a few miles [inserted] South-east [/inserted] of Rhiems). Here, it was known the Germans had a Panzer division and their equipment in transit.
Cheshire and 617’s other three Mosquito pilots, Shannon, Fawke and Kearns, were ordered to mark at Mailly, but 617’s Lancasters were not detailed for this raid – which was just as well. Cheshire marked the target perfectly, and ordered the 5 Group Controller to order the first wave of Lancasters to bomb. But things started to go wrong then, as the [inserted] latter’s [/inserted] radio was subsequently found to be seriously off frequency, and his VHF set was being drowned by an American Forces broadcast. After some delay they started to bomb, but because the second wave was held back, Shannon and Kearns had to remark the target in the face of considerable flak. The second wave also bombed accurately, but in the delays caused by the lack of communication, and while Cheshire had to get the Deputy Controller to take over, German night fighters began to arrive in large numbers, and harried the Lancasters all the way back to Northern France. All the 617 crews returned safely, but 42 Lancasters were lost out of the 340 Lancasters and 16 Mosquitos sent on the raid by 5, 1 and 8(PFF) Groups. (This was an 11.6% loss rate – some three times the normal)!
David missed Braunschweig and Munich, because on April 22nd (the day after his return from La Chappelle) he took his old JB139 (originally KC-X, but now changed to KC-V) down to Boscombe Down to carry out trials with Barnes Wallis’ 12,000 ln Tallboy bomb. Sqd Ldr Richardson (“Talking Bomb”) was also there and over the next four days, David took him up several times daily, making high-level trials dropping prototype Tallboys from 18,000 ft each time. On the 26th he returned to Woodhall Spa, carrying seven of the scientists concerned with these tests. He had to break off the special Tallboy dropping exercises in May, however, as all 617’s crews were now engaged on one of their most boring exercises – yet [deleted] as [/deleted] it turned out, it was to be perhaps their most successful and decisive of all – Operation “Taxable”.
The [deleted word] squadron was being trained up to conduct a major “spoof” exercise on the day before D-Day.
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This would entail [inserted] two waves, each of 8 [/inserted] [deleted] 16 [/deleted] Lancasters, flying on instruments in short overlapping circuits, and dropping “Window” to try to indicate to the German shore defences that an invasion fleet was heading their way. (And of course it would be in a very different direction to that taken by the real fleet). The whole operation, once started, would have to be kept up [deleted] continuously [/deleted] for some four hours or more. [Deleted] to seem on the German radar as if a vast number of ships was slowly advancing in their direction. [/deleted] The continuous orbiting by the Lancasters had to be at low level [inserted] 3,000 ft [/inserted], start at a pre-arranged time near Dover, and advance gradually over a group of 18 surface vessels flying barrage balloons, as the vessels sailed beneath them towards the coast below Calais. Bundles of “Window” would have [inserted] to be dropped out every 12 seconds during the four hours. [/inserted]
The month of May, 1944 was probably the most boring in the Squadron’s history, as they practised, day after day, and usually for an hour or so at a time, the intricate navigational exercises that would enable them to fly these continuous orbits. David flew a total of 26hrs 20 mins altogether on these exercises, between May 6th and June 4th, in his Lancaster I, LM485 (KC-N). As the continuous orbiting was going to be a taxing operation, each Lancaster would have to have two crews on board, one relieving the other at the halfway point. David had as his relief pilot a Pilot Officer Sanders and his crew, and after May 13th they always flew together.
On May 18th, David tested out a new “automatic pilot” (or “George”) that Avro’s had fitted to his aircraft, to alleviate the strain of the exercise. These were fitted to all the other Lancasters. At the end of May the Squadron flew up to Yorkshire to practice over the North Sea, and dovetail the second wave of 8 Lancasters into the tricky take-over from the first wave – to keep dropping the “Window” without any gaps (lest the German radar show some strange interruptions in the “fleet’s” progress).
Finally, all was ready on the night of June 5th, and the first wave of 617’s Lancasters set off at about 23.00, the first wave finishing their intricate movements halfway across the Channel
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between Dover and the Pas de Calais coast at around 02.30, and being relieved by the second wave, who finished at around 05.00, after daybreak and by which time they were in sight of the French coast. Another Squadron, No 218, used six Stirling bombers fitted with G-H blind bombing radar units, working in the same fashion but a little more to the East of 617.
In the event, as David noted in his log book, the exercise was “believed very successful”. His total sortie lasted for 4 hrs 40 mins, and the entire Squadron was heartily glad when it was over!
[Underlined] Effect of the Tallboy raids [/underlined]
Two days later, 617 Squadron was back on its normal type of bombing operations again, but this time the raid was laid on suddenly, at short notice, to try to prevent a German Panzer Division reaching the D-Day bridgehead. They were moving up from Bordeaux, and Cochrane ordered 617 to take the newly arrived Tallboy bombs, and try to block a rail tunnel on their route. This was at Saumur, on the R. Loire West of Tours, on the South side of the river just before the railway crossed the Loire on a long, low bridge.
The Squadron was hurriedly bombed up with the 12,000 lb streamlined Tallboy, which had a casing of hardened chrome molybdenum steel and a filling of some 5,000 lbs of Torpex D1 explosive. It was some 21 feet long, and 3ft 2 ins in diameter, with four aerodynamically shaped fins, offset slightly to the airflow in order to spin the bomb as it dropped.
David flew his usual Lancaster (KC-N), which accommodated the Tallboy in its bombay, and had the latest deep-section bomb-doors which closed around the bomb and were also flush with the fuselage – except at the rear end, where they left a [inserted] small semi-circular [/inserted] gap around the bombs tail-fin. The rest of 617’s earlier Lancasters [inserted] in the “DV” or “JB” serial range [/inserted] had been similarly modified, or exchanged for newer aircraft with “ME” or “LM” serials. David’s crew – which had changed slightly over the last few months with postings, etc – consisted of → [inserted] Flying Officer G.A. Phillips (Flight Engineer), F/O J.K. Stott (Navigator), F/O D.W. Finlay (Bomb Aimer/Front Gunner) Warrant Officer H.G. Allen (Radio Operator), Flt. Sgt. H.D. Vaughan (Mid-upper gunner), and Flt. Lt. E.B. Chandler (Rear-gunner), [/inserted] [deleted] F.O. [inserted] D.W. [/inserted] Finlay, W.O. [inserted] H.G. [/inserted] Allen, Flt Sgt. [inserted] H.D. [/inserted] Vaughan, and Flt. Lt. E.B. Chandler, [/deleted] and everyone was looking forward to seeing what these new “Earthquake” bombs could accomplish.
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Cheshire marked the target in his Mosquito, as usual, dropping his markers by the light of the flares from four Lancasters of 83 Squadron above, and placing his Red Spots by the tunnel mouth at the Southern end. He was followed in by his other two Mosquitos (Shannon had had to return home with engine trouble, soon after take-off), and then he called up the 25 Lancasters of 617 that were circling above (this raid was a “maximum strength” affair)!
David’s bomb-aimer released their Tallboy at the → [inserted] end of his seventh run-in over the tunnel. On all the earlier 6 runs his bomb-aimer was unable to see the markers clearly at the tunnel’s South end. He waited for the North end to be marked – the secondary aiming point – and then bombed on the seventh run-in. His Tallboy fell away at the [/inserted] end of a careful, steady run-in, and – like the others – they were disappointed to see only a small red splash [inserted] of light [/inserted] below, as it buried itself deep in the ground – not the blinding, white flash that their 12,000 lb Blast bombs always made, lighting up the countryside. Because of this the 617 crews were a little doubtful whether the tunnel, or railway cutting had been hit properly, until “Recce” pictures [inserted] arrived] [/inserted] next day. These were remarkable. David had written in his log: “Operations – Railway Tunnel at Saumur. 12,000 lb Special. Poor shot, but tunnel badly damaged” [inserted] and his sortie had lasted exactly 6 hrs 20 mins [/inserted]. Which crater applied to which 617 crew was impossible to verify, but the aerial reconnaissance pictures showed all the huge round craters clustered around the Southern end to the tunnel. Two Tallboys had hit the railway lines fairly and squarely in the middle, on the tunnel approach (wrecking an overhead road bridge too), three had landed on the top edges of the cutting by the tunnel mouth, cascading earth onto the lines, but one (and to this day, nobody knows who dropped this) hit the hill above the tunnel some 50 [deleted] hundred [/deleted] yards from the tunnel mouth, and did just what Barnes Wallis had predicted – [deleted] buried itself in [/deleted] penetrated the ground right down by the tunnel roof, and blew an enormous crater in the hillside, exposing the tracks at the bottom and dumping thousands of tons of rubble on them. The 617 crews were greatly heartened by the result, and there had been no casualties.
The next Tallboy raid was on June 14th, and this time Cochrane had sought Barnes Wallis’ advice about using the weapon on German E-boat pens at coastal ports like Le Havre. These torpedo boats were proving a pest at night amongst the convoys of ships off the Normandy beach-head, and so the idea [inserted] was both [/inserted] of dropping the Tallboys to create “tidal waves” to swamp the E-boats
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in harbour.
The raid was Bomber Command’s first daylight raid since June 1943, and was to be a big one on the Port area of Le Havre. Two waves of Lancasters, from 1 and 3 Groups, were to attack in the evening, and at dusk (it was almost Midsummer’s day), but 617 were to go in first with Cheshire and two other marker Mosquitos, followed by 22 Lancasters each carrying the Tallboy bombs.
The 617 aircraft took off, with a fighter escort of Spitfires accompanying them, as it was still broad daylight over the target area. There was heavy flak over Le Havre, but Cheshire [deleted] Shannon and Fawke [/deleted] dived his Mosquitos right down into the thick of it, getting down to 7,000ft over the Pens, and dropped his Red Spot markers by the E-boar quayside Shannon, Fawke and the leading Lancasters who were watching, marvelled at the way Cheshire flew through a dense curtain of all types of A.A. fire, and survived.
Cheshire then told his other Mosquito pilots not to bother marking (as the first Spots he had laid were very visible), and told 617 to start to bomb on these. David’s Flight Commander, Les Munro, then led the Lancasters in at around 17,700 ft (several had already been hit in the engines and wings by flak, and turned back), and David and his crew [inserted] in LM 485 [/inserted] recorded a “Direct-Hit” with their Tallboy on the E-boat [deleted] Pens and [/deleted] wharves. All the 15 Tallboys dropped by 617 hit the target area (one went right through the roof of a large concrete E-Boat Pen), and the E-boats were literally blasted out of the water onto dry land, or blown apart. The post-raid photos showed 617 had wreaked immense damage in the Port area, and the subsequent two waves of 199 Lancasters in all, blitzed the rest of Le Havre, rendering the German Naval presence completely ineffective after that. Again, 617 had no losses.
With this success behind them, Cochrane sent them up again next day (June 15th 1944) to do the same at Boulogne. For these Tallboy operations, David always had a seven-man crew (rather than the old six-man complement), and he had now added a Sgt. King to his regulars. Still using [inserted] LM485 [/inserted] (KC-N), David was up with 21 other 617 Lancasters that evening. There was thick cloud over
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Boulogne this time, and Cheshire (his Mosquito heavily patched up from its ordeal by flak the previous day) dived down below the cloud to drop his markers from around 6,000 ft, once more in a hail of anti-aircraft gunfire. Although his Mosquito was hit several times he survived again, and his markers hit the E-Boat Pen area. He ordered the 617 Lancasters in, but as it was now dark and the cloud had thickened up at 13,000 ft, 10 of the crews could not see Cheshire’s markers below the overcast, and regretfully turned for home taking their precious Tallboys back (they had strict instructions never to waste them!). The remaining 12, however, (mostly more experienced, and leading crews) dived below the clouds, enduring the same barrage of flak that Cheshire had, and lined up over the Pens to drop their bombs. David was one of these, following Les Munro in, and himself followed by McCarthy, Kearns, Clayton, Howard, Poove, Knights, Stout, Hamilton and two others. Most of their aircraft were hit by flak, but David dropped his Tallboy from 8,000 ft, and recorded “Believed Good Shot”. His aircraft was hit by flak, and holed as well.
All the 617 crews got back to base (David was only airborne for 2 hrs 35 mins altogether – against 3 hrs 40 mins for the previous Le Havre raid), but several crew members of other aircraft were injured. Following 617 in to attack had been 133 other Lancasters and 130 Halifaxes, aided by 11 Mosquitos of 8 (PFF) Group, and these had bombed the rest of Boulogne. Only one Halifax [inserted] had been lost [/inserted], out of all the aircraft taking part, and in the two raids taken together, 617 had been largely responsible for the wrecking of some 133 German boats (mostly E-boats).
[Underlined] V2 sites. [/underlined]
The moment they had returned from the Boulogne raid, there was a lot of patching up of the aircraft to do. David’s KC-N was too badly holed to be quickly back in service, and so he was allocated another – DV 380, Wing. Cmdr. Cheshire’s original Lancaster (KC-N), but now re-coded KC-X.
The very morning they had returned from Boulogne, Cochrane had alerted Cheshire to get ready for a
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very important operation that evening (the 16th). Cheshire had only just got to bed but was told to get up again and attend an intelligence briefing right away. The V1 Flying Bombs had started dropping on London, and Intelligence sources had warned the War Cabinet of the imminent firing of two other secret weapons at London – the V2 rockets, and in the V3’s case, huge shells fired through incredibly long [inserted] “Super” [/inserted] gun barrels being built across the Channel in France (a forerunner of the Iraqi “Super”-guns of 1991). The concrete blockhouses hiding these weapons had to be attacked with Tallboys immediately, as the War Cabinet thought on the one hand they might have to order the evacuation of London, and on the other – if aimed at Portsmouth and Southampton, etc, they might interfere [inserted] with [/inserted] the invasion of France, and put it in jeopardy.
The result of all this was that [inserted] David and the other [/inserted] [deleted] the [/deleted] Squadron crews were aroused, and after briefing, stood by all day at their aircraft dispersals, waiting for the signal that the cloud cover over the target had cleared. The Lancasters were bombed-up, but then had to be unloaded, one by one on a rota, to avoid straining their undercarriages. Food was brought out to dispersals, but late in the evening the raid was cancelled – the cloud was still unbroken over the target. Not long after, they were stood-to again, and then stood-down, and so it went on over three days!. Eventually the crews were living in a detached state of limbo, with too little sleep and their metabolic clocks thoroughly upset.
Finally, on June 19th, the cloud cleared and they were off at last. The first target for 617 was a large concrete structure to the [inserted] West of [/inserted] Watten (North-west of St. Omer), on the edge of the Forêt d’Eperlecques. [Inserted] This was one of two large “Bunker” sites for launching V2’s, consisting of huge [inserted] semi- [/inserted] underground concrete bunkers, with large armoured doors. Both these sites were constructed to initially fire the vertical-standing V2 rockets at London, but they were intended later to launch V2’s with nuclear or chemical war-heads, directly as the USA. [/inserted] David took off from Woodhall Spa [inserted] in DV380 (KC-X) [/inserted], with 18 other Lancasters, and Cheshire and Shannon in their Mosquitos. As it was a daylight raid, they were escorted again by Spitfires, and Cheshire went down to 8,000ft over Calais, to find the target beyond the town. He was engaged by a terrific flak barrage, so dived flat out down to 2,000 ft, and released smoke markers (for daylight use) on the target.
* The remains of this structure, called “Blockhaus”, are kept today as a tourist museum.
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Having come through the barrage miraculously unscathed, Cheshire’s markers then failed to ignite, so Shannon then went in through a haze that was developing as the day wore on. He dropped the last of the smoke markers, and as Cheshire believed they were close enough to the blockhouse, ordered 617 to bomb it. David dropped his [inserted] Tallboy [/inserted] like the others, from 18,000 ft, but it “hung-up” momentarily, and recorded a near-miss on his aiming point – the smoke indicators. The rest dropped their weapons close to or on top of the markers, but when the raid was over and “Recce” pictures obtained, it was established that the markers had been some 70 yds wide of the target. Some Tallboys had dropped far enough away from the markers to fall beside (and one on top of) the concrete structure, and this proved sufficient to encourage the Germans not to use the site afterwards. * For some reason (perhaps connected with the repeated bombing-up and down over the three day wait) several Tallboys besides those on David’s Lancaster also “hung-up” – including those of Knilans, Ross and Howard (two of these were “freed”, but one had to be brought back).
Next day, the 20th, the second of these large “Bunker” sites, at Wizernes (just to the South-West of St. Omer) was given to 617, and this time 17 Lancasters set off, with Cheshire and two more Mosquitos in the lead David was still flying DV380, but he had only flown as far as Orfordness, near Woodbridge when Cheshire, in front of them, received information the cloud cover was too thick over the target, and recalled the Squadron (complete with Tallboys).
Two days later, they tried again, and reached the target area this time, but there was ten-tenths cloud over the area, and once more they brought [deleted] back [/deleted] the Tallboys back. Not to be outdone, 617 made a third attempt [inserted] the morning of [/inserted] June 24th, and this time the clouds had cleared. [Inserted] Again they had a fighter escort, [/inserted] and two Mosquitos led 16 Lancasters to the quarry in the North-facing hill near Wizernes station and Cheshire dived in to mark. His markers hung up, however, and he called Fawke in behind him. The flak was intense, and Fawke’s Mosquito and several 617 Lancasters above were hit, but David dropped his Tallboy from 17,400ft, recording a “Good Shot”. On the run in, John Edwards’ Lancaster DV413 (KC-G) was hit, and went
* After Allied troops had captured this site in Autumn 1944 → Barnes Wallis persuaded Bomber Command to let several Lancasters drop the new 22,000 lb Grand Slam bombs on this structure in mid November, to test their destructive force. [/inserted]
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down out of control, [inserted] some crew baling out on the way. [/inserted] The Lancaster exploded as it levelled out, [inserted] its pilot fighting [/inserted] desperately to effect a crash-landing, [deleted] in a field [/deleted], and the rest of the crew were trapped [deleted] out [/deleted] amongst the debris, or flung out onto the field where it pancaked. Only the Navigator, Wireless Operator and Bomb-aimer survived, to become POWs. The rest of the Squadron returned safely, albeit many of the aircraft had flak damage.
As David’s aircraft was also damaged, he promptly air-tested his old aircraft, LN485 (now itself repaired), the same afternoon (June 24th), and next day he was off [inserted] in it [/inserted] with 617 to attack a huge underground storage area for V1 Flying Bombs – at Siracourt, just South of the main road from St. Pol-sur-Ternoise to Hesdin (and East of Le Touquet). The Squadron put up 17 Lancasters, 2 Mosquitos – and a North American Mustang fighter flown by Cheshire.
Para // There was quite a story behind the acquisition of the Mustang, but suffice to say that the Station Commander at Woodhall Spa, together with Cheshire’s friendship with the American Air Force Generals Spaatz and Doolittle, resulted in their sending a Mustang over [inserted] on the morning of the 25th [/inserted] for Cheshire to try out. The 617 ground crews had to work hard to modify the under wing bomb attachments, to fit the necessary smoke markers and the Squadron navigator had to plot Cheshire’s courses for him, and help him jot down the information on his knee pad – for the Mustang was a single-seater. Cheshire had never flown one before, nor a single-engined aircraft for some time, and by the time it had been prepared he was adamant that he would use it on that evening’s raid. He also knew that he had no time to do “circuits and bumps” in it, to get to know its landing techniques – his first take-off would have to be on the operation, and his landing back would have to be in the dark!
As the Mustang was a fast aircraft, David and the other 16 Lancasters and two Mosquitos took off ahead of Cheshire, and by the time they arrived at Siracourt, their C.O. was there, diving in to mark the concrete roof of the underground site with smoke indicators, and followed in by Shannon and Fawke. Then the 617 “gaggle” was called in to drop their Tallboys on the smoke, and David recorded a “Direct Hit” [inserted] from 18,800ft [/inserted], together with some of the others, while other Tallboys fell close by. Someone’s bomb pierced the
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16 ft thick concrete roof of the structure, [inserted] resulting in a spectacular collapse of the walls and ceiling, and others undermined the sides. [/inserted]
Three hours and five minutes after take-off, David was back on the ground at his base, and all had returned safely, including Cheshire in the Mustang.
There were still more sites to attack, but bad weather and thick clouds prevented 617 Squadron from further attacks for some days. [Deleted] In the days [/deleted] During this period, David only managed to get in one practice “Formation flight” and an “Air Test” (involving air-to-sea firing practice). Several times they stood by from dawn [inserted] onwards [/inserted], but raids were cancelled by the late afternoon. The urgency was in everyone’s minds, as the V1’s were now landing in London and the South-East in increasing numbers.
Finally the weather cleared again for the morning of July 4th, and they were briefed to attack a new V1 launch site located in underground caves in the limestone hill overlooking the River Oise, at St. Leu-d’Esserent, a little village North-west of Chantilly. These caves had been used before the war by French mushroom-farmers, but were now reinforced with concrete to store the V1’s, and their launching rails. [Deleted] and the gigantic barrels of the V3 guns [/deleted]
David’s Squadron put up 17 Lancasters, Cheshire in the Mustang, and his back-up in a single Mosquito for this daylight raid. Fawke in the Mosquito went ahead to get weather information, and then Cheshire arrived, dived very low over the caves and dropped his smoke markers accurately on top. Les Munro led in the Lancasters above, through fairly heavy, [deleted] and [/deleted] accurate, flak which caught several aircraft, but the Tallboys started to rain down on the site. One hit the main building, others dropped in the cave mouths and around the entrances to the site, all destroying a great deal of machinery. Many Germans [deleted] workers [/deleted] were trapped underground and some were entombed forever. David [inserted] flying in LM484 again, [/inserted] described his Tallboy hit [inserted] from 18,700ft [/inserted] as a “Fair Shot”, obtaining a good photograph of this exploding near the cave mouth. Once the limestone dust and debris had started to hide the target, some Lancasters had difficulty finding the aiming point, one was hit in all four engines and had to jettison the [inserted] Tallboy [/inserted] over the Channel on the run home [inserted] and [/inserted] one had its bombsight go u/s. Thus only 11 out of the 17 dropped Tallboys on the target,
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but the results were once again spectacular – although in many of these Tallboy raids, these were only seen at first hand after the Allies had captured the area, later in 1944.
All 617 crews returned safely [inserted] David’s own sortie lasting 4hrs 05 mins this time [/inserted], although some had been injured by shrapnel from Flakbursts. [Deleted] but [/deleted] Bomber Command sent in another force of [inserted] 5 Group [/inserted] Lancasters later that same evening – totalling some 231, with 15 Mosquitos for marking. German night-fighters were very active, and shot down 13 of the Lancasters around the target area – a high price to pay.
[Underlined] Last “Op” with 617 – V3 Site. [/underlined]
Two days later, [inserted] on July 6th 1944 [/inserted], David took off on his last operation with 617 Squadron, this time another daylight raid on a V3 site at Mimoyecques, where several “super-guns” were being set up. Cheshire flew his Mustang again, with a Mosquito to back him up, and the usual “gaggle” of 17 617 Lancasters followed higher up (usually around the 18,00 ft level). The “gaggle” was so named by Cheshire, but referred to the pattern 617 was now adopting in its bombing formations – normally four parallel rows of Lancasters (four or five to a row), each of the leaders flying at carefully planned 200 ft or 300 ft vertical separation from each other, and behind each of them, every subsequent Lancaster flying [inserted] in turn [/inserted] at 400 ft lower than the one in front. Thus the “gaggle” had the best chance of avoiding each others bombs in the run-up to the targets, and had a better sighting of the target as it began to become obscured from the markers and first hits. Generally speaking, if the Lancasters adhered closely to this box formation (which was not always possible), the last aircraft’s Tallboys should have released before the first started to explode (they were frequently given delayed-action fuzes).
The V3 site at Mimoyecques was in the chalk hills behind Calais, and Cheshire once again went in very low and dropped his markers on top of the tunnels. The rest then dropped their Tallboys, and David’s went down on target [inserted] from 19,000 ft [/inserted], but the burst wasn’t seen by his crew. Then he flew LM 485 (KC-N) back to
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Woodhall Spa, joining the others who all arrived safely. “Recce” photos later showed the V3 site to have been hit and straddled by the Tallboys and completely wrecked, once more entombing some Germans.
[Inserted] Sub heading [underlined] Leaving 617 Squadron [/underlined] [/inserted]
After landing from this short flight (David had been airborne only 2 hrs 45 mins on this last occasion), [deleted] their C.O. [/deleted] Cheshire was summoned to Cochrane’s Group HQ. Cochrane looked at Cheshire, and said quietly to him: “I’ve been looking at the records, and see you’ve sone 100 trips now. That’s enough, it’s time you had a rest!” And he told Cheshire it was no use arguing! He also added that his three Flight Commanders, [inserted] Dave [/inserted] Shannon, [inserted] Joe [/inserted] McCarthy and [inserted] Les [/inserted] Munro had to come off as well, with David Wilson too. Mimoyecques had been David’s own 90th Operation [/deleted] as well [/deleted], and although the Flight Commanders had done fewer trips, they had [inserted] all [/inserted] been flying on “Ops” continuously for some two years.
So David was rested simultaneously with his CO and Flight Commanders. He had joined 617 in time for its seventh operation (and its first visit to the Anthéor viaduct) on September 16th 1943, and had been with the Squadron for over two months before Cheshire had arrived to take over from [inserted] Mick Martin [/inserted] the temporary C.O. When he joined there had been 10 of the original Dams raid pilots still flying in 617, but when he left, the last three – the Flight Commanders – left with him. It was the end of an era in 617, and David was very proud to have fought and lived alongside those famous names. As for himself, he has never really had the recognition that he deserved for his part in the 40 Operations mounted by 617 between September 16th 1943 and July 6th 1944, but this is no doubt because he was an inherently shy man – though a very tough one in his quiet [inserted] Scottish [/inserted] way.
With all of them being suddenly rested from 617, the 5 Group A.O.C. began to confer some long deserved awards on them. Cheshire had been given a second Bar to his DSO on April 18th 1944 (while with 617) and now, two months after leaving, he was awarded the Victoria Cross, for four years of continuous bravery (unique because it was not for one specific act of gallantry). Shannon was awarded a Bar to his DSO, and Munro was awarded a DSO (McCarthy had just been awarded a Bar [inserted] to his DFC. [/inserted] David was justly awarded a Bar to his DFC (gazetted on June 29th
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1944. This was [inserted] then [/inserted] followed up on November 26th 1944 by his second decoration with 617 – a DSO. (The delay in the award of the DSO was probably occasioned by the departure of Wing Cmdr Geoffrey Leonard Cheshire, VC, DSO and two Bars, DFC, M.I.D., and the arrival and settling-in of his successor at 617, Wing Cmdr J.B. (“Willie”) Tait, DSO and Bar, DFC, MID).
The citation for David Wilson’s Bar to his DFC read: “Since the award of his first DFC in May 943, this officer has completed a third tour of operational duty, during which his experience, determination and devotion to duty have been displayed in the course of many sorties As a captain of aircraft, he can always be relied upon to complete his tasks in the face of the heaviest enemy opposition. He has a long and distinguished record of operational flying.”
And when the DSO was gazetted on November 26th this citation said: “This officer has taken part in numerous missions over enemy territory, including attacks on Berlin, Hamburg, Bremen, Cologne and Mannheim. He is now in his 3rd Tour, and has completed many sorties demanding a high standard of skill and accuracy. He has proved himself to be an ideal leader and his example has been most inspiring.”
“. [sic]
It is interesting to look back on David’s three tours of operations to see the difference in training required by any pilot flying with 617, and the other squadrons. In his time with 214 Squadron (his first tour) David flew a total of 289 hrs 50 mins, of which 199 hrs 35 mins was on operations, and just 90 hrs 15 mins doing Squadron training and exercises, etc. In this case the training hours amounted to 31% of the total. With 196 Squadron, training hours (34hr 35mins out of a total of 135 hrs 40 mins) amounted to 25%. But in 617 Squadron, David’s training accounted for 239 hrs 45 mins out of 420 hrs 55 mins – or a massive 57% of his total time! For each operational hour flown, he had flown over an hour’s worth of practice – nearly all bomb-aiming. This just illustrates the degree to which Guy Gibson (who started it), followed by Mick Martin and Geoffrey Cheshire, had insisted on the very highest level of low and high-level bombing accuracy.
At the end of his third tour, David had flown 90 missions, lasting for a total of 481 hrs 50 mins, and trained for a further 364 hrs 35 mins in these squadrons.
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[Inserted] As for David’s Lancaster [deleted] that [/deleted] [inserted] in which [/inserted] he finished his days [deleted] in [/deleted] at 617 (LM485, KC-N), this aircraft survived a further V1 site attacks, two attacks on the German battleship Tirpitz in Norway (as KC-U), and further raids on Norway, etc, [deleted] in 1945, [/deleted] surviving the War to be scrapped in October, 1945. His other favourite, JB139 (KC-X, and later -V) was shot down over Brest on August 5th 1944, piloted by Don Cheney, R.C.A.F., who survived, with three of his crew (four were killed). The remains of the Lancaster can still be seen in the shallow water of St. Anne-la-Palud Bay, nearby. [/inserted]
[Underlined] Marriage, No5 L.F.S, and the E.T.P.S. [/underlined]
Now that David had obtained a welcome break from operations, he and Elsie were married on July 22nd 1944, and he snatched a quick two weeks leave before finally saying goodbye to 617 Squadron [inserted] at a mammoth farewell party [/inserted] on August 7th, and reporting to his new posting, No5 Lancaster Finishing School at Syerston, Notts, the next day.
David was now made [inserted] up to [/inserted] a Squadron Leader, and [deleted] at first [/deleted] put in charge of “B” Flight at 5 LFS. He was later [deleted] at Syerston until March 13th 1945, becoming [/deleted] appointed the Chief Flying Instructor of the whole School on October 4th, and remained its CFI until he ended his posting there on March 13th 1945. During this time he put many other budding Lancaster pilots through their paces on the School’s well worn (and operationally expired) Lancasters. They were mostly Flying Officers, but there were a few Warrant Officers, Pilot Officers and Flight Lieutenants, and the odd Squadron Leader converting onto the four-engined bombers.
David put all his pupils through the full training steps, which included “stalling practice”, “steep turns”, “three and two engine flying”, “three engine overshoots and landings”, apart from routine circuits and bumps, and night flying.
On several occasions he managed a trip in a Lancaster, or the unit’s Oxford “hack”, to visit 617 at Woodhall Spa, usually taking Sqd Ldr. Poore over as well (both of them had served with the Dambusters). And a number of the Lancasters David taught on at the LFS had once flown in 617 Squadron.
In March 1945, having come to the end of his
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Posting to the LFS, David applied to go on one of the Engine Test Pilot’s Courses at Boscombe Down. He was accepted on the No 3 Course there, and started the Course on March 15th 1945.
This was the third and last of the early Courses to be held at Boscombe Down, due mainly to the construction of hard runways on the aerodrome, leading to a veritable log-jam of aircraft taking off or landing on the restricted grass areas.
David’s Course lasted until October 2nd that year – a period of 6 1/2 months – and David was one of 31 test-pilots to complete it successfully. Amongst other subsequently famous names on the course with him were [inserted] Lt. [/inserted] Peter Twiss RN (to become Chief Test-Pilot for Fairey Aviation), [inserted] Sqd. Ldr. [/inserted] Charles McClure, who then took over from “Roly” Falk as Wing Cmdr. And Chief Test-Pilot at the R.A.E. at Farnborough, Flt. Lt. J.O. Lancaster who went to Boulton Paul, Saunders Roe, and finally Armstrong Whitworth; Ron Clear, from Airspeeds; and Lt. Cmdr. J.B.V. Burgerhorst, who went to Fokkers.
Five of the 31 on the Course were to lose their lives testing aircraft (the corresponding losses on the 1st Course were 5 out of 13, [deleted] and [/deleted] on the 2nd 7 out of 28, and the 4th, 7 out of 33). This eventual “loss” rate from the early courses was on average almost 23% , illustrating the high price paid in the lives of exceptionally brave and talented young men, by the advancement of Britain’s and other countries’, aviation industries.
As described in the chapters in these Volumes about Jimmy Owell, Ricky Esler and Jimmy Nelson, etc, the ETPS Course proceeded for David along the normal lines. The previous Commandant, Gp. Capt. J.F. McKenna [inserted] AFC [/inserted], had just been killed in a Mustang at the beginning of David’s Course, and his place was taken by Gp Capt. H.J. Wilson, AFC, who had been a senior test-pilot at the RAE. The Assistant Commandant was Wing Cmdr H.P. “Sandy” Powell, AFC, who also acted as the Chief Test-flying Instructor.
David flew the [inserted] range of [/inserted] ETPS aircraft, which at that time included an Oxford, Harvards, Lancaster
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Swordfish, Mosquitos, Tempest [inserted] I and II and V, [/inserted] Spitfire IX and XXI Boston, [deleted] Sptifire IX [/deleted], [inserted] and the [/inserted] Meteor I. The last machine was the first jet aircraft that David had flown, but it provided no undue problems for him.
By the beginning of October, David had passed the difficult classroom studies, and the flying examinations, with ease, and after qualification, he accepted a post as test-pilot in “B” Squadron ( [deleted] the [/deleted] multi-engine aircraft) at the A & AEE at Boscombe Down, to last until his demob on March 15th 1946.
At the A & AEE, he started flying there on January 10th 1946, and undertook some firing trials on a new Avro Lincoln, flew a Lancaster to measure “speed/power curves”, practiced bombing runs in a Mosquito VI, and carried out other tests on a Halifax III, Dakota, Warwick, etc. Then his Service career was over, and David was demobbed.
[Underlined] A Career at A.V. Roe & Co. [/underlined]
With his brilliant academic qualifications, his war-time record, and qualifications now as a test-pilot, David Wilson [inserted] now [/inserted] had a great deal to offer the world. He was immediately offered a job at RAF Cranwell, and in fact the College was very keen to employ him, but David had written to Sir Roy Dobson, Managing Director now of A.V. Roe & Co. Ltd. at Manchester, to seek a post there – not necessarily in the Flight Test Dept., but perhaps connected with the Design side.
Sir Roy offered David the post of “Manager – Aerodynamic Development and Testing”, and David promptly accepted, starting work at Woodford [inserted] on April 8th 1946 [/inserted] at a salary of £800 per annum, with the promise of an early rise to £900 p.a. He was now 29 years of age, and had a total of 1807 flying hours to his credit.
David’s new job was immediately very tied up with examination of the Tudor airliner designs – both the Mark I and Mark II that were on order for BOAC and BSAA. A considerable amount of aero-dynamic research was going on into the problems affecting these designs, and several establishments
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Apart form Avro’s were engaged in a dramatic race to find the answers. The description of these problems can be found in the stories of Bill Thorn and Jimmy Orrell in these Volumes, but suffice to say that David and his Dept. were soon very busy liaising with Roy Chadwick, [deleted] the [/deleted] Avro’s Chief Designer (and from February 1947, their Technical Director), and the Test-pilots at Woodford to try to overcome the Tudor’s bad stalling characteristics, and excessive drag problems.
Once settled in at Woodford, David decided he had better keep his hand in at flying, and so [inserted] he had a medical on January 1st 1947, and [/inserted] took out a Civilian Flying Licence (No 24644) on March 26th 1947, not valid for flying Public Transport aircraft, but enough to cover him for test-flying at Woodford.
[Inserted] It was also early in 1947 before David and his wife were called to Buckingham Palace to receive the DSO he had won in 617 Squadron – so great had been the queue of people at the end of the War. As he was now a civilian, David had to receive the decoration in civilian clothes. [/inserted]
David was by now living at 3, Leith Rd, Sale, Cheshire, some miles from Woodford and closer to the Southern side of Manchester, and he and his wife Elsie now had a baby daughter, Carol. He was very satisfied with his work at Woodford, and he was starting to fly as Second pilot to Ken Cook and others, and rapidly getting the taste of flying back again. → [Inserted] For instance he went up with Ken on November 25th 1946 [inserted] and Reg Knight on November 27th [/inserted] in the Anson C.Mk XIX Series 2 VL 310, to conduct “Trailing Static Tests”[inserted] “Asymmetric and P.E.” tests. On December 1st he was flying with Reg Knight in Tudor I G-AGPF, doing tests at 25,000’. [/inserted] On December 30th and 31st he was up again with Ken in the Anson XII NL172 doing “Trimmer Setting” tests with the C of G fully forward and full aft, and “Single-engine” tests loaded up to 10,000 lbs weight.
In January 1947, David was flying with Ken again, doing “Trim” tests and “Loop swinging” on York MW322, checking “Stalling speeds” [inserted] and “P.E’s” [/inserted] on Avro XIX G-AGNI, and conducting “Pressurization and Heating” trials on the Tudor I G-AGRJ. And in May 1947 he was flying with Reg Knight in the Tudor I G-AGRI, Anson VM172 and Tudor IV G-AHNI, carrying out “stalls”, “stabilities”, “levels” and other aero-dynamic tests. [/inserted] And it was because of his flying ability, coupled with his interest in sampling the stalling characteristics of the new Tudor II, and observing the reaction of the [inserted] newly-shaped [/inserted] wool-tufted wing fillets fitted to it that he flew as Second-pilot with Bill Thorn on [inserted] that fateful [/inserted] August 23rd 1947. He was not originally → [inserted] scheduled to be the No 2 pilot on this flight as Bill had intended to take Reg Knight up with him. But Reg (see the next Chapter) had to go down to see his mother at Nuneaton, at very short notice, due to a dispute she was having over a new house. And Fate thus decreed that David would take his place. [/inserted]
So Bill Thorn and David Wilson taxied out in G-AGSU that sunny Saturday morning at a little after 10.50 (GMT), carrying Roy Chadwick (Avro’s Technical Director) and Stuart Davies (now the Chief Designer), with their Flight Engineer Eddie Talbot, and radio operator J. Webster. And soon after lift off on the main runway, Bill Thorn got into difficulties with Britain’s largest passenger aircraft (at that time), because of the aileron circuits being mistakenly reversed during work in the factory. The Tudor tilted right over onto
[Page break]
59a
[Insertions to previous page]
[Page break]
3/60
Its starboard wing, the tip touched the ground and the Tudor II sideslipped slowly into a field, crumpling the wing, sliding along the stubble on its belly, and then decelerating into a group of oak trees surrounding a deep pond. The trees broke up the fuselage and wings, and the long nose of the Tudor fractured, and dropped the cockpit end into the pond, drowning the two pilots. But for the presence of water, they would undoubtedly have survived.
Thus, David’s career with Avro’s came to a sudden halt, along with the great Chief Test-pilot sitting beside him, and the man in the back who had designed all these magnificent machines, - and the Lancaster bomber in which David had spent so much of an eventful wartime career, and survived because of its strength and performance. Certainly, if he had to die, he could not have died in the company of any greater men than these.
Roy Dobson, who should have been on the test flight himself, but had skipped it because he was called to his office for an urgent ‘phone call, tried to cope with the tragedy that afternoon from his office at Woodford. The relatives of the other occupants, dead or injured, were contacted by various means, but David’s wife Elsie was mistakenly overlooked for a time. With a young daughter to bring up, and a home to try to keep together, things looked bleak. But when Sir Roy realised how difficult things were, he went out of his way to do all he could for Elsie. He had Avro’s arrange to pay off the mortgage, [inserted] and [/inserted] and give her a monthly sum for quite some time. He sent presents for Carol from time to time, and used to bring them back for the little girl from his overseas trips.
Sir Roy was greatly affected by the accident, and genuinely grief-stricken over the deaths of his life-long friend and colleague, Roy Chadwick, and Bill Thorn and David Wilson. He advised Elsie Wilson to brief a good solicitor and sue A.V. Roe & Coe for damages, so that she could be awarded compensation, and although Elsie found this difficult, and at times could hardly understand what was going on, eventually she was awarded damages and these were held by the Court in 2 1/2 % War Loan on trust for her daughter, with the income being paid regularly.
[Page break]
3/61
In fact David’s daughter Carol was eventually offered a Dr. Barnes Wallis Scholarship, had her mother wanted to accept this (out of the two per year that the great aircraft and bombs designer had set up out of his own money). This could have entitled Carol to attend Christ’s Hospital (Girls School,) in Hertfordshire, but Elsie declined, in order to keep the family close together.
David was buried in Woodford Church, near Roy Chadwick and Bill Thorn, and where Sir Roy and Lady Dobson now also lie. The funeral was a very grand affair, attended by hundreds of colleagues of the crew from all walks of life, the Ministries, RAF and 617 Squadron, and other Aviation companies. Afterwards, Sir Roy said of David:
“He was a brilliant young man, and a technician of extraordinary aptitude and ability, who would soon have made his mark on the company. His loss is going to be most severely felt”.
And it was, no less than by his daughter Carol, who to this day remains devoted to the war hero father she scarcely remembers, and her mother Elsie, who has remarried, but still lives in Cheshire not many miles from Woodford, and under the flight path to Ringway Airport.
[Page break]
[Underlined] Appendix [/underlined] P1
[Underlined] Sqd. Ldr. David James Baikie Wilson, DSO, DFC & Bar [/underlined]
[Underlined] List of Operations (3 Tours) [/underlined]
[Underlined] With No 214 Sqd: [inserted] (Wellington IC). [/inserted] Target Bomb load make-up Total Bombs dropped [/underlined]
1941 July 9* Osnabrück. 1 x 4000 4,000
July 14* Bremen 3 x 500 + Incendiaries. 1,500 +
July 17* Cologne 1 x 4000 4,000
July 20* Rotterdam 1 x 1,000, 3 x 500, + Incendiaries 2,500 +
July 23* Mannheim 1 x 4000 4,000
July 25* Hamburg ? ?
Aug 12* Hanover ? ?
Aug 16* Duisburg ? ?
Aug 19* Kiel 6 x 500 3,000
Aug 22* Mannheim ? ?
Aug 27* Mannheim ? ?
Aug 31* Cologne 1 x 1000, 5 x 500 3,500
Sep 2* Frankfurt 1 x 4000. (Retd, engine trouble) –
Sep 7* Berlin ? ?
Sep 8* Kassel ? ?
Sep 11 Le Havre ? ?
Sep 15 Brest 1 x 1,000, 4 x 500, 1 x 250 3,250
Sep 17 Karlsruhe 1 x 1,000, 4 x 500 3,000
Sep 29 Hamburg 1 x 4,000 HCMI 4,000
Oct 3 Antwerp 1 x 1,000, 6 x 500, 1 x 250 4,250
Oct 10 Cologne 1 x 1,000, 5 x 500, 1 x 250 3,750
Oct 12 Bremen ? ?
Oct 13 Dusseldorf 1 x 1,000, 5 x 500, 1 x 250 3,750
Oct 21 Bremen 1 x 1,000, 5 x 500 3,500
Oct 23 Kiel 1 x 1,000, 3 x 500, 1 x 250 2,750
Oct 31 Bremen Bad Wx, retd with bombs. –
Nov 7 Berlin 6 x 500 (Bad Wx, Osnabruck bombed) 3,000
Nov 9 Hamburg 6 x 500, 1 x 250 3,250
Dec 23 Brest 6 x 500 3,000
Dec 27 Brest 6 x 500 3,000
1942 Jan 2 Brest ? ?
Jan 8 Brest ? (Bad Wx, bombs returned) –
Jan 11 Brest 6 x 500, 3,000
Jan 21 Bremen 1 x 4,000 4,000
Jan 26 Brest 6 x 500 3,000
Jan 28 Munster ? (Bad Wx, bombs returned) –
[Underlined] TOTAL = 36 MISSIONS Total hours with Squadron = 289:50 [/underlined]
[Underlined] Total hours on “Ops” = 199:35 [/underlined]
* Flying as Second-pilot on these raids (Rest as Captain).
[Page break]
[Underlined] Appendix [/underlined] P2
[Underlined] With No 196 Squadron. (Wellington X) [/underlined]
1943 Feb 7 Lorient 7 x 500 3,500
Feb 13 Lorient 3 x 500, 6 Containers 1,500 +
Feb 14 Cologne 3 x 500 6 Containers
Feb 17 x Emden ? Bad Wx. Bombs returned. –
Feb 26 Cologne 3 x 500, +Incendiaries (2 x 500 bombs hung up, returned) 500 +
Feb 28 St. Nazaire 3 x 500 + Incendiaries 1,500 +
Mar 3 Hamburg 3 x 500 + Incendiaries 1,500 +
Mar 5 Essen 1 x 4,000 4,000
Mar 12 Essen 3 x 500 + Incendiaries 1,500 +
Mar 26 Duisburg 3 x 500 + Incendiaries 1,500 +
Mar 29 Bochum 3 x 500 + Incendiaries 1,500 +
Apr 4 Kiel 1 x 4,000 4,000
May 4 Dortmund 2 x 500, 6 x SBC 1,000 +
May 12 Duisburg 1 x 4,000 4,000
May 13 Bochum 1 x 4,000 4,000
May 25 Düsseldorf 2 x 500, 7 x SBC 1,000 +
June 11 Düsseldorf ? ?
Jun 21 Krefeld ? ?
Jun 24 Wuppertal (Elberfeld) Incendiaries only. ?
Jul 3 Cologne Incendiaries only ?
[Underlined] Total = 20 Missions Total hours with Squadron = 135:40 [/underlined]
[Underlined] Total hours on “Ops” = 101:05 [/underlined]
[Underlined] With 617 Squadron. (Lancaster I and III) [/underlined]
1943 Sep 16 Antheor Viaduct. 1 x 4,000, 3 x 1,000 7,000
Nov 11 Antheor Viaduct. 1 x 12,000, HC 12,000
Dec 16 Flixecourt xx 1 x 12,000 HC 12,000
Dec 20 Liege 1 x 12,000 HC Bomb returned, raid abortive (due PFF) –
Dec 22 Abbeville-Amiens. xx 11 x 1,000. Bombs brought back (due PFF failure) –
1944 Jan 4 Pas de Calais (Flying Bomb Site) ? Bombs dropped 4 miles from target due PFF error ?
Jan 21 Hallencourt. xx 2 x 1,000, 13 x 500, 6 Flares. Only 1 x 1,000 and 7 x 500 dropped 4,500
Jan 25 Fréval (Pas de Calais) xx 2 x 1,000, 13 x 500 8,500
Feb 8 Limoges 12 x 1,000 12,000
Feb 12 Antheor Viaduct 1 x 12,000 12,000
x Daylight raid.
xx Flying bomb site. (V1 weapon).
[Page break]
[Underlined] Appendix [/underlined] P3
[Underlined] With 617 Sqd cont’d [/underlined]
1944 March 2 Albert All Incendiaries ?
March 4 St. Etienne. ? Bad Wx. Returned –
March 10 St. Etienne 11 x 1,000 11,000
March 15 Woippy (near Metz). 1 x 12,000. Bad Wx. Returned. –
March 16. Clermont Ferrand 1 x 12,000, 6 Flares 12,000
March 18 Bergerac 1 x 12,000 12,000
March 20 Angouleme 1 x 8,000, 1 x 1,000 9,000
March 23 Lyons 11 x 1,000 11,000
March 25 Lyons ? x 500, Incendiaries ?
March 29 Lyons 1 x 8,000. 1 x 1,000 9,000
Apr 10 St. Cyr. 1 x 8,000, 6 x 500 11,000
Apr 18 Juvisy 4 x 1,000, 4 x Red Spots 4,000
Apr 20 La Chapelle 12 x 1,000 12,000
Jun 5 D-Day decoy mission
Jun 8 Saumur Tunnel 1 x 12,000 Tallboy 12,000
Jun 14 Le Havre Pens 1 x 12,000 Tallboy 12,000
Jun 15 Boulogne Pens 1 x 12,000 Tallboy 12,000
Jun 19 Watten xx 1 x 12,000 Tallboy 12,000
Jun 20 Wizernes xx – Tallboy Raid recalled over Channel –
Jun 22 Wizernes xx Tallboy Bad Wx. Bomb brought back. –
Jun 24 Wizernes xx 1 x 12,000 Tallboy 12,000
Jun 25 Siracourt xx 1 x 12,000 Tallboy 12,000
July 4 St. Leu d’Esserent. Xx 1 x 12,000 Tallboy 12,000
July 6 Mimoyecques xx 1 x 12,000 Tallboy 12,000
[Underlined] Total – 34 Missions Total hours with Squadron = 420:55 [/underlined]
[Underlined Total hours on “Ops” = 181:10 [/underlined]
[Underlined] Grand total (3 tours) = 90 Operational Flights. [/underlined]
[Underlined] Grand total of flying hours with Squadrons = 846:25 [/underlined]
[Underlined] Grand total of flying hours on Operations = 481:50 [/underlined]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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A bomber pilot’s journey through WWII
Description
An account of the resource
Biography of Squadron Leader David James Baikie Wilson, DSO, DFC and Bar (1917 - 1947). He flew operations as a pilot with 214, 196 and 617 Squadrons before becoming Head of Aerodynamic Development and Testing, and Test-Pilot at A V Roe & Co Ltd. He was killed 23 August 1947 in the Avro Tudor crash.
Creator
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Peter V Clegg
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
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Anne-Marie Watson
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Format
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handwritten sheets
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Personal research
Identifier
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BCleggPVWilsonDv1
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1944-04-05
1944-04-06
1944-06-05
1944-06-06
1944-06-08
1944-06-09
1944-06-14
1944-06-15
1944-06-16
1944-06-19
1944-06-20
1944-06-22
1944-06-24
1944-06-25
1944-07-04
1944-07-05
1944-07-06
1945
1946
1947-08-23
1944-04-18
1944-04-19
Conforms To
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Pending review
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Belgium
France
Germany
Great Britain
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Atlantic Ocean--North Sea
Belgium--Antwerp
Belgium--Liège
England--Cheshire
England--Lincolnshire
England--Suffolk
France--Albert
France--Angoulême
France--Bergerac
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France--Brest
France--Clermont-Ferrand
France--Creil
France--Le Havre
France--Limoges
France--Lorient
France--Lyon
France--Mimoyecques
France--Pas-de-Calais
France--Saint-Cyr-sur-Mer
France--Saint-Étienne (Loire)
France--Saint-Nazaire
France--Saint-Omer (Pas-de-Calais)
France--Saumur
France--Siracourt
France--Watten
France--Woippy
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Bochum
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Emden (Lower Saxony)
Germany--Essen
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Karlsruhe
Germany--Kassel
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Krefeld
Germany--Mannheim
Germany--Münster in Westfalen
Germany--Wuppertal
Germany--Hannover
Germany--Osnabrück
France--Watten
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
11 OTU
1660 HCU
1668 HCU
196 Squadron
214 Squadron
5 Group
617 Squadron
8 Group
aircrew
Bennett, Donald Clifford Tyndall (1910-1986)
bombing
bombing of the Boulogne E-boats (15/16 June 1944)
bombing of the Creil/St Leu d’Esserent V-1 storage areas (4/5 July 1944)
bombing of the Juvisy, Noisy-le-Sec and Le Bourget railways (18/19 April 1944)
bombing of the Le Havre E-boat pens (14/15 June 1944)
bombing of the Mimoyecques V-3 site (6 July 1944)
Bombing of the Saumur tunnel (8/9 June 1944)
bombing of the Siracourt V-weapon site (25 June 1944)
bombing of the Watten V-2 site (19 June 1944)
bombing of the Wizernes V-2 site (20, 22, 24 June 1944)
bombing of Toulouse (5/6 April 1944)
Boston
C-47
Chadwick, Roy (1893-1947)
Cheshire, Geoffrey Leonard (1917-1992)
crash
Distinguished Flying Cross
Distinguished Service Order
final resting place
Flying Training School
Gibson, Guy Penrose (1918-1944)
Grand Slam
grief
H2S
Halifax
Halifax Mk 3
Harvard
Heavy Conversion Unit
incendiary device
Lancaster
Lancaster Finishing School
Lincoln
Meteor
Mosquito
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
Normandy deception operations (5/6 June 1944)
Oboe
Operational Training Unit
Oxford
P-51
Pathfinders
pilot
promotion
RAF Bassingbourn
RAF Boscombe Down
RAF Church Lawford
RAF Coningsby
RAF Cranage
RAF Cranwell
RAF Driffield
RAF Leconfield
RAF Stradishall
RAF Swinderby
RAF Syerston
RAF Upavon
RAF Wainfleet
RAF Woodhall Spa
Spitfire
Stirling
Tallboy
Tiger Moth
training
V-1
V-2
V-3
V-weapon
Wallis, Barnes Neville (1887-1979)
Wellington
-
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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1281/19908/EValentineUMValentineJRM420628-0002.2.jpg
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Valentine, John
John Ross Mckenzie Valentine
J R M Valentine
Description
An account of the resource
674 Items. Collection concerns navigator Warrant Officer J R McKenzie Valentine (1251404 Royal Air Force). The collection contains over 600 letters between JRM Valentine and his wife Ursula. It also contains his log book, family/official documents, a book of violin music studies and other correspondence. Sub-collections contain family photographs, prisoner of war photographs and a scrapbook of newspaper cuttings of events from 1942 to 1945.
He joined 49 Squadron in April 1942 and flew 10 operations on Hampdens. The squadron converted to Manchester in May when he completed two further operations. His aircraft was shot down on the Thousand Bomber raid of 30/31 May 1942. Five crew, including him bailed out successfully and became prisoners of war. The pilot and one air gunner were killed when the aircraft rolled over and crashed.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Frances Zagni and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018-09-06
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Valentine, JRM
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
Start of transcription
Ursula Valentine Lido,
Tenterden Grove,
[deleted] [underlined] No. 2. [/underlined] [/deleted] Hendon, N.W.4.
[inkstamp] GEPRUFT 32 [/inkstamp]
June 28th 1942.
My darling Johnnie,
I don’t suppose you will have received my first letter which I sent to Dulag [sic] Luft. There was nothing irreplaceable in it, and I just had to write to you as soon as I got the news that you were alive. I don’t think you can ever realise what it has been like for these three weeks, not knowing whether to resign myself to the worst or hope for the best. After a bit I made up my mind to accept the fact that you were dead, though somehow the whole time you seemed incredibly near and real to me. You remember that I was staying with Vera for that weekend, and the first blow was when Norman was reported missing from the raid the night before. Poor Vera hasn’t any news of him even yet. Of course I didn’t get the news about you down there, and it wasn’t until the Tuesday when Barbara returned to Lido that she found the telegram. I stayed on with Vera and we propped each other up and made the sorrow more bearable for each other. We just worked in the garden and sewed and knitted, I made a smock for Vera and read Trollope’s “The Small House at Allington”, and she knitted for her baby which is due in August. The few people in the village were awfully kind to us, and Vera’s cottage is the most adorable place you can imagine, in true Cotswold style and beautifully furnished. We must really go down there when you come home, I feel I have made real friends with the farmer there called Cory and his extensive family, and with Lady Anderson who lives at the Manor and owns the whole place. (What price “Hendon’s social climber” now?) She wrote me a sweet letter when she heard you were safe. I only came back to Hendon on Wednesday of last week, and on the Friday your father telephoned me to say that he had heard that you were a prisoner-of-war. Poor darling, I don’t suppose you will enjoy your period of captivity - may it be short - but you can’t imagine how thrilled I was to hear that you were a prisoner. The whole world seems different now, and I feel I can face anything so long as there is the hope of a reunion with you at the end. I love you so dearly, everything seemed absolutely colourless and pointless when I thought you were lost to me.
The first postcard arrived a couple of days ago, addressed to your Mother. I’m hoping there will be one for me soon. Your father sent me a typed copy of it, so I have the new address. But it is not as good as seeing your handwriting myself.
All the neighbours have been so kind; they were all very cut up when they heard you were missing, and several of them nearly burst into tears when I told them the good news! Even Freda, the tobacconist, sends you all good wishes - pity she can’t send something more smokeable! [sic] Mrs. Hazard heard almost as soon as I did, from her husband, and came dashing round on her bicycle to rejoice with me. Roy Freeman and Charles, who is home on 5 days leave, rang up, and Bish came to supper on the Saturday. He was overjoyed too.
Last Wednesday I went up to the west End, for my “day off”, and bought this notepaper and envelopes, specially to write to you, and also a new typewriter ribbon. I also got a new pair of shoes that I have promised myself for so long, very nice wine-red walking shoes with crepe soles.
[page break]
The letter which you had left with Harvey he duly sent on to me, and I was very moved by it indeed. It was a lovely letter, and made me very proud. I will certainly try to bring up Frances according to your precepts - she’s certainly not spoilt yet, anyway. She is a chubby darling, and has done more than anything to make life bearable during the past weeks. She now stands very firmly by herself, without holding on, and can clap her hands at the same time, and she climbs upstairs at a giddy speed. Her favourite words now are “Pretty, pretty” and “Igoglygogly. She is standing up beside me now, trying to interfere with the typewriter and generally interrupt me. She prefers to crawl with straight legs, her seat high in the air, and has also tottered a few steps, but still finds it much quicker and easier to crawl.
In my first letter I suggested that we should play a game of chess, and I picked White and moved P-Q4. If you have already started a game from your end, let’s keep them both going.
I wrote to the Estate Management people about your agriculture course, and asked them, if they could [underlined] not [/underlined] continue it over in Germany, to transfer the course to me, so that I could mug it up and be of some help when at last we can get going. But they replied that they are authorised to conduct correspondence courses with prisoners of war, and as soon as we have a settled address and your prisoner-of-war number, which I understand is important, I will get it going. Perhaps the Red Cross can help with text-books, and I shall get on to them as well. Maybe you will be getting some practical experience too!
Do let me know what things you would like to have sent out. We can only send parcels once every three months and not very big ones then, so I don’t want to send you useless things. You will almost certainly want some warm clothing for the winter - what about having your Jaeger dressing-gown, and slippers? A [deleted] l [/deleted] long sleeved pullover too you will surely need, and let me know what else.
I received very kind, hand-written letters from the C.O. and chaplain, as well as Cairns and Harvey. The latter is disposing of your effects, and wants to sell the bicycle, but I have told him to send it here by rail. It may be old but it is sound and may come in handy yet. The racquets have gone to the depot and I shan’t get them for 3 months or so. Cairns was good enough to send all your tobacco and a packet of cigarettes back to me, but I understand that I can’t send them to you. Still, the tobacco will keep in its airtight tins. By the was, [sic] talking of social climbing, Frances and I went with Vera to tea with a Group Captain, who fell very much in love with your daughter! I’m very sorry now about poor Algy, it looks as though Frances may have to wait some time for him.
I have been working hard in the garden, getting it back into shape after my absence of nearly three weeks. I have put in 12 tomato plants, and sown seakale beat in the front half of the side bed, where I had thought of putting in main crop potatoes. I got some cauliflower plants from Thompson too, who sends you all good wishes.
All my love to you my own dearest. I shall love you for ever and live only for you. Yours always Ursula.
End of transcription
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Letter to prisoner of war John Valentine from his wife Ursula
Description
An account of the resource
Writes she is not sure if he received her first letter when he was at Dulag Luft. Describes her feeling and events over three weeks and reactions of all when she found out he was a prisoner. Hoping there would be a postcard soon. Describes recent activities and comments on letter he wrote in case he went missing. Suggest playing chess and informs him of possibility of continuing agricultural course while in Germany. Requests she lets him know what he would like her to send and mentions letters she had received from CO and chaplain.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1942-06-28
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1942-06-28
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Robin Christian
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Two page typewritten letter
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
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EValentineUMValentineJRM420628
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Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
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Great Britain
England--London
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IBCC Digital Archive
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Creator
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Ursula Valentine
Dulag Luft
grief
In the event of my death letter
prisoner of war
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1281/19906/EValentineUMValentineJRM420619-0001.2.jpg
9fe093d94da5f1112b8027e92c218738
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1281/19906/EValentineUMValentineJRM420619-0002.2.jpg
187291f5c6c4de373f5d62ae21764549
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Valentine, John
John Ross Mckenzie Valentine
J R M Valentine
Description
An account of the resource
674 Items. Collection concerns navigator Warrant Officer J R McKenzie Valentine (1251404 Royal Air Force). The collection contains over 600 letters between JRM Valentine and his wife Ursula. It also contains his log book, family/official documents, a book of violin music studies and other correspondence. Sub-collections contain family photographs, prisoner of war photographs and a scrapbook of newspaper cuttings of events from 1942 to 1945.
He joined 49 Squadron in April 1942 and flew 10 operations on Hampdens. The squadron converted to Manchester in May when he completed two further operations. His aircraft was shot down on the Thousand Bomber raid of 30/31 May 1942. Five crew, including him bailed out successfully and became prisoners of war. The pilot and one air gunner were killed when the aircraft rolled over and crashed.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Frances Zagni and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2018-09-06
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Valentine, JRM
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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Lido,
Tenterden Grove,
Hendon, N.W. 4,
June 19th 1942
My darling Johnnie,
I received the news this morning that you were alive and safe and my heart is almost too full for me to write coherently, and yet you feel so close to me somehow that I simply must talk to you. As a matter of fact, you have felt incredibly real and near to me often during these weeks of anxiety, specially at night just before I went to sleep, and I suppose you haven’t been out of my thoughts for more than two minutes together for the whole of the time. But just to know that you are alive is the most wonderful relief, and I have been in a maze all day long. It is now 10 p.m., and I don’t suppose I shall be able to post this for weeks, as I have no proper address yet, still I want to write.
We are awfully lucky to have got the news through so quickly. Your father speeded things up through an MP friend, and telephoned me this morning. But I had better tell my side of the story from the beginning.
As you doubtless remember, I spent the fatal week with Vera. The first blow was when Norman was reported missing from the raid before you – Vera heard on Saturday evening, and when we heard on Sunday about Saturday’s raid, my heart sank like lead. But there was no mean [censored] news, and I didn’t want to make a fuss since poor Vera ha[censored] of trouble while mine was still only fear. She wanted [censored] a bit with her, so Barbara went home [inserted] on Tuesday [/inserted],found the wire and [censored] that evening. After that we decided that I might as well stay a week or two, and somehow it was much easier for us both, knowing that the other had the same sorrow to bear, than it is to be surrounded with people who are sorry for you but don’t know what it feels like for themselves. Vera’s cottage is the most adorable place that you can imagine, in true Cotswold style, very comfortably furnished and with a large and lovely garden, so we led a very peaceful and quiet life, working, gardening, reading and sewing together, and the days went by very quickly. You will be amazed to hear that I hardly cried at all after the first evening; I thought and thought about you the whole time and remembered and lived over again all the things we had done together, and they were all such joyful memories, and every thought I had about you was a happy one, so that I had a sort of peaceful gladness that at least nobody could take all that away. Then your letter came, the one you had left with Harvey to be sent on if the occasion should arise. I must admit I cried a bit when I read that, it seemed so final, as though you were you were quite beyond my reach, and yet it made me so proud and happy to think that we had meant so much to each other. Your precepts for bringing up Frances are sound and I shall act on them in any case. Bless her wee heart, she makes all the difference to life just now. I spent my spare time down there reading Trollope’s “The Small House at Allington”, a delightful book in the Barsetshire series, and I made Vera a maternity smock out of some chintz she had. Her baby is due in August, I do hope she gets some good news about Norman before then.
[page break]
I only came back to Lido two days ago, and found the garden in a fearfully overgrown state. Last night I had to go round collecting the Savings money and face an absolute barrage of sympathy. All the neighbours have been terribly upset, as though you had been there own son, and now today when they have good news, several of them nearly burst into tears with joy! They were all most kind, and send you all kinds of good wishes.
About ten minutes after your father rang up this morning Mrs. Hazard came round to rejoice with me. She had heard through her husband, and while she was here Freeman rang, he had heard at the office. Bish is coming to supper tomorrow, he is overjoyed too. We have been putting up an absolute barrage of prayer, as you can imagine. I have had awfully nice letters from Cairns, Slee, Harvey and the Padre, so I suppose I must write now and give them all the good news. I haven’t seen any of your people yet, as I only got back two days ago and they are all down at P.M. this weekend, but I hope Ann will come and stay again soon.
I have been doing a spot of work in the garden, putting in a dozen tomatoes and more runner and French beans. It is not looking too good just know, so I have put some fertiliser on too.
I think I must pack up for tonight, it is nearly 11 p.m. goodnight, my dearest one, all my love and thoughts and good wishes are with you now and always.
[underlined] Tuesday 23.6.42 [/underlined]
Your father has sug[censored] may as well try writing to as much address as we already [censored] will finish this and post it tonight. Charles Swindall [censored] is home on 5days leave and sends you best wishes.
Shall we start a game of chess? As you can’t argue, I’ll be white and move P - Q4. I’ll keep the game played out on my small board. Would you like me to send you yours? If it has already occurred to you to suggest playing and you have started a game too, lets carry them both on. I’m afraid they will take long enough anyway!
I don’t know all the regulations yet about sending parcels, but do let me [inserted] know [/inserted] anyway what things you would like. I expect you will want some warmer clothing for the winter – would you like your warm dressing gown and slippers?
I had a letter from Olga today. Jack seems to be alright so far. I have heard nothing further of Norman yet. Kennedy is training overseas. John Wilford (subs) is missing. No more news of Oliva’s husband.
Frances is getting quite tanned – you can see the marks of her sunsuit-straps quite clearly, but she is not burnt. She now stands by herself steady as a rock and claps hands at the same time, and can also climb up stairs at a great rate, so I will have to have a gate fixed on the staircase. Her favourite words just now “Pretty, pretty” and “igogligogly” whatever that may mean, and she is sweeter and chubbier than ever. She sends you a great big kiss, probably a rather wet and stick one! And I send you all my love, my darling. We will keep the flag flying this end and just long for the glorious day when you come back to us and we can start our life together properly, at last. I shall love you for always and always. Yours for ever Ursula.
[hand written around the typewritten pages]
You can imagine how I’m longing for your first letter, to know whether you are wounded, how you are treated, and as much about the raid as you may tell me. How I long to look after you & see you are alright – thank goodness for the Red Cross anyway! I hope you with like chaps.
Do be a good boy. You know the song “Wrap yourself in cotton – wool”. What a good thing you had your teeth seen to recently. I only wish they had fixed your nose as well.
This letter seems all about me, when after all you are the chief actor in this drama. But you know I long to hear everything you can tell me and must fill up my letters with old & unimportant news from home.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Letter to prisoner of war John Valentine from his wife Ursula
Description
An account of the resource
Her first letter to John since she heard that we was a prisoner of war. She describes the time when he was missing and the reactions of friends to the good news. Suggests starting a game of chess and asks him to tell her what he wants her to send him. Continues with news of her and daughters activities. Says she is longing for his first letter.
Date
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1942-06-19
Contributor
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Trevor Hardcastle
Format
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Two page typewritten letter
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
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EValentineUMValentineJRM420619
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--London
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1942-06-19
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Ursula Valentine
fear
grief
In the event of my death letter
love and romance
prisoner of war
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/707/19133/BBennettTBennettTv1.1.pdf
e4ad097b0ecbfce57244070e8a04acb9
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Bennett, Tom
T Bennett
Description
An account of the resource
One item. A memoir by Tom Bennett. He flew operations as a navigator with 617 Squadron.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Don Hiller and catalogued by IBCC Digital Archive staff.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2016-07-01
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Bennett, T
Transcribed document
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Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[inserted] 1 [/inserted] I cannot recall the operation mounted by No's 1 and 5 Groups, Bomber Command, on the night of 3/4th May 1944, against the French target of Mailly-le-Camp without a feeling of tremendous sadness, even after the passage of [deleted] fifty-eight years [/deleted] [inserted] [deleted] some sixty two [/deleted] almost seven decades [/inserted]. That night I witnessed the early stages of a slaughter of aircraft which contemporary aircrew could NEVER have previously associated with a "French target" at that period of the war. That sadness is more than a little tinged with bitterness, but, nevertheless, there IS a thread of personal thankfulness running through the weave.
The four Mosquito marker crews of 617 Squadron were very surprised to be summoned to the Briefing Room at RAF Woodhall Spa, Lincolnshire during the afternoon of the 3rd May 1944. Together with the remainder of the whole aircrew strength of the Squadron, they had been briefed for OPERATION TAXABLE (the "D-DAY SPOOF") and had come under the ban from operations until TAXABLE had been fulfilled. At the briefing, they discovered that a German Panzer Division was temporarily bivouaced [sic] in the French Tank Training Camp at Mailly-le-Camp, some 150 km ESE of Paris. This Division was apparently en route to position behind the "Atlantic Wall" and the Allied Command was anxious that this prime target be hit before it could move out again. 627 Squadron, the Mosquito squadron undertaking target-marking duties for 5 Group, had but recently assumed this role, on transfer from No 8 (P.F.F.) Group, and it was felt by Bomber Command Headquarters that this "one-off" target really needed the expertise that the 617 marker crews had regularly demonstrated in the finding of small
[inserted] 1 [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] 2 [/inserted] targets, difficult to locate by purely radar aids.
Since the Lancaster element of 617 Squadron was not taking part in this operation, it was not considered necessary to give these marker crews the usual full "MAIN FORCE" briefing, but just the elements that applied to the actual target area...time of first flare-fall..timing of the first wave of aircraft (which was to be the 5 Group effort)..lull time for the marking of the area allocated to the second wave of aircraft (1 Group)...Wing Commander Cheshire to be "MARKER LEADER" ...indeed, I remember that the main emphasis for the Mossie crews was on security, so unusually disturbed was the Intelligence side with the prospect of four crews operating, each member of which knew that D-DAY could not be far away. In effect, the bottom line was "MARK YOUR TARGET AND THEN GET THE HELL BACK TO U.K.!!". Operational aircrew were exhorted to keep themselves up-to-date with all that was going on in relation to the Intelligence side of the war. Without exception, the Intelligence section of an operational RAF station was most comfortably furnished and staffed with very pleasant WAAF personnel. An intriguing amount of wide-ranging literature was always available and, at strategic times, a nice mug of tea! In a browse through some of the literature a week or so before the Mailly-le-Camp operation, I had come across an item which said that a German prisoner of war had stated that an operation order rested in the safes of all Luftwaffe day-fighter squadrons in France, code named "WILDE SAU" ...the order to be invoked when moonlight conditions were such that day fighters could readily be scrambled to operate in a "freelance" role during the passage of a bomber stream over France. However, not a vestige of this came into
[inserted] 2 [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] 3 [/inserted] my mind during the preparation period.
Wg Cdr Cheshire and Sqn Ldr Dave Shannon were detailed as markers for the 5 Group wave and thus they took off some time before the Mosquitos of Flt Lt Terry Kearns and Flt Lt Gerry Fawke. I was Gerry Fawke's navigator and my log book shows that we were airborne from Woodhall Spa at 2230 hrs. The trip down England was uneventful ...the "GEE" radar aid working well and wind velocities soon well checked and logged...a lovely moonlight night with no sign of cloud at any altitude. We were at 6000 feet, a height reckoned to be reasonably safe from light "flak" and below the minimum height of the heavier stuff ...also it enabled one to work without the oxygen mask clamped across the face. We crossed the English coast on time at Beachy Head and sped towards the enemy coast, to cross just to the east of Dieppe.
It was during this Channel crossing that I began to appreciate fully just how bright the moonlight was. The invisible enemy "jamming" of the Gee radar had begun to invade the main time base but at that stage, it could be "read through" without much difficulty. I found it was eminently possible to map-read accurately in the brightest moonlight I could ever recall, except perhaps when crossing the Alps en route for Italy, back in mid-October 1942. I used Gee very sparingly, mainly across areas devoid of the more definable pin-points.
One of the advantages of being in the second wave was that one could see the "party" starting well ahead and the final run-in could be made merely by steering visually towards the action. We arrived in the immediate area of the Camp and it appeared that the raid was progressing very favourably. We had picked up no messages on the VHF
[inserted] 3 [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] 4 [/inserted] frequency, neither did we experience any invasion of the VHF channel by any outside brodcasting [sic] unit.
Gerry positioned the Mossie for the marking dive we would need to make and we watched as sticks of bombs hammered home around the well-placed markers. We could see that these had been laid very accurately. I kept Gerry informed as the minutes ticked away and at the beginning of the "lull time", our Mossie was perfectly poised for the marking dive. We had just about commenced the dive without actually being committed to it when a stick of bombs exploded across the target. Gerry wheeled out of the dive and climbed to regain the altitude lost and re-position for the dive. Further sticks of bombs fell during this period and yet again as we commenced the second attempt to mark. I was shocked and appalled at this! In the self-contained 617 Squadron operations to which we had grown accustomed, timings were STRICTLY adhered to, and I took a very shady view of the lack of discipline that the Main Force crews were showing, not appreciating the chaotic situation developing above us.
As we sought to re-position, Gerry "buttoned" the VHF. "PLEASE STOP BOMBING! We are trying to mark for the second wave!". For the first and only time, we heard another voice across the ether. "Well, get a move on, mate!" came a calm but firm Australian voice "Things are getting a bit hot up here!" ...and this was the first indication we had as a crew that perhaps things were not going quite as expected. However, no further fall of bombs interrupted the marking process and both Mossie crews managed to lay their markers very close to the new aiming point. We were to discover later that Terry Kearns and his navigator Home Barclay had also had the same
[page break]
[inserted] 5 [/inserted] disconcerting marking experience as we had endured. How ironic if a blast of "friendly" bombs (if there are such things!) had delivered us to German interrogation!
Satisfied that the marking duty had been performed accurately, we now readily obeyed the urgent order to "cut and run" and we set course on the return route. We had seen no aircraft shot down on the way in but scarcely had we embraced the first leg away from the target when the first ghastly sight of a heavy bomber exploding in flames on the ground struck our eyes, the obscene fireball illuminating momentarily the pall of oily smoke that was always a part of such macabre scenes. To our mounting horror and concern, this was not an isolated incident! Again and yet again the tragedy was repeated. I tried to persuade myself that it could be night-fighters being destroyed, but each funeral pyre was too large for that. When a fifth bomber cremated itself around us, Gerry said "Not a healthy area for a twin-engined aircraft, Ben! Let's find another way home!". I gave him a rough course for the nearest safe part of the coast and then buried myself in the niceties of "tidying up" this rough alteration to ensure that we crossed the French coast at a reasonably quiet spot. I could not exorcise from my mind the glimpse of hell we had had inflicted on us. My mind grappled with this unbelievable torment until, quite suddenly, I recalled the Intelligence item of the "WILDE SAU" operation order. Had this order been invoked? Certainly all the weather conditions were as required ... I pushed the matter to the back of my mind. There was an aircraft to get back to base and that was my primary and paramount duty at that moment! We landed at Woodhall Spa at 0230 hrs on 4th May 1944, still very
[inserted] 5 [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] 6 [/inserted] silent and appalled at the carnage we had seen, all the more unbelievable for being associated with a FRENCH target. All four Mosquitos had landed safely, much to everyone's relief ...most of the aircrew staff had waited up, so concerned were they for our safe return. The news was flashed through to Headquarters, Bomber Command as soon as the fourth Mossie had landed!
It was in the debriefing room that we first heard talk of interference on the VHF channel and a developing communications difficulty ...of "Chesh's" despair trying to sort out the fraught situation that had developed and his unsuccessful attempts to abort the operation. The two earlier Mosquito crews had not seen the carnage the latter pair had observed. Dave Shannon's navigator, Len Sumpter, said that as soon as they were satisfied they had nothing more to contribute to the proceedings, they had hared for home. Pat Kelly, "Chesh's" navigator, said they had seen a couple of bombers shot down, but nothing like the scenes we had described. Pat was somewhat mollified by our eye-witness description of the effectiveness of the first wave bombing, but most concerned at the communications mayhem.
At our personal debriefing, I said to the Intelligence officer "I feel we have seen the activation of the German operation order "WILDE SAU"". He looked at me, absolutely perplexed. I said "Add it as a footnote, Arthur. I'm sure someone at Group or Command will fathom it!" ...but there was never any later reference to the observation.
Our worst fears were confirmed later that day ....42 Lancasters missing, 14 from the 5 Group first wave and 28 from the 1 Group second wave. My initial personal reaction was that 5 Group had stirred the hornets' nest and 1 Group had taken the stings. One
[inserted] 6 [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] A [/inserted] Many years later, I was stirred into deeply researching this operation through reading a magazine article which, to me, did not truly reflect the situation, certainly not during the development of the actual operation. Also, Leonard Cheshire had returned from a visit to his "Homes" in Australia. During his stay, he had been challenged on three separate occasions by ex-Bomber Command aircrew who had laid the losses of Mailly-le-Camp firmly at his door! He had endeavoured to put the correct circumstances to his accusers but felt he had made little impression. He was most concerned that the whole truth should be put into the public domain.
I carried out a lot of personal research, both in the archives available at the Public Record Office, Kew, and also with the two surviving Mossie navigators, Pat Kelly having been killed on a later Dortmund-Ems Canal operation with 49 Squadron whilst filling the post of Station Navigation Officer at RAF East Kirkby. None of us were aware of any VHF interference by an outside broadcasting source. Leonard Cheshire made some reference to such interference but the post-operational report of the Controller, Wing Commander Deane, 83 Squadron, was quite adamant that this was present and had prevented him from instructing the first wave to commence bombing, once he was satisfied that the specific target area had been correctly marked. He had instructed his Wireless Operator to pass the "Commence Bombing" message through to the force on the allocated W/T frequency, but this too failed to get through. Investigation after the operation showed that the Master Bomber's W/T transmitter was at least 30 k/cs off tune, but whether this was a set fault or human error was not stated.
I did discover something that truly shocked me... a Yellow Target Indicator was
[inserted] A [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] B [/inserted] dropped away from the target so that the bombers had a datum around which to orbit should there be any delay in the marking procedure. This propensity in the realms of Higher Authority to assume that Main Force squadron crews needed this sort of cosseting was a constant source of irritation to me. These crews had had EXACTLY the same training as all the so-called "specialist" crews and the navigators, in the main, could reasonably be expected to keep station in a waiting area without aids that were also visible to a very active enemy, especially when two well-known powerful night-fighter bases, Chalons-sur-Marne and St Dizier, were both within 45 kms of the target, with five other similar bases within comparatively short fighter flying time!
The two Pathfinder squadrons who had been returned to 5 Group in April 1944 were not at all enamoured that visual marking by Mosquitos might reduce them to "flare carrying" forces although this role carried a very great responsibility. When 617 Squadron were experimenting and perfecting this low-level marking technique in the winter of 1943-44, it was a duty that was laid upon some of the Squadron's most experienced crews, who accepted it willingly. Air Vice Marshal D.C.T. Bennett, the Air Officer Commanding No 8 Group (PFF) was violently opposed to this new concept of target marking and there can be no doubt that his views continued to influence many of the officers who had served under him in 8 Group [deleted] , [/deleted] after the return of 83 and 97 Squadrons to 5 Group. 627 Squadron had inevitably had some marking "hiccups" during their short run in the role but I always hold that Leonard Cheshire was at his shrewdest when he chose very experienced Lancaster aircrew to man the Mosquito Marker aircraft of 617 Squadron. These aircrew came to the role knowing from their own personal experience what confusion could ensue from "delayed marking" of a target and their
[inserted] B [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] C [/inserted] whole emphasis was to ensure that targets were "prepared" on time. It was quite another matter if individual crews, dissatisfied with their initial bombing run, decided to abort and "go round again" ...the prime duty of the marker crews was to have the target readily available for a "straight through, no messing" initial run. Also, [deleted] Bomber Command [/deleted] [inserted] 5 Group [/inserted] crews were required to adjust their speed along the route to bring them to each turning-point at a specified time. The provision of an "orbitting [sic] datum" was a temptation for the less experienced crews to "press on regardless", arrive early in the target area and while away the surplus time orbitting [sic] the datum. It is to the great credit of the Deputy Leader of the first wave, Sqn Ldr Sparkes, 83 Squadron, that he perceived the danger accruing from the very visible Yellow datum marker and ordered it NOT to be renewed.
According to the post-operational report of Wg Cdr Deane, the Green Target Indicator dropped by the OBOE-controlled Mosquito was timed at 2359 hrs and fell about 800 mts north of the target centre. Wg Cdr Cheshire was the first Marker in, diving from 3000 feet to 1500 feet before releasing his red "spot fires" at 0001 hrs. These were judged to be slightly North-east of the aiming point, which was the south-east area of the Camp. Dave Shannon was apprised of this and he dived from 3000 to 400 feet to lay his red spots accurately on the aiming point at 0006 hours. Thus, the target WAS "prepared" on time. It was then, through the communication difficulties, that things began to go seriously awry. Post-operation reports of the returning crews indicate just how confused the situation became. 106 SQUADRON: "No W/T messages received before bombing. R/T messages were contradictory". 44 SQUADRON: "No instructions received on R/T or W/T. Aircraft bombed because they saw other aircraft bombing". 630 SQUADRON: "Marking precise and
[inserted] C [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] D [/inserted] accurate. R/T bad". 49 SQUADRON, 9 SQUADRON, 50 SQUADRON and 207 SQUADRON all commended the accuracy of the red spot fires and Sqn Ldr Blore-Jones of 207 Squadron added this rider: "Yellow T.I. on datum. No orders from Controller. Complete chaos in target area. Controller inefficient and crew discipline bad". A further comment from 49 Squadron: "Congestion over target to a degree of suicide. 18 to 25 minutes wait for order to bomb". Sqn Ldr Sparkes' aircraft was shot down, but he parachuted safely, evaded capture and was sheltered by French families in the district until the American Army came through the area.
Thus the crews of 1 Group flew unwittingly into a maelstrom not of their own making, but which was to extract a high price for the failure of others.
It is not generally appreciated that Wg Cdr Deane (83 Sqdn) was Controller ONLY for the 5 Group element of the operation, i.e. the first wave. On 6th April 1944, a Special Duties Flight had been formed in 1 Group, under Sqn Ldr Breakspear, at RAF Binbrook, Lincolnshire. 6 Lancaster aircraft were allocated to this new Flight and the aircrew, together with a ground-crew complement of 80 personnel, were drawn from the squadrons within 1 Group. This Flight undertook an intensive training programme, designed to allow 1 Group to operate independently at some future date. On the night of 24/25th April 1944, ten aircraft of No 101 Squadron were detailed to attack Munich in company with 239 Lancasters of 5 Group. The main purpose of this was to give these 1 Group crews some first-hand experience of the new marking technique being employed by 5 Group for the day when
[inserted] D [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] E [/inserted] similar independent operations would be undertaken by 1 Group. All ten crews returned safely, and the pilots' reports on the technique and results were very favourable. The operation against Mailly-le-Camp was chosen for the operational debut of 1 Group's Special Duties Flight.
Blissfully unaware of the instinctive cancellation by the 5 Group Deputy Controller of the datum Yellow marker for 5 Group crews, the crews responsible for laying and renewing the datum point for the 1 Group crews kept it marked throughout the period of 1 Group's prime involvement.
Some of the 1 Group crews were given a special target within the north-west area of the Camp ...the tank park. The two 617 Mosquitos were to mark the MAIN area for the majority of the 1 Group crews, and aircraft of the 1 Group Special Duties Flight would INDEPENDENTLY mark the tank park. The post operational report in the 1 Group Operational Record Book for this operation makes interesting reading: "It would appear that the Master of Ceremonies was unable to determine the accuracy of the first markers (?R/T trouble). Delay of 10-12 minutes before Main Force ordered to bomb red spots. Orbitting and R/T interference caused confusion. Red spots confirmed by 1 Group aircraft to be well placed. Fires from first attack on south-east caused a huge pall of rising smoke. Confirmed south-east attack highly successful. Opposition from night-fighters on a large scale- numerous sightings and combats. SPECIAL AIMING POINT (Tank Park)..Green Target Indicator undershot by 1000 yards: next one 500 yards. Deputy Master of Ceremonies claimed a marker much nearer the aiming point. Crews ordered to switch to main area but some crews did not receive this message and continued to bomb the original target".
[inserted] E [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] F [/inserted] The post-operational report of the 1 Group Master of Ceremonies, Sqn Ldr Breakspear, reads: "Markers and bombing slightly short but a fair number of bombs fell right across the target". One aircraft of the Special Duties Flight failed to return.
The reports from the other squadrons in the Group are more precise and expansive. 101 SQUADRON: "Red spots accurate. Station interference on W/T. On R/T other aircraft chatting..much back-chat". 12 SQUADRON: "Markers late. "American" broadcast on R/T. Marker Force continually harrassed [sic] by Master of Ceremonies with questions". 100 SQUADRON: "Red spots marking accurate" 103 SQUADRON: "Target marking good but crews kept orbitting for ten minutes. Nothing from Master of Ceremonies. Terrific amount of cross-talk on R/T." 626 SQUADRON: "R/T interruption. Too much chatter. R/T poor. Yellow "flares" for over half-an-hour. Open invitation to fighters. Congestion at 6000 feet. Climbed to 7000 for bombing. Master of Ceremonies poor. Enemy fighters orbitting". However, 576 SQUADRON reports gave something of a different picture: "Red spots scattered. Germans giving orders, cutting in on R/T. PFF 5-10 mins late. 2 combats. Many night-fighters". An additional 103 SQUADRON report is surprising, to say the least: "Me410 and rockets well in evidence".
There was an immediate post-operational tendency to lay the debacle on the "marking force" and in the continuous and constant re-telling of this tale, the blame, inevitably and unfairly, came to be laid at the door of the 617 Squadron Mosquito Marker Force. One can only hope this account and the true records on which it is based will nail that false impression once and for all.
[inserted] F [/inserted]
[page break]
[inserted] G [/inserted] The Mailly-le-Camp raid achieved its aim to a large degree but the price paid was painfully high. In 5 Group, 50 Squadron lost four of the eleven aircraft despatched. 207 Squadron lost two from sixteen. The other ten missing aircraft were distributed among the remaining thirteen squadrons. In 1 Group, 460 Squadron lost five from sixteen: 101 lost four from nineteen: 103 lost four from fourteen: "Shiny Twelve" lost four from seventeen: 626 Squadron lost three from ten. The only squadron in 1 Group without an aircraft casualty was 100 Squadron which had put up eleven aircraft. All told, 316 aircrew went "missing" that night. 253 were killed, 24 were taken prisoner and 39 evaded capture with the help of the local French civilian population, a number of whom were executed or sent on forced labour in Germany when evaders were discovered by the Germans. Of the dead aircrew, 95 were officers and 218 N.C.Os. 46 were under the age of 21: a further 159 were between 21 and 25: 33 were between 26 and 30, with the remaining 15 over 30 years of age. Of the 32 aircrew missing from 101 Squadron at RAF Ludford Magna, only two survived as prisoners of war, the other thirty having been killed in action. "Shiny Twelve's" missing proved to be 21 dead, 2 prisoners of war and 6 evaders, all six from the crew of Fg Off G Maxwell. It adds to the sorrow of these heavy losses to realise that a proportion of the missing crews had survived the massacre of the March 31st operation against Nuremburg!
Such multiple losses always tore great and almost unbearable "holes" in a squadron's aircrew complement. The Messes of both Officers and N.C.O's were unusually silent and empty as survivors remembered their friends. Many of the WAAF who worked closely with aircrew showed their uncontainable grief openly. The tempo of the Station would only gradually be restored with the arrival of replacement aircrew from the Heavy Conversion Units, but the
[inserted] G [/inserted]
Dublin Core
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Title
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Memory of Mailly-Le-Camp
Creator
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Tom Bennett
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Format
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13 photocopied sheets
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
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BBennettTBennettTv1
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
France
France--Mailly-le-Camp
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-05-03
1944-05-04
1944-06-05
1944-06-06
Description
An account of the resource
Part of a memoir describing the operation to Mailly-le-Camp 3/4 May 1944.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Angela Gaffney
1 Group
5 Group
617 Squadron
8 Group
83 Squadron
Bennett, Donald Clifford Tyndall (1910-1986)
bombing
Bombing of Mailly-le-Camp (3/4 May 1944)
Cheshire, Geoffrey Leonard (1917-1992)
debriefing
Gee
grief
Lancaster
Master Bomber
Mosquito
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
Normandy deception operations (5/6 June 1944)
Oboe
Pathfinders
RAF Woodhall Spa
target indicator
-
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108641e60c5cb07c6037eeb7088cfabb
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Title
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Madgett, Hedley Robert
H R Madgett
Description
An account of the resource
250 items. The collection concerns Pilot Officer Hedley Madgett DFM (1922 - 1943, 147519, 1330340 Royal Air Force), a pilot with 61 Squadron. He was killed 18 August 1943 on the last operation of his tour from RAF Syerston to Peenemünde. The collection consists of letters, postcards and telegrams to his parents while he was training in the United Kingdom and Canada. In addition the collection contains memorabilia, documents from the Air Training Corps, artwork, a railway map, diaries, medals as well as his logbook, photographs of people, places and aircraft. Also contains letters of condolence to parents and a sub collection containing a photograph album with 44 items of his time training in Canada'.<br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Joan Madgett and Carol Gibson, and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.<br /><br /><span>Additional information on Hedley Madgett is available via the </span><a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/114690/" title="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/madgett-hr/ ">IBCC Losses Database</a><span>.</span>
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2015-03-17
2019-06-14
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
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Madgett, H
Transcribed document
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Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[front of air mail envelope]
From – Rosemary Stapp
611 Lincoln St.
Greensburg, Indiana.
U.S.A.
[post office stamp]
GREENSBURG IND. OCT 3 6PM 1943
Melisa[?] Amy Madgett
127 Longlands Road
Sidcup, Kent,
England
[page break]
611M Lincoln St.
Greensburg, Indiana
October 8, 1943
Dear Melisa [?] Madgett,
I received your letter today and I can’t tell you how grieved and shocked I am about Hedley being missing. It just doesn’t seem possible that something has happened to him.
Although Hedley’s and my friendship started through a high school correspondence, I can’t help but feel that it developed into something much more than that. I was so excited when Hedley was able to visit us in America. It’s very needless to say that my whole family fell in love with him from the very beginning because of his politeness, his quick sense of humour and his sweet English ways. That visit is something I will always remember and hold very dear to me, as well as I shall treasure the sweater of his that I love and the silver R.A.F wings he sent me.
I know how proud you must be of him for being such a brave pilot, and for being gallant enough to be awarded the Distinguished Flying Medal.
I’ve thought of Hedley so very much, ever since the day I said goodbye to him live in America and he returned to England. I’m afraid that I thought about him much more than I wrote although I did try to write quite often.
[page break]
Please do not give up hope, Mrs Madgett, we must hope and pray that he is safe. You may know that I shall pray for him – because ever since that first February there’s been a special little spot in my heart reserved for Hedley.
When you do hear, and I pray you shall, that he is safe, I’d be ever so grateful if you would be kind enough to write. I shall be waiting so anxiously, and then too, if possible, I’d like to write to him and send some things.
Please extend my sympathy to Hedley’s father and to his brother, Peter, and God bless you all.
Sincerely,
Rosemary Stapp
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Title
A name given to the resource
Letter to his mother from Rosemary Stapp, a girl friend of Hedley's in the United States
Description
An account of the resource
Writes she is grieved shocked over Hedley going missing. Writes that initial contact through high school correspondence developed into something much more. Writes of Hedley's visit to her family and present of silver wings. Encourages them to not give up hope.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
R Stapp
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1943-10-08
Format
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Two page handwritten letter and envelope
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
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EStappRMadgettAG431003
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
United States
Indiana--Greensburg
England--London
Indiana
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943-10-08
1943-08-17
1943-08-18
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
David Bloomfield
grief
love and romance
missing in action
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/689/17878/BBarkerRBarkerRv1.1.pdf
bcfb50858f43146a1da0eb77080cdb6e
Dublin Core
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Title
A name given to the resource
Barker, Reg
R Barker
Description
An account of the resource
Two items. The notes for a talk given by Reg Barker to the Haywards Heath Historical Society on 24 June 2014 and an account of his Lancaster being shot down during an operation to Kiel on 20 August 1944. Reg Barker flew as pilot on Halifax with 76 Squadron and Lancaster with 635 Squadon.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Reg Barker and catalogued by Nigel Huckins
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-11-23
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Barker, R
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[Photographs]
Flt Lt Reg Barker
RAF Bomber Command
A Miraculous Escape From Certain Death in World War II
by Reg Barker
Former Flight Lieutenant 635 Squadron RAF Pathfinder Force
Can I take you back to the summer of 1944 when, after nearly five years, the tide of war was at last turning in our favour? The Allied invasion of Normandy on June 6th had been successful; our armies were fighting their way across France, and Paris had just been liberated after more than four years under German occupation.
My part in this offensive was as an RAF pilot ages 22; the captain of a skilled and dedicated crew of seven. We were a tightly knit team. As their skipper, I remember how privileged I felt to enjoy the loyalty and comradeship of such an exceptional crew. We were all proud to flying Lancaster bombers with Bomber Command’s Pathfinder Force, as members of 635 Squadron.
On August 26th 1944, we were briefed to fly that night from our airfield at Downham Market in Norfolk, to attack Germany’s naval and submarine base at Kiel. Heavily defended with searchlights and anti-aircraft guns Kiel was an important target, because enemy submarines were a serious threat to the ships upon which our armies on the continent depended to maintain their essential supplies.
We were directed to fly in the first wave of twelve Pathfinder aircraft, two minutes ahead of the Master Bomber, who would monitor the progress of the attack and direct the main force of bombers by wireless.
We arrived at Kiel exactly on time, thanks to the superb skill and dedication of our Canadian navigator, Hannes. He calculated a fresh ‘fix’ of our position every six minutes throughout our flight, a remarkable feat of concentration. This enabled him to give me an adjusted course or speed whenever necessary, to ensure that we were always right on time and on track.
We had a good run into the target, with our painstaking bomb aimer, Brian, carefully directing me as he peered through his bomb-sight, “Left…left…right…steady,” to
[page break]
ensure that he would drop our bombs exactly where they were intended. After he called, “Bombs gone!” I held a straight course in order to obtain a photograph of our aiming point. Brian reported that he was pleased with the accuracy of our bombing.
Now we were on our way homewards, thankfully leaving behind the searchlights and flak which had seemed to fill the sky over the target. I was flying the aircraft in a ‘banking search’, weaving so as to help the crew to keep an extra sharp lookout for enemy fighters who might be waiting to intercept us.
Suddenly there was an explosion, a vivid flash and the aircraft was thrown on its back. I managed to regain level flight, assured the crew that I had control and checked with each of them that they were alright. However, we could see flames coming from the starboard wing. Hoping that an increased rush of air might extinguish them, I opened up the engines to full power, but as we increased speed I felt the control column go slack in my hands and I realised that the cables to the tail plane must have been severed. I could no longer control the aircraft, so I immediately ordered the crew to bail out.
At almost the same moment, the nose of our Lancaster plunged violently downwards and the aircraft went into a steep, spiralling dive. Our four Rolls Royce Merlin engines were now driving us at terrifying speed, vertically downwards towards the earth.
The cause of our predicament, as I learned later from our rear gunner, was that the aircraft had broken in two. The tail plane, with the rear turret, had split away from the fuselage. As the rest of us flew on, Dizzy was left behind without the engine or pilot! He recalled afterwards that finding himself alone in the sky, with the tail place swishing gently from side to side like a leaf falling, he felt sure that he could descend all the way to earth that way. Fortunately, he decided to climb out of his turret and to use his parachute. He landed safely.
Without a tail plane, it was no wonder the aircraft had nose-dived so suddenly and so violently. From our flying height of 17,000 feet, we had plunged in seconds to 13,000 feet. As I was lifted out of my seat by the powerful force of ‘g’, caused by the spinning of the aircraft, I could see the altimeter needle racing round the dial, as it clocked 1,000 feet a second in our headlong descent to earth.
Trapped in our tightly spinning aircraft, pinned hard up against the Perspex cockpit roof, and unable to move so much as a finger, I knew it would only be seconds before we reached the ground. This would be the end. There was no time for my life to flash before me, but a fleeting glimpse of the fires raging below prompted a split-second prayer to the Almighty!
As I lost consciousness, I was aware only of the most deafening sound. The blasting and buffeting of the wind through the fuselage, the screaming of the propellers and the roaring and vibrating of the four powerful engines combined into an overwhelming, thunderous, unbearable crescendo of noise. Then – total silence, total peace, total bliss! Instead of a fiery hell, I had arrived in that Heavenly abode which I hoped was destiny!
However, gradually, the silence was broken by a persistent swishing sound. Then suddenly my sight returned and I realised that I was in the sky, and nearby I could see my blazing aircraft coming down beside me. The ‘swishing’ must have been the wind whistling through my clothing as I hurtled towards the ground. I had no sense of falling, but instinctively I grabbed and tugged my ripcord.
[page break]
As my parachute opened, I could see trees below me, brightly floodlit from above by my blazing aircraft. Instantly, I dropped in the treetops and my aircraft crashed a short distance away. Anxious to get to the ground as quickly as possible before I was discovered, I released my parachute harness and climbed down through the branches, landing safely on a cushion of leaves. Overhead, I could hear the main force of the bombers, making their way home to England and, wistfully, I thought of the traditional aircrew breakfast of eggs and bacon, to which they were returning.
My immediate concern was to get away from the crashed aircraft, which was blazing furiously close by, with ammunition exploding in the intense heat of the fire. I could see the stars overhead, recognised the North Star, and set off hopefully towards Denmark, a few miles to the north. Denmark had been occupied by Germans, and I hoped I might meet up with some friendly inhabitants there.
I soon came to the edge of the wood in which I had landed, and I crept along a ditch which ran in the direction I wanted to travel. To my dismay, I heard voices coming from ahead. I might have heard them sooner, had I removed my flying helmet, but I had kept it on because my head was pouring blood (from a superficial shrapnel wound, as it turned out). I hid in the hedge, but it was too late, for the approaching villagers must have seen me silhouetted against the fire.
An excited crowd quickly surrounded me, each and every one of them grabbing my tunic or trousers, holding me as tightly as possible. No doubt this was so that each of them could claim to have captured the English ‘terror flieger’. They were all very old or very young. Although a teenage boy held a revolver to my head with his hand shaking furiously, not one of them harmed me in any way.
Perhaps because of my amazement that I was still alive, I felt an overwhelming sense of calm. This contrasted with the understandable agitation of these villagers, who must have been terrified out of their lives as my Lancaster came screaming down out of the sky.
Soon, two uniformed men arrived and I was handed over, to begin a new chapter in my life as a prisoner of war. To my great surprise and joy, in the hours which followed, I met up with our rear gunner Dizzy, (whose brief solo trip flying the tail plane I described earlier), and also with three other members of my crew who had also survived – our navigator Hannes; our wireless operator Dick, and our flight engineer Harry. Each of them described an identical experience to my own: being trapped in the aircraft, blacking out, and then miraculously regaining consciousness in the sky, just in time to release their parachutes and drop into the tree tops.
Unfortunately Hannes had suffered a broken leg and was on his way to a German hospital. He was liberated the following April by General Patton’s army. Harry, Dick, Dizzy and I all ended up in the same POW camp – Stalagluft 1 at Barth on the Baltic coast, and we were liberated by the Russian Army in May 1945.
My greatest sorrow has been the loss of two members of my crew: Brian, our bomb aimer and Taffy, our mid-upper gunner, both of whom are buried in Kiel War Cemetery. Brian had left the aircraft through the forward escape hatch, but just after he jumped, the aircraft made its violet nose-dive. I believe he must have been struck by part of the aircraft and had been knocked unconscious, for he was found in a field with his parachute unopened. Taff died in the aircraft. Once it started its uncontrolled spinning dive, it would have been impossible for him to extricate himself
[page break]
from his cramped turret. Like myself, he would have been trapped by the irresistible force of ‘g’. After blacking out, he could have known nothing more.
Of the 16 Lancasters dispatched by my Squadron on that fateful night, 3 were shot down, together with their 21 highly trained and experienced aircrew. 12 were killed and 9 of us became POWs. The German authorities later acknowledge the attack on Kiel to have been ‘a very serious raid’ with extensive damage.
How did the enemy manage to shoot us down without our having any warning? This was a mystery until years later, when we learned about ‘Schrage Musik’, (Jazz Music) whereby German fighters were able to home in our H2S radar transmitter, which was housed in a blister underneath our fuselage. We also learned that they had been equipped with upward-firing guns. Unknown to us, these advantages enabled them to position themselves directly below us, where they were completely hidden from our view and where their guns could inflict the greatest damage.
The remaining mystery is how the four of us who were trapped under the cockpit roof could have had such a miraculous escape from certain death, only seconds before our blazing Lancaster exploded on the ground. Perhaps the ‘g’ force created by the tightly spinning aircraft acted upon the combined weight of our four unconscious bodies to cause the roof to break apart and to hurl us in the night sky, where we quickly regained consciousness in the cold night air, just in time to be saved by our parachutes.
After the war, the Irwin Parachute Company presented me with the golden caterpillar brooch. This is a constant reminder that I owe my life to the caterpillars which had spun the silk thread that was used to manufacture my parachute. Over 70 years later, I wear my caterpillar with gratitude and humility.
Reg Barker
Former Flight Lieutenant
635 Squadron
RAF Pathfinder Force
[page break]
[Photographs]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
A miraculous escape from certain death in world war 2
Description
An account of the resource
An account of operation as Pathfinder against German naval and submarine base at Kiel when his aircraft was shot down by 'Schrage Musik' equipped night-fighter which cause the aircraft to break in two. Describes crew actions during bomb run and subsequent explosion in aircraft, fight to maintain control, difficulty in bailing out, parachute decent, capture and fate of crew (two killed). States sent to Stalag Luft 1 with three others from crew. Notes other losses on that operation and analysis of how they were shot down. Award of Irvin caterpillar badge. Includes at top left b/w wartime photograph of Reg Barker wearing tunic with pilots brevet and peaked cap, top right current colour photograph of Reg Barker. Bottom left colour photograph of Reg Barker wearing baseball cap and blazer with medals and bottom right colour photograph of Reg Barker signing a colour print of Lancaster.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
R Barker
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Five page printed document with one b/w and three colour photographs
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
BBarkerRBarkerRv1
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Norfolk
Germany
Germany--Kiel
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Germany--Barth
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-08-20
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Georgie Donaldson
635 Squadron
Caterpillar Club
faith
final resting place
grief
H2S
Lancaster
Master Bomber
military ethos
Pathfinders
prisoner of war
RAF Downham Market
shot down
Stalag Luft 1
-
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Wharmby, Tom
Tom Wharmby
T Wharmby
Description
An account of the resource
13 items including nine photographs, two letters and biographical entries for five 199 Squadron personnel. Photographs and biographies are of Sergeant Tom Wharmby, including his wedding, and four of his crew members; Sergeant Ronald Hughes, Sergeant Leonard Waldorf, Sergeant John Guyer Wilson and Flying Officer Ronald Herman Downes Cook. Letters sent from Air Ministry to Sergeant Tom Wharmby’s widow concern the location of his grave and those of his aircrew at Harderwijk, Holland, their aircraft having crashed on 12/13 May 1943. <br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Carol Wharmby-Gordon and catalogued by Barry Hunter. <br />Additional information on Tom Wharmby is available via the <a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/124941/">IBCC Losses Database</a>
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-10-18
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Wharmby, T
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
Ronald Herman Downes Cook
Flying Officer of 199 Sqd
Wireless Operator Air Gunner.
Ronald was born 2st September 1912 in Weybridge Surrey to John William and Eva Annie.
He attended the local Schools in Weybridge, and was an active member of 1st Weybridge Scouts, then becoming appointed Scout Master in 1931, he continued scouting until the war.
Ronald enlisted in the RAF in September 1940 as Volunteer Reserve. He immediately began training as a Wireless Operator/Air Gunner. His training continued and he gained a temporary commission in August 1942. He was then assigned to 199 Sqd in November 1942.
He married Grace on the 26th July 1941 at St James Church Weybridge. They had very little time together as a married couple and never built the home they were planning.
Ronald flew a total of 244.70 hours with 199 Sqd.
Inscription on Ronald's headstone is
TO LIVE IN THE HEARTS OF THOSE WE LOVE IS NOT TO DIE.
Sgt Ronald Hughes
Age 20 of 199 Sqd 1450608
Navigator
Ronald was born in the Moss village situated near the town of Wrexham North Wales in 1923. He was the only Son of Elizabeth and Stanley.
Ronald was educated at Grove Park Grammar School in Wrexham where he excelled in numeracy and the sciences.
He completed his education with distinction before becoming employed by the Courtaulds Company in Holywell as a trainee Chemist.
Ronald volunteered to join the RAF as he was obsessed with flying, and felt he had a duty to serve his country.
His early flying training was carried out in Canada, he quickly became adapted to service life.
When Ronald was reported missing, the entire Family were in mourning, and were inconsolable with grief.
Inscription on Ronalds headstone is
HIS DUTY NOBLE DONE, GOOD GRANT HIM ETERNAL REST.
Sgt Leonard Waldorf
Age 20 of 199 Sqd 1383863
Pilot.
Leonard was born in Stoke Newington London, a Jewish family.
He was a wonderful sportsman and whatever sport he took up he won numerous trophies for table tennis, Football, Cricket and Golf.
He joined Imperial Airways in 1939/40 and then volunteered, though under age, for the RAF in early 1941. He then trained at the Polaris Flying Academy in Lancaster California USA in 1942.
When Leonard was reported missing, his Parents were anxious that if he was captured he would be tortured as he was a Jew.
The raid on 12th/13th May 1943 on Duisburg Germany was supposed to be his last mission.
Inscription on Leonards head stone is.
DEEPLY MOURNED AND SO SADLY MISSED BY HIS PARENTS AND BROTHER CHARLES.
Sgt John Guyer Wilson
Of 199 Sqd 1386132
Air Bomber
John was married and lived in Dagenham London. They had one Son David, John was killed 7 days before his Sons 200 Birthday.
David does remember standing next to him in the kitchen, and looked down at his buckles on his boots.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Tom Wharmby's crew biographies
Description
An account of the resource
Four biographies of 199 Squadron servicemen killed in action, with notes regarding the inscriptions on their headstones.
Flying Officer Ronald Herman Downes Cook, wireless operator/ air gunner;
Sergeant Ronald Hughes, navigator;
Sergeant John Guyer Wilson, bomb aimer;
Sergeant Leonard Waldorf, pilot. The latter was born to a Jewish family and was killed in action on 12/13 May 1943 on Duisburg.
Format
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Four typewritten sheets
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Personal research
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MWharmbyT1236751-171018-010001, MWharmbyT1236751-171018-010002,
MWharmbyT1236751-171018-010003,
MWharmbyT1236751-171018-010004
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--London
United States
California
California--Lancaster
Germany
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943-05-12
1943-05-13
199 Squadron
2 BFTS
aircrew
bomb aimer
British Flying Training School Program
faith
grief
killed in action
memorial
navigator
pilot
training
Wellington
wireless operator / air gunner
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1245/16644/EOC75SqnBainID430824.1.jpg
794ca27cf5208cc289a35eff49a8924b
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Bain, Andrew
A Bain
Description
An account of the resource
58 items. The collection concerns Andrew Bain (1916-1943, 658930, Royal Air Force). He joined the British Army in September 1939 and transferred to the RAF in October 1941. He was killed in action 23/24 August 1943. Collection includes: observer's logbook, pay book, photographs (some loose, some in album), letters (numerous), brevets and badges, medals, ribbons and BC Clasp. Includes correspondence received by Andrew's widow Isabel following his death and a list of his effects. <br /><br />Additional in formation on Andrew Bain is available via <a href="https://losses.internationalbcc.co.uk/loss/201025/">the IBCC Losses Database.</a><br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Lorna Aitchison Howieson and catalogued by Trevor Hardcastle.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018-07-23
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Identifier
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Bain, A
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
NO. 75 (NZ) Squadron,
R.A.F. Station,
MEPAL,
Near Ely, Cambs.,
Ref:- 75 NZ / 089/CAS. August 24th. 1943.
Dear Mrs. Bain,
I find it a grievous task indeed for me to write a letter such as this. During your husband’s stay with my Squadron, which proved all too short, he had become extremely popular amongst all ranks for his cheerfulness, willingness and quiet confidence. He had amply proved himself to be a most skilful air-bomber, one whom the Squadron and the Service can ill afford to lose.
On this fateful eleventh operational flight, the crew of which he was a member were detailed to attack a strongly defended target situated deep into German territory, but after the aircraft left base no further signal was received from it. Knowing however, the efficiency of this crew, who worked well together as a team, and that their Captain was an extremely skilful and prudent pilot who did not take unnecessary risks, I feel we may yet learn during the course of the next few weeks that they are all safe and well as prisoners of war. Any news which comes through will be forwarded to you without delay.
In the meantime, all your husband’s personal effects have been carefully listed, packed and despatched to the Central Committee of Adjustment, Colnbrook, Slough. They will be forwarded to you from there after certain formalities have been completed.
The whole of my Squadron joins with me in expression of deepest sympathy to you, during this time of sorrow and anxious waiting. We pray with you for his safety and well being.
Yours sincerely,
[signature]
Wing Commander, Commanding,
[underlined] NO. 75 (NZ) Squadron, R.A.F. [/underlined]
Mrs.I.D.Bain,
25, Beaufort Gdns.,
Bishopbriggs,
[underlined] Glasgow, Scotland. [/underlined]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
To Isabel Bain from Commanding Officer no. 75 Squadron
Description
An account of the resource
From Andrew's squadron commander expressing his sympathy at her loss. Andrew was popular for his 'cheerfulness, willingness and quiet confidence' and was a skilful air-bomber. He was on his 11th operation from the base.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
OC 75(NZ) Squadron
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1943-08-24
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One page typewritten letter
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text. Correspondence
Text
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
EOC75SqnBainID430824
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Air Force
Civilian
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Cambridgeshire
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943-08-24
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Frank Batten
75 Squadron
aircrew
bomb aimer
grief
missing in action
RAF Mepal
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1245/16465/EAmpthillMBainID441213-0001.1.jpg
ff3081555df39d678a7c688d4ce71d6f
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1245/16465/EAmpthillMBainID441213-0002.1.jpg
14be3b1e09bee4c80e95fce9faf4f77c
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Bain, Andrew
A Bain
Description
An account of the resource
58 items. The collection concerns Andrew Bain (1916-1943, 658930, Royal Air Force). He joined the British Army in September 1939 and transferred to the RAF in October 1941. He was killed in action 23/24 August 1943. Collection includes: observer's logbook, pay book, photographs (some loose, some in album), letters (numerous), brevets and badges, medals, ribbons and BC Clasp. Includes correspondence received by Andrew's widow Isabel following his death and a list of his effects. <br /><br />Additional in formation on Andrew Bain is available via <a href="https://losses.internationalbcc.co.uk/loss/201025/">the IBCC Losses Database.</a><br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Lorna Aitchison Howieson and catalogued by Trevor Hardcastle.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018-07-23
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Bain, A
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[Letterhead]
In replying please quote reference:
STM/BS/RAF/C.8616
13th December 1944
Dear Mrs. Bain,
We know that the Air Ministry has written to you to convey the sad particulars of the burial of your husband Sergeant A. Bain No. 658930. As this information has been sent to a different address from that which we have always used in our correspondence with you, we feel we should perhaps write to you also and trust you will therefore forgive any possible duplication.
We are informed by the by the International Red Cross Committee that your husband was buried in the Garrison Cemetery at Doberitz, near Berlin, Germany. The number of his grave is 1 in Row 11 Kg. V.
[Page Break]
Please accept our deep sympathy in the great loss you have sustained and the renewed sorrow which this grievous news must bring to you.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret Ampthill
Chairman.
Hsh
Mrs. Bain,
25, Beaufort Gardens,
Bishopsbriggs,
Glasgow.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
To Isabel Bain from British Red Cross Society
Description
An account of the resource
Letter from British Red Cross Society informing Isabel of the location of Andrew's grave at Doberitz, near Berlin.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1944-12-13
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Two-page typewritten letter
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text. Correspondence
Text
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
EAmpthillMBainID441213-0001, EAmpthillMBainID441213-0002
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Air Force
Civilian
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
Germany
Germany--Döberitz
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943
1944
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. British Red Cross Society
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Bradley Froggatt
aircrew
final resting place
grief
Red Cross
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1169/11738/ATurnerP170529.2.mp3
73d2287852145aa1989b5e640fc81de9
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Turner, John
Albion John Turner
A J Turner
Description
An account of the resource
<a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/228620/" target="_blank" rel="noopener"></a>116 items. Concerns Flight Sergeant Albion John Turner (1911 - 1939, 561939 Royal Air Force) who joined the RAF as an apprentice in 1927. After service as a fitter he re-mustered as a pilot in 1935 and after training served on 216 Squadron flying Vickers Victoria and Valentia before moving to 9 Squadron on Handley Page Heyfords in 1936. He converted to Wellingtons February 1939 and was killed when his aircraft was shot down on 4 September 1939 during operations against shipping at Brunsbüttel. Collection consists of an oral history interview with Penny Turner his daughter (b. 1938), correspondence, official documents, his logbook and photographs. <br /><br />Additional information on Albion John Turner <span>is available via the </span><a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/228620/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">IBCC Losses Database</a><br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Penny Turner and catalogued by Nigel Huckins
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-05-29
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Turner, J
Transcribed audio recording
A resource consisting primarily of recorded human voice.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
SC: I think that’s now. So, I’m with Mrs Penny Turner at your house at [Buzz] Lowdham.
PT: Yes.
SC: Nottinghamshire. It’s 11 o’clock, the 29th of May 2017 and your father was Albion John Turner who was a flight sergeant pilot of a Wellington bomber on one of, if not the first bombing raid and was killed on the 4th of September 1939. So if you perhaps want to start now and explain anything about how you first —
PT: Yes. Well —
SC: Found out —
PT: The first time I found out I was a small child sitting on, in the gutter actually under the gas lamp.
SC: Yeah.
PT: With a load of friends in the street and we were playing Snobs. We’d throw them up and catch the stems on the back of your hand.
SC: Yes.
PT: And we were all playing and one of the boys said, ‘Where’s your father, Penny?’ I said, ‘I haven’t got one.’ He said, ‘Of course you have. We’ve all got a father.’ ‘No. No. I haven’t got one.’ So I ran in along the passage to my mother. I said, ‘Mother. Where’s our father?’ ‘He was killed in the war, Penny.’ I turned around and ran straight back and said to the boy, ‘He was killed in the war.’ And carried on playing Snobs. I knew nothing of that you should have a father.
SC: Yes.
PT: So I felt nothing.
SC: Yeah.
PT: But since then of course it’s slowly got in here and —
SC: Do you know what age you were at that? Or roughly.
PT: Probably around five I would say.
SC: Yeah.
PT: Yeah. Because we were sort of, we had quite a life. We didn’t have televisions. We weren’t very worldly.
SC: Yeah.
PT: We were children. We played on the Common.
SC: Yes.
PT: All day and only came home when it was nearly dark you know.
SC: Yes.
PT: We were free to run wild and play. So I played. Spent my childhood on the West Common.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And the ornamental ponds and Whitton Park.
SC: And where was this at this stage?
PT: All around Lincoln.
SC: Yeah.
PT: In fact, I’ve looked in the history books and they used to have lots of things for the war. The First World War was parked on the West Common. It’s the next street to where I lived you see. The Common.
SC: Yeah. Yeah.
PT: In Lincoln. And so that’s the first time I found out and then November the 11th we would all stand around the War Memorial in the middle of Lincoln High Street and all the ladies were crying. It was miserable and we used to all get upset and I used to hate it because everybody was upset. You see as children we’d never really been told anything.
SC: Yeah.
PT: I was only one when my father was killed so I didn’t know anything.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And it was war days and you looked out the bedroom window you can see the bombers coming over and bombing around. It was a very unhappy childhood. Very unhappy childhood. Lonely. Hungry and cold.
SC: Yeah.
PT: Different to the children’s lives nowadays.
SC: Indeed. Yes.
PT: With an unhappy mother —
SC: Yeah.
PT: That cried a lot.
SC: Yeah.
PT: Because she was eight months pregnant with my sister you see.
SC: Yes.
PT: So she was born a few weeks after my father had been killed. So naturally she was very unhappy. That’s the first time I found out about it.
SC: And how did that then develop? How did you feel about it as time went by?
PT: Well, as time goes by you put it on the back burner. You sort of got on with your life and didn’t think about it until different things would crop up in life and you’d hear families that had got fathers.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And you saw the different ways you know. Different life they had.
PT: Yes.
SC: It was very much different. Yes.
SC: Yeah. And how much of a relationship with the RAF did you have as a child then?
PT: Well, none really afterwards because all I knew was that my mother, she was with her friends on the [pause] on the first night it was my mother. They were comforting her. And the second night my mother and her friends were comforting this other friend that she’d got two boys and her husband had been killed. And those two boys I have to say were paid for by the RAF to go to a better school and everything. And mother always felt that that was a bit [pause] because we were girls.
SC: Yeah.
PT: We didn’t get any help at all.
SC: Yes.
PT: But the boys did. Yeah.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And mother thought that was a bit.
SC: Yeah.
PT: Yeah. But times have changed.
SC: Yes.
PT: There’s even a young lady pilot in the Red Arrows now.
SC: Of course, yeah.
PT: I follow the Red Arrows all the time.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And, and, but yes, there’s a lady Red Arrow. Whereas today that wouldn’t discriminate between a lady and a man.
SC: Yes.
PT: Yeah.
SC: And what were your memories of RAF Scampton or —
PT: Well, you see being as I was one and a, just eighteen months after I haven’t really got any.
SC: No.
PT: But I’ve always sort of hovered around and wanted to know things, you know
SC: Yeah.
PT: But because it was too painful I put it all at the back but I can see it’s all in that box there.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And I’m glad for them to have it at the museum.
SC: Yeah.
PT: Yes.
SC: Yeah.
PT: Yes.
SC: Good. Yeah.
PT: I can’t think of anything else.
SC: Well, if there are any other —
PT: Yeah.
SC: Memories or thoughts of how it affected you.
PT: Just the thing. The Red Cross. The Red Cross would every now and then which delighted us we could go along and choose some clothes from the Red Cross.
SC: Gosh.
PT: Which was nice. And that was nice and [pause] and dried milk. And I think it was powdered egg.
SC: Gosh.
PT: Powdered egg we got.
SC: Yeah.
PT: Yes.
SC: Yeah.
PT: So, but no it was very, it was very, we didn’t get any handouts like you get today.
SC: Yeah.
PT: You know.
SC: Yeah.
PT: There were no handouts at all but, yes.
SC: Yeah. And how did you come to research your father’s history in the RAF? You’ve obviously got all the photographs.
PT: Well, no. It’s all that my mother had got in this box.
SC: She’d gathered it.
PT: Because I’m the eldest and I’ve got it.
SC: Yeah.
PT: One thing that’s really brought it home to me which I won’t mention any names but on Facebook I got friendly with someone that we knew. She lived down near the river and they’ve got, they had about ten children and I spoke to her and I said, ‘Yes. It was very poor in our days. It was —’ mentioned different things. She said, ‘Oh yes, but we had a wonderful childhood. And she said they had a barge. I think the father used to go up and down on the barge and I really envied her now. I’ve looked back and saw what a wonderful childhood they had.
SC: Yeah.
PT: They had nothing as money but they had togetherness and they had a father.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And they had a home life and a mother that was happy apparently and she pulled me up on what I’d said. And I realised that I’d had a lonely childhood.
SC: Yes.
PT: Always on my own. Mother was at work. Don’t mind if I —
SC: No. No. No. You, yeah. Yeah.
PT: Always on my own and always lonely waiting for her to come home from work.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And it would be dark and we would waiting under the gaslamp to see her coming. And wait for her to cook something and soon as the fire got a bit of heat we had to go to bed.
SC: Yeah. Yeah.
PT: It was a lonely, unhappy childhood.
SC: Yes.
PT: And this girl that had come from a big family that we thought would not have ended up she’d had a wonderful childhood she said.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And all that.
SC: Yeah
PT: And of course, she’d got her father and the things that they got up to.
SC: Yeah.
PT: She played in all the places I did but she had the happy childhood and we didn’t.
SC: Yes.
PT: And it wasn’t ‘til I got all this out and you hear other people’s stories that you realise you didn’t really have a childhood.
SC: Yeah.
PT: You were unhappy.
SC: Yes. And part of that is because —
PT: Yeah.
SC: It wasn’t explained.
PT: I never spoke, never spoke to her about it, to anybody else
SC: Yeah.
PT: Because if I said this to my family or my husband as was they wouldn’t understand.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And they said, ‘Pull yourself together. Stiff upper lip.’ Which I’ve always done.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And never talked about it.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And so that going and asking my mother where my father was, that was the only time that I think it was ever mentioned.
SC: Right.
PT: So that’s why I’m like a —
SC: Yeah
PT: And that’s why when we went to the Spire day in September when I came back from that I nearly had a breakdown.
SC: Yeah.
PT: Yeah. I insisted that my son came. Both sons and grandson and I drove them there. We got through it but leaving that field, I’ve got a photo of leaving that field where all the people had something to do with the same thing that I’d held inside me —
SC: Yes.
PT: All my life. I didn’t want to leave that field and it really made me, I felt raw and I came home.
SC: Yeah.
PT: You know, I really wanted to cry and scream out loud like perhaps I should have done if I’d known.
SC: Yeah.
PT: When I was one a half that my father had just been killed.
SC: Yeah.
PT: You know and, and that’s why I didn’t go last week because I thought no you’re going to get yourself in a mess again. But it was nice because my niece went.
SC: Yeah.
PT: And found out from the photo there wasn’t the one but as I say it doesn’t matter. It’s just putting a poppy in to say that was for him.
SC: Yeah.
PT: You know.
SC: Yeah.
PT: Yeah.
SC: So —
PT: So I don’t know what other people’s feelings are and I’ve never been able to talk to Carol, my sister.
SC: Yeah.
PT: Because I know it hurt her the same.
SC: Yes.
PT: So we haven’t spoke about it.
SC: Gosh. Yeah.
PT: You know.
SC: Yeah.
PT: It’s just something you carry on with your life and we’re lucky to be alive.
SC: Yeah.
PT: But, and then when that happened last week, all this and you realise that mans never learned anything. We are still at war because they said —
SC: Yeah.
PT: That that war was going to be the war to end all wars you know and —
SC: Yeah.
PT: It’s not. It will never stop will it?
SC: Yeah.
PT: You know.
SC: Unfortunately, not.
PT: No. No. But yes, there should be, you know a place where people can go and see what happened.
SC: Yes.
PT: And hopefully learn from it.
SC: Yeah.
PT: But —
SC: If we can learn the lessons that would be —
PT: Yeah.
SC: Yeah.
PT: But I’ve just read a book.
SC: Yeah.
PT: I can get it up on here. And if I’d read that because I believe in nothing now since I’ve read this book. What was it? Something else.
SC: I’ll turn this off next to you.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Interview with Penny Turner
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Steve Cooke
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-05-29
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Sound
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
ATurnerP170529
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
00:12:28 audio recording
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Second generation
Civilian
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Lincolnshire
England--Lincoln
Description
An account of the resource
Penny Turner’s father, Flight Sergeant Albin John Turner, pilot of a Wellington bomber was killed in action during the first bombing operation on the 4th September 1939. Years later, when she was five years old, her mother told her that her father was killed in the war. She explains that her mother received no help from the Royal Air Force, which she claims aided widows with sons rather than daughters. She has no memory of her father and realises that she had a lonely and unhappy childhood. She also describes her emotions upon visiting the International Bomber Command Centre and hopes that people will learn a lesson about the atrocity of war.
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1939-09-04
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Adalberto Di Corato
Julie Williams
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending revision of OH transcription
bombing
childhood in wartime
grief
killed in action
memorial
perception of bombing war
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1018/11518/EPrattDWynnK430528.1.jpg
19ca5e3aa65b98073e9917c625ab7290
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Wynn, Ian Archer
I A Wynn
Description
An account of the resource
146 Items. Collection concerns Pilot Officer Ian Archer Wynn (1908 - 1943, 146838 Royal Air Force). After training as ground crew he remustered as a flight engineer and flew operations with 100 Squadron. He was killed 25 May 1943 on an operation from RAF Grimsby to Düsseldorf. Collection consists of a diary, a memorial book, an official report on what was his final operation, photographs of his crew, his family and the squadron as well as official correspondence from Air Ministry and British Red Cross, letters of condolence and a large number of letters from Ian Wynn to his wife Kathleen. <br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Patrick Anthony Wynn and catalogued by Nigel Huckins. <br /><br />Additional information on Ian Archer Wynn is available via the <a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/126116/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-07-13
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Wynn, IA
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
Meadowbank
Rowton
Nr. Chester
28.5.43.
Dear Kathleen,
I was very sorry to hear the bad news about Ian. I hope you will soon hear that he is safe & well There is very little one can say to comfort you at a time like this but I would like to express my deepest sympathy to you in your terrible anxiety & grief.
Yours Sincerely
Dorothy Pratt.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Letter to Kathleen Wynn from Dorothy Pratt
Description
An account of the resource
Letter of sympathy over bad news of Ian.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
D Pratt
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1943-05-28
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One page handwritten letter
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
EPrattDWynnK430528
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Cheshire
England--Chester
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943-05-28
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
grief
missing in action
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1018/11514/ERusselFWynnK4312117-0001.2.jpg
6e7a8765e56b37e49e6f971098d814e6
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1018/11514/ERusselFWynnK4312117-0002.2.jpg
2f66d7d83987bbe22dceee8c3d2245fd
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1018/11514/ERusselFWynnK4312117-0003.2.jpg
4074b09d171afad2d8cd362908ab055c
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1018/11514/ERusselFWynnK4312117-0004.2.jpg
bc35212fffe018f899c9ffcba66f4b70
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Wynn, Ian Archer
I A Wynn
Description
An account of the resource
146 Items. Collection concerns Pilot Officer Ian Archer Wynn (1908 - 1943, 146838 Royal Air Force). After training as ground crew he remustered as a flight engineer and flew operations with 100 Squadron. He was killed 25 May 1943 on an operation from RAF Grimsby to Düsseldorf. Collection consists of a diary, a memorial book, an official report on what was his final operation, photographs of his crew, his family and the squadron as well as official correspondence from Air Ministry and British Red Cross, letters of condolence and a large number of letters from Ian Wynn to his wife Kathleen. <br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Patrick Anthony Wynn and catalogued by Nigel Huckins. <br /><br />Additional information on Ian Archer Wynn is available via the <a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/126116/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-07-13
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Wynn, IA
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[inserted] 1 [/inserted]
75 Avondale Rd
Southport
Lancs
17.12.43
My dear Mrs Wynn
I can’t tell you how sorry I was when I read your letter, to hear that your husband was presumed to have lost his life on May 26th. I don’t think really that anything further has been heard of the missing crew, but that, after six months have gone by, the A.M. conclude this for Official Purposes. I also heard from them early in Nov. confirming that Gordon lost his life on May 26th but no more details were given. His payments to me ceased on Nov. 1st, so then I filled up the form sent to me by the
[page break]
[inserted] (2) [/inserted]
R.A.F Benevolent Fund. I was very pleased with their quick reply – they sent me £4, & told me to write to the Ministry of Pensions for the Application Forms, to see if I should be considered for a pension. I did this & sent them back only yesterday – I will let you know how I go on.
What an anxious time you must have had during the past weeks – I do hope the boys will [inserted] soon [/inserted] be right again – I think Whooping Cough is the most distressing of childish ailments, especially with one so young as Tony.
I feel for you deeply – I know how dreadful I feel about Gordon at times, when I stop to think. It is always there
[page break]
[inserted] 3 [/inserted]
at the back of my mind. It was Gordons birthday on Dec 6th he would have been [corrected] 23 [/corrected].
I got a most beautiful letter from Jim, which bought tears all over again. It was the same when I got your letter – it takes a long time to get over such sorrow as ours & only time will heal. We have to think there are thousands more, sorrowing for their loved ones.
A great friend of Jim’s – an old school friend has died in Japanese Prison of War camp – I think that is infinitely worse than Gordon’s death. Jim has just been before a medical board in London & is still unfit for operational flying - & is on the ground for
[page break]
[inserted] 4 [/inserted]
another three months.
Geoff is hoping to get leave from Africa early in the new year.
My daughter Kathleen has been in bed with influenza for over a week now – half of the population in Southport seems to have had it. I do sincerely hope you are feeling better, & taking great care of yourself & that father & mother are keeping well. Give them my kind regards please.
With loving wishes for Christmas, hoping it will bring some measure of happiness & peace,
Yours very sincerely
F. Russel
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Letter to Mrs K Wynn from Florence Russell
Description
An account of the resource
Florence is upset that her son Gordon and Mrs Wynn’s husband are now presumed dead. Goes on to write about financial help from RAF Benevolent Fund. Catches up with family news and of other acquaintances including one who died in Japanese prisoner of war camp. .
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
F Russell
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1943-12-17
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Four page handwritten letter
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
ERusselFWynnK4312117
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Lancashire
England--Southport
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943-12-17
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
grief
killed in action
prisoner of war
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1018/11498/EAmpthillMWynnK450106-0001.2.jpg
0ef95ed57228995e2ad72ce3c6abba4b
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1018/11498/EAmpthillMWynnK450106-0002.2.jpg
7b29af3489434e522d74aa2519a1915e
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Wynn, Ian Archer
I A Wynn
Description
An account of the resource
146 Items. Collection concerns Pilot Officer Ian Archer Wynn (1908 - 1943, 146838 Royal Air Force). After training as ground crew he remustered as a flight engineer and flew operations with 100 Squadron. He was killed 25 May 1943 on an operation from RAF Grimsby to Düsseldorf. Collection consists of a diary, a memorial book, an official report on what was his final operation, photographs of his crew, his family and the squadron as well as official correspondence from Air Ministry and British Red Cross, letters of condolence and a large number of letters from Ian Wynn to his wife Kathleen. <br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Patrick Anthony Wynn and catalogued by Nigel Huckins. <br /><br />Additional information on Ian Archer Wynn is available via the <a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/126116/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-07-13
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Wynn, IA
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[Letterhead]
WAS/GG/RAF/C.7289
6th January, 1945.
Dear Mrs. Wynn,
We are writing to tell you of a further sad report which has reached us by cable from the International Red Cross Committee in connection with our enquiries about the crew in which your husband, Pilot Officer I. A. WYNN, was serving.
The Organisation at Geneva has sent an authoritative statement from the Official Bureau in Berlin that three airmen flying in this aircraft, of whose names they were not aware at the time, were laid to rest in the Military Cemetery at Venlo. The numbers 280, 281 and 298 are quoted for the graves of these crew-members, who would seem to rest near to their companions, Pilot Officer Russell and Flying Officer Petts.
We realise how this tragic information, coming so long afterwards, must needs add to your anxiety and sorrow; but we can only tell you the German reports about those serving together are often sent through at long intervals, and it is unhappily not unusual for later records of burial to reach us which apply to airmen not originally notified as having lost their lives.
P.T.O.
[page break]
-2-
The present military pressure around Venlo will not allow [inserted] of [/inserted] our continued enquiries through channels open to us in that area. We are, however, assured the War Graves Registration & Enquiry Section of the war Office will be making full investigations there whenever this becomes possible, and will forward their records to the Air Ministry who will inform the next-of-kin.
While we are sending you this grievous news with the greatest reluctance, realising its possible implications and what they will mean to you, we do not believe you would wish us to keep back any record we may receive about the crew and hope you will forgive the pain our letter cannot but bring you.
With again the assurance of our deep sympathy at this time.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret Ampthill,
ppJM
CHAIRMAN.
Mrs. I.A. Wynn,
“Sunny Brae”,
Norley,
FRODSHAM. NR. WARRINGTON.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Letter from British Red Cross to Mrs K Wynn
Description
An account of the resource
Writes of further reports that three unidentified airmen flying in the same aircraft of her husband had been buried in the military cemetery at Venlo and gives grave numbers. They were buried near the other two members of the crew previously identified as Pilot Office Russell and Flying Officer Petts. Letter apologises for delay in reporting news. Enquiries would continue.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. British Red Cross Society
Margaret Ampthill
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1945-01-06
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Two page typewritten letter
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
EAmpthillMWynnK450106
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--London
England--Lancashire
England--Warrington
Netherlands
Netherlands--Venlo
England--Cheshire
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1945-01-06
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Roger Dunsford
final resting place
grief
killed in action
missing in action
Red Cross
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1018/11484/E[Author]B-GWynnK[Date]-0001.jpg
f4cf559159939150cb3b4b28cd83dd80
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1018/11484/E[Author]B-GWynnK[Date]-0002.jpg
9628d30f2a70513cc35bedb5129c751b
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Wynn, Ian Archer
I A Wynn
Description
An account of the resource
146 Items. Collection concerns Pilot Officer Ian Archer Wynn (1908 - 1943, 146838 Royal Air Force). After training as ground crew he remustered as a flight engineer and flew operations with 100 Squadron. He was killed 25 May 1943 on an operation from RAF Grimsby to Düsseldorf. Collection consists of a diary, a memorial book, an official report on what was his final operation, photographs of his crew, his family and the squadron as well as official correspondence from Air Ministry and British Red Cross, letters of condolence and a large number of letters from Ian Wynn to his wife Kathleen. <br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Patrick Anthony Wynn and catalogued by Nigel Huckins. <br /><br />Additional information on Ian Archer Wynn is available via the <a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/126116/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-07-13
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Wynn, IA
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[inserted] P.S. many thanks for the canopy. [/inserted]
Kelsall.
[Underlined] Friday [/underlined].
My dear Kathleen,
I am so very sorry to hear you have had bad news of Ian, but sincerely pray he is safe & a probable prisoner, even that is better than the anguish of wondering where he is.
Don’t give up hope Kath, I feel somehow he is safe, & will soon be home with you again.
George and I have said several times lately we hoped he had done all his operational trips
[Page break]
& was grounded for a time, it has been a terrible time for you.
I am not much good at writing this kind of letter, but I do most sincerely grieve for you & will pray for you & the children, but still hoping for the best.
If you feel you would like a rest & change from Horley I should be delighted for you to come for a bit.
Perhapes [sic] fresh surroundings would do you good.
Yours very sincerely
[Underlined] Bessie & George [/underlined]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Letter to Kathleen Wynn from Bessie George
Description
An account of the resource
Letter of condolence over news that husband is missing.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
B George
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Two page handwritten letter
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
E[Author]B-GWynnK[Date]
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Bradley Froggatt
Steve Baldwin
grief
missing in action
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/727/11318/EDoris[Recipient]421231-010001.jpg
f9b0bdf6dd20f7a6906ff580f2d27673
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c192520d38d97b1952103675b2b85aef
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Brooks, Harry
Brooks, C H S
Brooks, Charles Harry Sidney
Description
An account of the resource
Collection contains 18 items concerning Sergeant Harry Sidney Brooks (1915 - 1942, 1357673, Royal Air Force) who was killed in an aircraft accident 20 December 1942 while serving as a wireless operator with 9 Squadron at RAF Waddington. Collection consists of pages from logbook, letters and telegrams to his wife from Harry Brooks, Brooks' father, official sources and others of condolence as well as photographs of him and family. <br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Pamela Tickner and catalogued by Nigel Huckins. <br /><br />Additional information on Harry Sidney Brooks is available via the <a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/102784/">IBCC Losses Database</a>.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2015-10-02
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Brooks, HS
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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341 High St.,
Lincoln
Lincs. 31.12.42.
Dear Mr. Moth,
I hardly know how to begin this letter, but first of all, let me thank you for writing. I cant [sic] express my feelings in words at this moment, I am so terribly sorry for poor Winnie, and all dear Harry’s relations. What an awful shock it was, I cant [sic] get over it, really. Will you please convey my deepest sympathy to Winnie, may God bless her & help her to bear her sorrow. Tell her not to worry about thanking me for anything, I was only too pleased to help, it was so nice of her to even think of me when she was in so much trouble. I only wish I could do something now, I would spare nothing, but I am afraid it must be left to time, which heals all wounds. She wont [sic] be able to realise
[page break]
[underlined] 2 [/underlined].
that at the moment, we know, no-one would, but I pray that she will be given strength to carry on bravely for darling Pamela’s sake.
I should very much have liked to have sent a token of remembrance to dear Harry, but I didn’t have time to wire a wreath as your letter didn’t reach me until Wednesday morning. However, my thoughts were with you all. Well, I dont [sic] think I can say any more just now, if Winnie feels like writing later on I shall be pleased. I dont [sic] expect it now. I know you will look after her, & I will never forget her in my prayers. Giver her my love, all my best wishes to you,
Yours very sincerely,
[underlined] Doris. [/underlined]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Letter of condolence from Doris to Mr Moth
Description
An account of the resource
Letter to Mr Moth from Doris explaining how sorry she feels for Winnie and all of Harry Brooks' relations and asks recipient to convey her sympathy to Winnie. Apologises that she had insufficient time to wire a wreath for Harry's funeral.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1942-12-31
Format
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Two page handwritten letter
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
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EDoris[Recipient]421231-01
Coverage
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Civilian
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Lincolnshire
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1942-12
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
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Robin Christian
faith
grief
killed in action
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/504/10775/PDavisRS1604.1.jpg
3c0b1cae022bad63d50d98f5562ac423
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/504/10775/ADavisRS160807.1.mp3
8ec4918107465e2d762c79a495e3aa52
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Davis, Ronald
Ronald Samuel Davis
R S Davis
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
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Davis, R
Description
An account of the resource
Eight items. Collection concerns with Ronald Davis (1922 - 2017, 1231181 Royal Air Force). He served as ground crew with 49 and 617 Squadrons. Collection contains three oral history interviews as well as photographs of people and aircraft.
The collection was catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Transcribed audio recording
A resource consisting primarily of recorded human voice.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
TO: Right. Good morning. Good afternoon. Or good evening. Whatever the case may be. This interview is being filmed for the International Bomber Command Centre. My name is Thomas Ozel and this interview is being recorded on the 7th of August 2016.
RD: Thank you. My name is Ronald Davis. I’m ninety four years of age and I was born on the 2nd of March 1922 at a maternity hospital on the corner of City Road and Old Street which is in the City of London and which makes me a true Cockney. Born within the sound of Bow bells. My parents [pause] I can speak about were [pause] sorry, stop it there. Oh it doesn’t matter.
TO: No. You can just look at me. You don’t have to talk to the camera.
RD: I can talk to you.
TO: That’s fine.
RD: Right. And my mother was a little bit above working class but my father was very working class. He was a lady’s tailor which he hated from the day he started to the day he finished just before he died in his forties. And they lived in a humble two rooms in this house in New North Road. And shortly afterwards we moved to Mile End where my father’s mother and family lived. To be closer to the family. I was brought up in very humble surroundings and I said at times we had more dinner times than dinners. And my dad was hardworking but, but the tailoring trade was seasonal so when they worked they earned good money but when they were not working there was nothing coming in at all. I don’t think there was unemployment pay in those days. I was educated at a junior school where for reasons that my parents never understood I never passed the eleven plus which was the exam at that time and I went to a senior boy’s school in Bethnal Green where we moved when I was about seven years old. And this school in Bethnal Green gave me a very good general education and I found I did fairly well in that standard but I was not grammar school standard. I started work, aged fourteen as a solicitor’s office boy earning fifteen shillings and now seventy fifty five pence per week of which I gave me mother ten shillings towards my upkeep and kept the rest, less the deductions for myself which included my daily fare to the office which was a penny each way and, and for my lunches. After a year my boss called me in and said, ‘Davis, you’ve been very good for a year. You’re been a very good servant but we’re going to get another little boy in for fifteen shillings a week and you’d better find yourself another job. Not because we’re not satisfied with you but because you need a replacement and we have no place to promote you.’ I then went off and found, through an employment agency a job in another solicitor’s office in Chancery Lane, London. Central London as a junior clerk at twenty five shillings a week which was a very big increase from fifteen shillings. And I was there until the, towards the end of 1940 when I was eighteen and had decided that I wanted to go in to the Royal Air Force. I felt sure the only way I could get in was to volunteer which I did at the recruitment office in Whitehall. I was shortly afterwards interviewed and sent to RAF Cardington for assessment and within about six weeks I was called up, sent back to RAF Cardington for outfitting and a general description of what the RAF did and the discipline and appearance and the way you spoke to officers and things of that sort. I think I was there for about fourteen days and I was then sent to Bournemouth for my, what we called square bashing which is, which is learning to march and learning to exercise, general discipline and behaviour and things of that sort. In Bournemouth there was no RAF station. They, the, the RAF had taken over all the boarding houses that people had used at that time for their holidays. They were set up as bedrooms with washing facilities, a shared bathroom and, and we were there for three months altogether. I was given a room in this lovely boarding house overlooking Alum Chine with a view of the sea. It really was upmarket. And for the first time in my life, and I was eighteen years old, I had a room to myself. Because otherwise I had to share with my, my other brother and my two sisters who were all younger than me. And there I learned discipline. I learned drill. I learned exercise which I’d already done because I belonged to a Boy’s Club in the East End of London where we’d had lots of sports. Cricket. Football. Table tennis and things of that sort. So I knew about fitness and that. When I’d finished my training, incidentally my drill instructor in Bournemouth was a man called Sergeant Sam Bartram who in fact was a goal keeper for the England soccer team and also was the captain of a London soccer team called Charlton Athletic. Which at that time was in the First Division so he was very well respected and known by all the lads. In fact, as an aside most of the professional footballers or professional sportsman were drill instructors in in the RAF. It was very handy to have them on tap. From Bournemouth I was sent to RAF Halton which was a permanent RAF station and was Number 1 School of Technical Training. And there I learned all about aeroplanes. And a fitter airframe did everything on the aeroplane except the engines, except the armoury and except the electrician and something else. I can’t remember at the moment. But every other part of the aeroplane, the hydraulics, the pneumatics, the upkeep of the aeroplane, the refuelling, everything of that sort was done by the fitter airframe. And sitting on top of a bomber in the middle of Lincolnshire on a cold winter’s day filling up was, was no joke apart from the possible danger. At Halton I finished my course and became a, that was six months and I was immediately posted to RAF Scampton in Lincolnshire. Which at that time housed, every aerodrome had two squadrons. Scampton at that time housed 49 Squadron and 83 Squadron. Both flying with twelve Handley Page Hampdens which were, strangely enough made in Cricklewood Broadway in London. When I arrived there, there were a lot of, I arrived there in April or May 1942 and and when I arrived there there were lots of trainees coming in. And at one stage we probably had as many as twelve airframe fitters working on one aeroplane which was really not enough because one or two could manage. But this is when the RAF were turning out lots and lots of people and they were being trained and sent off all over the world. It so happens that I remained there all my time caring for these Handley Page bombers. My particular bomber was P for Peter and I obviously had various, various pilots. And one in particular who was with me for a long time was a pilot called Aussie Holt. He was an Australian and wore a navy blue uniform as opposed to the air force blue uniform so he was rather distinctive around the squadron I think. He was the only Australian pilot there at that time. And he was with me for quite a long time but unfortunately he was lost on the, on the Gneisenau and Scharnhorst German battleships that went through the Channel unexpectedly. And I remember it was just after Christmas. I don’t think it was even New Year ’43 that we were loaded up with certain bombs that we were going to use when these bombers came out and then they were the wrong ones and before they could take off we had to do a very quick job of changing the bomb load so that they could go off on this raid. Unfortunately that was the worst occasion of any time that I remember on any squadron where we lost seven of our twelve aeroplanes. Including Aussie Holt who I grieved over for quite a while because I’d got to know him very well and he like me and we we, we were always chatting about various things. When you’re on a squadron it’s very difficult to adjust to losing your pilot but you had to get on and the more you got on the less you thought of it. But at times when crews were speaking about various things and we mentioned his name and there would be a pause for us to catch our breaths as it were and think about something else. You, you didn’t become attached to them personally like family but they were your crew and as a result of that it, it there was some effect. At least from me. I’m not sure whether it was the same for everybody else but at least for me it had some effect and often thinking of their family way back in Australia losing this wonderful guy who was their son. And then in, I think I said 1943 that, it must have been 1942 because early in ’43 49 Squadron was moved from Scampton because they were coming in to lay runways and the aerodrome obviously couldn’t be used during that time. So most of us were sent off to, not with 49 Squadron because I think when 49 finished with the Hampdens it didn’t come to life again for some time again later. And I know, and most of the crews were moved from Scampton to Waddington or Coddington Hall just a few miles away outside Lincoln where we became the 1661 Conversion Unit. Which was the place where they trained pilots to go from two engine to four engine bombers. Although, apart from the four engine bomber there were two-engined Manchesters. Not Lancasters. Manchesters. Which formed part of the early, early crews but they were a much bigger aircraft than the Hampden and therefore the size of two engines or four engines wasn’t so important as the size of the aeroplane. Can I stop there for a minute?
TO: Certainly.
RD: I’m running away here.
TO: Certainly. Yeah.
RD: Eh?
TO: Yeah.
RD: Ok. Now, am I doing it as you —
TO: Yeah. That’s great. Perfect.
RD: Yeah. Ok.
TO: Of course if you want to stop or take a break just say so.
RD: Yeah.
TO: Ok. Do you want to take a break now?
RD: Yeah. Please.
TO: Sure.
[recording paused]
RD: One thing that I, I want to tell you about was how, how I got to the air force. In, in 1938 when I was about sixteen I had a week’s, two weeks holiday. No. One weeks holiday from work. And I, I couldn’t afford to go away so my grandmother, I told you my grandmother who lived in Golders Green just down the road here invited me to come and stay with her for a week. So I cycled from the East End of London where we were still living to Golders Green which was a very upmarket suburban area and, on my bike which was my proud possession. And she looked after me for, for that week. And each day I, she would give me a bag of sandwiches and some drinks and biscuits and things and fruit and I would go off for the day. And I only got, on the first day, as far as Hendon Aerodrome which is just up the road from here now. And there I saw this RAF aerodrome with little tiny Tiger Moths and various other small aeroplanes. Biplanes. Single engine. And I sat on a stile all day long watching aeroplanes landing and taking off. And I think it was at that time that I decided that if ever I’m going to go in to the forces and there was talk of war at that time, I would want to go in the air force. And that’s why I joined up voluntarily. Yeah.
Other: Hello.
[recording paused]
TO: So, in the 1930s were you worried about Hitler at all?
RD: Oh yes. In, in the 1930s I was very worried about fascists of all sorts and kinds. I was brought up in the East End of London where there were very, very two powerful factions. The communists and the fascists. The British Union of Fascists had a very big unit in in Bethnal Green. And when I was sixteen, that would be in 1938 there had been all sorts of demonstrations. Particularly in Jewish areas. In the Jewish area where I lived there were confrontations between communists and fascists and communists and Jews. Young Jewish men. It’s a very interesting, you’ve caught me on a very good subject actually. It was a very interesting course. My, I am Jewish and my parents were born in England. My grandparents came to England in the middle 1890s. 1895 and one 1898. And my parents were born in England and educated in England. So I wasn’t first generation. I was second generation. Most of my friends would have been first generation. Parents not born in England. And as a result of that they had a different attitude to me. They always wanted to run away because that had been indoctrinated into them by their parents. My dad said, ‘You don’t run away from anybody. You stand up to anybody and confront them because a bully is always afraid of somebody who might confront him.’ My dad told me that from as long as I can remember. And as a result if I met fascists I didn’t, I didn’t run away. I, and I used to, when I was sixteen I never actually joined the communist party. I was never, never a communist as such but I used to go to communist party meetings because they were the people who confronted the fascists. So, yeah we were aware of Hitler but of course we knew nothing at that time about the concentration camps. Nothing whatsoever. That didn’t come out until well into the war. Probably ’43 ’44. Even ’43 there was very little. ’44 and ’45 there was a little bit of talk about it. It was only when we got to the camps, when the British Army and the American Army and the Russian Army got to the camps that we found out what it was all about. So, yes, definitely. We, we knew all about Hitler. And we also, I mean anybody with a common sense realised that a war was coming because it, it was you kept reading about these things. That Hitler had walked in to the Sudetenland and Hitler had walked in to Czechoslovakia and you automatically thought well where the hell’s he going to go to next? So yes I was personally very conscious. I’m not sure whether the same would apply to everybody else. That was my —
TO: And what did you think of the Munich Agreement?
RD: You have to remember I was very young. So I was seventeen and the communist party at the time and I associated with a number of people in that party. I was never active as such but I mainly saw them as the anti-fascists. Because you have to remember at that time neither the Labour Party nor the Conservative Party in Britain were anti-fascist. Were not anti-fascist. They were trying to come to terms with them. They weren’t anti. It was only the Communist Party that was anti-fascist. And for that reason. I ceased to have anything to do with the Communist Party when they made the alliance with, with Hitler in 1939 I think. 1938 or ’39. Sorry. Forgive me. What was your question again?
TO: No. You’ve already answered it. Which was what were your thoughts on the Munich Agreement?
RD: Yeah. The Munich Agreement. The Communist Party said it was the greatest political carve up in history. Where Chamberlain had been deceived. But the general opinion I think of the national newspapers was that this was going to solve all the problems.
TO: And were you ever in an air raid shelter during the bombing?
RD: Yes. We, in 1940 just before I joined up. February 1940. No. January. December/January ‘39 and ’40 my parents moved from the East End of London to Ilford where they rented a property with my mother’s brother. And there was about eight of us living in this three bedroom house with one bathroom and [laughs] but we were very comfortable there. Now, my dad, who in 1938 developed tuberculosis and couldn’t walk was in a [pause] I can’t remember what they called the hospitals where these people are. However, he was in a hospital, isolation hospital at Colindale here because it, it was terribly contagious at that time living with somebody with tuberculosis because of, you could catch it very easily. So he was in this hospital in 1938 to 1939 and when the war started my dad was sent home which made another one in this house and we all had to be very careful about it. Now, he made the decision that we would stay in our house. On the ground floor. We’d all get up and we’d be on the ground floor protected as far as we could be from a bombing raid and that we would not go in to a shelter. First of all it would have been no good for my dad to be down in those conditions. And secondly I think he was a very brave man to make that decision. To put his family at risk. His view was if we’re all going let’s go together rather than one at a time. So we never went to a public shelter. But I can remember the public shelters. I can remember going down them. I can remember when, before I joined up and after I joined up whenever I had leave and went up into town for a dance or something of that sort thousands and thousands of people sleeping down in in tube stations along the platforms. After about 9 o’clock at night they used to bring their stuff down and when you got off a train you had a narrow area that we walked through with all these people, all these families laying themselves out we mattresses like camping out. Which never really appeal to me [unclear] And my dad always said to me, ‘If you’re going out you’ve got to come home. You don’t stay out because there’s bombing.’ So that’s what we did. When my dad said that you did it. So I can. Very often walking through streets with shrapnel and all sorts of stuff falling down. So yes I did know about air raids and air raid shelters. There was one occasion when I was on leave and this would have been 1944 when I got to the Gants Hill near where my parents lived there. A road just off there. It was all blocked off by police because an aeroplane, a German aeroplane had come down on the corner of my parent’s street and was on fire above. Stuck in an empty shop. And I said to the policeman who was blocking the road, ‘You must let me through because my house is just down that road where, where the aeroplane is. I want to see if my mother and brother and sisters are well.’ My father had died by then. And he said, ‘Yes, go on.’ I was in uniform. He said, ‘Go on. You go through.’ So I went through and this aeroplane had apparently come, been shot down and had come straight down my mother’s road, scraping it’s wheels on the rooves of the houses and then plopped on to this empty shop. A miracle. Plopped onto this empty shop on the corner. There was no bombs exploded but the aeroplane made a bit of a mess of the building as you could imagine. And when I got to my front garden, a very small garden, there was a parcel lying there. And I knew it was the dinghy that had fallen out of the wing of this aeroplane as it was coming down. And I called my brother, I said, ‘Come on Ted. Let’s take this dinghy in. We’ll keep this as a souvenir.’ Which was a stupid thing to do but never mind. And my brother and I were trying to drag it in and my mother and two sisters were on the other side of the door, ‘Don’t bring it in here. it’s a bomb.’ You know [laughs] So, we, we left the dinghy where it was. And the other thing I can remember is the, one of the crew stuck in a tree outside, right outside of our house. One of our neighbours was trying to hit him with a, with a shovel. Calling him all, all the unknown names you’d heard previously. Yeah. So that’s, that’s what I remember about that.
TO: And what were your, when you were in the RAF at an airfield with aircraft on operations what were your everyday duties?
RD: My everyday duties were there were no days off. On a bomber command station in my 5 Group we worked seven days a week from eight till five. Eight to five. And every third day you did a twenty four shift because during the day we worked on the aeroplanes and prepared them for night raids when they were. And then a skeleton crew of about four or five would carry on after 6 o’clock through the night to see the aeroplane off or see them back or both. And then refuel them, prepare, repair any damage. Slight damages. Large damages went to the hangar but small damage was done out in the open on the airfield. And we would finish at four, five, 6 o’clock in the morning depending on what time they got back. And when we were finished we went off to bed and you then had the rest of that day off. So I would normally sleep till mid-day and then go in to Lincoln or one of the local villages just to have a bite to eat and a drink. Most of the boys used to go for a drink but I used to go for some food first. I had great problems with coping with the food. It was very poor. Very poor. I’m not going to say I was ever hungry hungry. But I wasn’t ever satisfied with the food. And at one time I discovered that there were mushrooms growing out on the airfield. And I had a friend of mine who was a country boy who knew the difference between mushrooms and those that you can eat and that you can’t eat. And he taught them to me. And I used to get up early in the morning before duties and collect two pounds of mushrooms out on the airfield. And I then used to take them to the, the NAAFI manageress used to live in a accommodation on the site. The NAAFI. And I had an arrangement with her that if I brought her two pounds of mushrooms she would cook me a pound on four slices of toast and keep the other pound for herself which she was very happy to do. It took people an awful long time to wonder what I was doing at the NAAFI manageress’s abode [laughs] With no other purpose other than to have my mushrooms.
TO: How would you describe morale?
RD: Morale was up and down. Morale was up and down. Most of the time morale was high. But you would get the occasional misery who would try to alter things. Speaking personally I think it’s in my nature to not, not to moan and have discipline. Self-discipline. But as for morale I never saw anything. I never saw anything that would make me worried. At any time. You’d get an occasionally a guy going a bit off the rails and let it all out but, you know, the next day he was fine, but morale generally was good. Yeah. I’m getting a feeling there’s a bit of something that shouldn’t be there in these questions. Is it my imagination?
TO: What? Am I asking questions I shouldn’t ask?
RD: No. No. The things that you’re asking me about we we never really had time to worry about morale.
TO: Ok.
RD: Morale was there. You only had a little bit of moaning and morale was there. And the discipline was there but the discipline off the airfield amongst the administration staff where you always had to have your buttons polished and boots clean and that sort of thing did not apply on the airfield. The, the NCOs were lenient with, I mean you saw the way we were dressed. Well, no officer would have passed that dress but that’s how we were. The discipline was lax as such out on the airfield because we didn’t have time and there was no necessity for it. Who was seeing us except the other crews? Yeah.
TO: And did you ever find out about the damage that the raids were causing?
RD: Yes. They would come back and say, ‘Oh we, we hit that target well and truly.’ Or they would come back and say, ‘I think we were in the wrong place,’ or something of that sort. But rarely did a crew tell us exactly what went on. What they told, were told at the debriefing after each bombing raid in the mess I do not know. But they would say, ‘No. We, we, I think we were in the wrong place today,’ or, ‘No. We hit this one. We really hit this one.’ But that sort of thing. As far as I can remember. If I think about it a bit more [pause] No. I, I can never say they sent us to the wrong target or anything of that sort. There was never anything of that sort.
TO: And what, how did you feel when you heard about the attack on the Ruhr dams?
RD: Well. I was involved in that obviously. I thought it was the greatest thing that ever happened. But it was a very, very, very costly exercise. A very costly exercise in the way of numbers of aircraft and numbers of crew that, that were killed. But it was a great puzzle to us because when the first aeroplanes arrived for the Dambuster raid we didn’t know what it was going to be. Hadn’t the faintest idea. Certainly didn’t know what we were going to carry. But one day — when an aeroplane, when a Lancaster flew over you knew the sound of it and invariably you didn’t look up. But if you heard a strange sound you would look up to see what it is. And these Lancasters came over with a strange sound. A different sound to the one that was usual. And when we looked up we saw they had no bomb doors. And so we automatically said, ‘Oh well, they’ve run out of bloody bomb doors again and they’re sending them out without bomb doors. We’ll have to fit them.’ But it was intended that that the bomb the round bomb was the base of where the bomb doors were. You couldn’t close the doors. It was so low they couldn’t close the bomb doors so they had to go without bomb doors and this thing was streamlined to comply with that. So that was the first thing we found out. That the new bombs were going to be without bomb doors. And we, we were extraordinarily proud of that. Extraordinarily proud of that. But as I say that was a massive, massive loss.
TO: So were you in 617 Squadron at the time —
RD: Yes.
TO: Of the raid.
RD: At the time. Yeah.
TO: After those losses did that affect morale?
RD: Sorry?
TO: Did those losses affect morale?
RD: No. No. No. We [pause] I think we were all very sad but there’s a difference between being sad and your morale. Oh no. At no time was our morale affected by that. So far as I know.
TO: And what do you, how did you feel when you heard about the rain on Hamburg in ’43?
RD: Well, I don’t know. We did dozens of raids on Hamburg. Which one are you speaking about?
TO: The one where there was the fire storm. When we first used Window.
RD: Oh yeah. Well, first of all you have to remember that the Germans made the first big firestorm in 1940 when they set fire to the City of London. So, so it wasn’t new. It had been done before. And so far as anybody in the RAF was concerned well bloody good, bloody shame you know. This war has got to be won. If that’s the way we’ve got to do it that’s the way we do it. I don’t quite think you realise how strong were feelings of Britain that we retaliate for all that we had been through for all that long winter. That long year. The Battle of Britain. You know, you, we had it all bottled up within us. No. No. No qualms whatever. No. Why should we? Why should we? We, we didn’t start it. We were trying to rid the world of a monster. No. I don’t see this view at all. I don’t see this view. I’m sorry but people may well think of it these days but conditions are rather different now to what they were. I mean do you realise how close we were to being overrun? If, if Hitler had had two penneth of guts he’d have walked straight into Britain and taken it over. We had no defence. Our army had lost its, all, all its equipment in, after Dunkirk. And if he’d have come straight across he would have walked straight into Britain and I mean there’s no knowing where or what have been after that. I don’t know who could. So you have to take all this into account when you think of raids like Hamburg. No. We had no qualms about them at all.
TO: Did you hear about how other campaigns of the war were going?
RD: Oh yes. There was no such, there might have been a bit of cover up here and there on certain losses or when they were made not quite so bad as they were. But generally speaking I am convinced that our press was as free as any press in the world. And newspapers didn’t like to publish bad news but, but we always got the bad news. No. I I don’t think. I might have been deceived about, but saying they used to say each time how many aircraft were lost on a raid in the morning new, ‘The RAF last night raided Hamburg with a thousand aeroplanes of Hampdens, Halifax, Manchesters, Lancasters, Halifaxes, Wellingtons. A thousand. Rustled up a thousand and they bombed Hamburg and six didn’t return.’ You know. It was announced like that. It was never that four hundred never returned. You know. There was never anything of that sort. They were, they were small numbers. Perhaps ten out of a thousand or twenty but they were numbers of that sort. But, but when on the Dambuster raid we lost I think it was, I think it was eight. Yeah. That was a heavy loss. And that would have been announced. They might have said that three were shot down. The crew had bailed out and they were prisoners and four are missing. Or something of that sort. Yeah. So I had no doubts whatever that the press did announce. That we were informed. Yeah.
TO: And what are your thoughts on the bombing of Dresden?
RD: Bombing of, well my thoughts on the bombing of Dresden I think I have no qualms whatever. I have heard the stories about what Dresden did and that it was only for peaceful purposes but we knew for a fact that pieces of the machinery for the rockets that were being dropped on Britain were made, manufactured, designed, designed and manufactured in that part of the world. So therefore Dresden meant nothing. I mean, every time anyone asks me I say well tell me about the City of London that was destroyed in one bombing raid with fire that burned the whole lot out. And I saw the city after the bombing so I know the whole bloody chute went in one night.
TO: Did you ever actually see any of the V-2s when they attacked London?
RD: I I I saw the V-1s. The chug chug chug. You couldn’t ever see the V-2s. The first thing you knew about the V-2s was, was it landing. The V-1s were, were these chug chug chug things and you knew that whilst the engine was running you were alright but the moment the engine cut out, when it turned to drop then start worrying because you’re, you’re in line for it. I’d heard lots of V-1s and also I’d heard recordings on the radio of them going over during the news. But V-2s you never saw. You only knew when they landed. I never heard one explode but I’d seen where some of them exploded and they really knocked it to smithereens.
TO: Were the V-2s — sorry.
RD: Sorry?
TO: Were the V-2s quite a shock to everyone?
RD: No. Because I think we were warned that the Germany had these things. We were warned beforehand that that they would be coming at some time and they did. But again I don’t think morale was affected by that. I can’t recall any one family that I met at any time during the war who had lost faith in in what we were doing. Right. I, I really can’t. Because even those that supported the, the British Union of Fascists, the BUF, even those, they were still British to the core. They never converted to, to German. You know, the British Union of Fascists they didn’t want to lose England. If if you can understand what I’m saying. No. No. So there was never anything of that to my, to my knowledge and I’d be very distressed to hear somebody say that there was.
TO: And why do you think Bomber Command were treated the way they were after the war?
RD: I think Churchill made quite an error of judgement. Something must have happened at some time between Harris and Churchill. Or Harris and some minister which, which, which turned Churchill and I think Churchill regretted for the rest of his days although I don’t think he ever said so publicly. He said one or two things but he didn’t say fully and publicly that he regretted saying it. But I was annoyed that Bomber Command was not recognised for what it did and it did a hell of a lot for Britain during a time when army, the years when the army was inactive until D-Day. I mean we were the only enemy that the enemy knew about. And I was very annoyed that Bomber Command was not recognised with a special award and that we who served in Bomber Command never had one single badge to show that we were Bomber Command. On the other hand Fighter Command never had one single badge to show it won the Battle of Britain. But those things should have been recognised. And personally I was distressed from day one that I mean, you know not distressed but I’m sorry that the service that we gave was not recognised in a better way than it was by just giving us a general service medal.
TO: And what’s your best memory from the war?
RD: My best memory is camaraderie. My best memory was that I was very lucky to be where I was doing what I was on a active squadron going to the enemy when I realised that for years and years and years other guys in the services were sitting around scratching themselves, doing very little but training ready for D-Day which didn’t come until 1943 — four. 1944. So that was my greatest memory. I was proud. I was proud to serve. I was proud to be there and I was proud to be on an operational squadron. I went in a little, I really was a little boy at eighteen and I really came out a man knowing what the world was. And which prepared me for my later career where I very fortunately made a, made a success. To give me what I’ve got today from, from that very humble start.
TO: And were there ever any occasions where aircraft crashed near your airfield?
RD: Oh yes. Oh yes. But you have to remember that some of the pilots when they arrive are novice pilots. When they arrive on the squadron for the first time they’ve had their training, they’ve had good training from small aircraft to large aircraft. But when they get on to a squadron with a crew and the bomb load and all the rest of it it’s a little bit of a different story until you’ve been through it several times. So I’ve seen lots of aeroplanes crash on landing for no apparent reason. When I was at Scampton with the Hampdens one aeroplane over shot the airfield. Remember when we were on Hampdens there was only grass. There was no concrete airstrip. So although there was a marked out place for aircraft to land and the Drem lights, Drem lights are lights that you can see from sixty seventy eighty feet which you can’t see from up above. And they used to come in on those. That’s another story. When they came back from a raid and there had been snow the Drem lights were covered up by the snow. So an aeroplane coming in on to a snow covered airfield could not see the Drem lights. So on those occasions ground crew would have to go out. There would be about fifteen every fifty yards. They would have one man every fifty yards with a goose necked, goose necked oil can with paraffin in that we would light when we got the signal. Number 1 got the signal from, from the conning tower to light his lamp and the other fifteen would, would light it and you would stand there in the freezing cold in the middle of an airfield hunched up waiting to get the light to light yours. And then you would light your lamp, oil lamp. Then run across the runway. Light the other one on the other side. So make a path for the aeroplane to land and as soon as he landed you put the lamp out. Run across and put the other one on. Wait for the next one to come. It was so primitive it was the only way you could do it if there was snow. What was the other question that I, that I —
TO: The question was what crashes did you see?
RD: Oh yes. Then, then onwards I interrupted it. One night, and bearing in mind we landed on grass and one aeroplane for reasons unknown, I don’t know why but it overshot the perimeter fence and went in to a field that belonged to a farmer further along. And this aeroplane unfortunately ran into about twenty heifers. Cows. Massive cows. And when we got there you couldn’t tell humans from animals. And that was the most horrible thing I have ever experienced in my life. We, we didn’t have to touch them. The medical crew did that. But to see this mixture of animals and humans was something that I’m very, very reluctant to talk about at any time as it’s very distressing. That, that’s what I can tell you about that.
TO: And were you quite friendly with the air crews?
RD: Generally speaking [coughs] generally speaking yes. It was, my aeroplane normally had the same crew. So that we knew them and we would chat about this, that and the other and things that young men talk about. It also helped them to keep their minds off what they were about to do. And, and then they would go off and we would welcome them back and all the rest of it. Sometimes when your crew wasn’t there it was a strange crew. Your crew was off on leave or something of that sort. Then a strange crew would fly the aeroplane. And I would do nothing. And they would just nod or wink and say, ‘How are you doing?’ And that that’s it, but we never had, if we saw them out in the pub we might say hello and have a little chat with them but we never had a lot to do with them because they were in a different mess to us. You know, half of them were officers so they were entirely different. The others were senior NCOs and again that wasn’t a mess that I used. So, we, we never saw them. And very occasionally did they actually come down to the flight because there was nothing, the flight is where the aeroplanes were dispersed. Way out across the field. They very rarely had to come down. Occasionally they would have to do compass swinging and things of that sort on the ground when they, two of them would come out. The pilot and the engineer and they would move the aircraft around on the airfield for various reasons. But again when they went off they didn’t, sometimes we went with them. I would often tow an aeroplane by the back wheel for compass swinging. We had to test, test the compass. Then the aircrew didn’t do it. I would do it with the compass. We also unofficially used to move the aircraft on the ground from one spot to another. It was not officially allowed but but we did and we also had a wonderful system that when aircraft had been repaired the engineers went up on the test. Which was, we didn’t make mistakes that way. And so I used to quite, fly quite a lot and yeah then then you would be more involved with the crews. But other than that we never saw a lot of them because there was never an occasion.
TO: Ok.
RD: But they were always friendly. Always appreciated. If there was sometimes some aircraft used to have a little peculiarity then you would tell them, ‘Watch that one because, it’s alright but you know it might need looking at. Let us know.’ Yeah.
TO: And what did you think of Arthur Harris?
RD: I thought he was my hero. He was my hero. He was. I mean I only saw him three times I think during, during the whole of my career but we knew him and we used to get orders and things of sort signed by him. But he was my hero. He was the greatest man that there was born. There was a Group Captain Whitworth. Now, how did I remember that name? A Group Captain Whitworth who was the senior officer at Scampton at that time who was the station commander. That’s the two squadrons. He was detached from either squadron. The wing commander was the, was the senior man in my squadron. And, and he was in charge of Scampton and I, he was a great disciplinarian. A bit of a pain in the arse sometimes but he was a very good man. And then I had a senior officer, Squadron Leader Bell whose family owned the Express Dairies. I don’t know whether that means anything to you but Express Dairies delivered milk to every house in Britain, and his family owned that outfit. And when I was demobilised and I was taking some exams for the Law Society I needed something signed to prove that I’d done something. And I looked him up after the war and he was delighted to see me and help me. Helped me very much. And you know I felt I was imposing on him but he assured me that he was glad to do it to an old comrade. And he gave me a reference that I needed for one of my exams to prove what I’d done. So yeah but Harris was my hero. Yeah. Yeah.
TO: How much time have we got? It’s about —
RD: It’s alright. Another ten minutes.
TO: Ok.
RD: Ten minutes. Yeah.
TO: Ok. Yeah. There a Bomber Command Centre form I’ll need you to sign afterwards if that’s ok.
RD: Yeah.
TO: I just don’t want to trespass on your time.
RD: Yeah. Yeah.
TO: I can see you’re going to lunch. When you were, on the occasions when you did go flying in the aircraft what were conditions like on board?
RD: In what way?
TO: Well was it very cramped?
[recording paused]
RD: No. Remember a Lancaster is a very big bomber. And you climbed up steps to get in the door at the back and then walk along the main part of the rear of the aeroplane ‘til you came to the main spar where you cocked your leg over and went in to the wireless operator’s little cubbyhole on the left. And, and then further along was the navigator on the left. And then there were the two seats for the pilot and the co-pilot engineer. And underneath that was the place where the bomb aimer used to lay. It, it was cramped but nothing like a fighter aeroplane. There are two, two things about that that [pause] I’ve forgotten what I was saying now [pause]
TO: Conditions aboard was it?
RD: No.
TO: Or positions of people?
RD: No. It was never, never cramped in a bomber aircraft. If, if you want to know what cramped is — in, in the in the pay in the Hampden there were pilot, second pilot, engineer, navigator, bomb aimer, wireless operator and two other gunners. Now, the rear gunner, the one right at the back out on his own was in a cupola underneath the belly of the aircraft at the back. Above him would be the tail. And he would sit in that turret with his legs up like this, he’d obviously got support at the back, with his gun like that for eight hours. That was uncomfortable and cold. Absolutely freezing cold. He used to have to have a heating, a heated suit. And the sheer boredom of looking at nothing. Looking for aircraft. That was uncomfortable. But I don’t think I can say that anybody else was uncomfortable in a Lancaster. Except if you’re out on a gun, the rear gun at the back of the aircraft that swivels around I suppose you could say it was uncomfortable. I’ve written a lovely story that’s just been published about a Canadian pilot. But I’ll send you an email. It was nothing to do with me. It’s something that happened after the war but just as a matter of interest give me your email address.
TO: Ok.
RD: I’ll send it to you. Yeah.
TO: I’ll send you, if you like I’ll send you a link to an Imperial War Museum with Harris.
RD: From?
TO: That Harris did in 1977. I can send you a link via an email.
RD: Yeah.
TO: To a website where you can listen to an interview with Harris.
RD: Oh well they’ve got it up at Lincoln because I sent it up to, to them but this would, I don’t know if you know about the pilot who gave his life to save the crew.
TO: No. What was that?
RD: Well this is the story of —
TO: Ok. Send me that one.
RD: I’ll send it to you personally.
TO: Ok.
RD: Or to whatever address you want to.
TO: Yeah. Ok.
RD: But Lincoln have already seen it and it’s been published in the magazine.
TO: Ok.
RD: So you might have seen it there which you can then forget it.
TO: And do you remember what you were doing on the day the war ended?
RD: On the day that war ended. That which would be VE Day I was still [pause] up near Lincoln. But we used, for a special night out we used to go to Nottingham and I and a crowd of guys went out to Nottingham to celebrate and we did. It was alleged the prettiest girls in England were in Nottingham and so we used to make for Nottingham at any given opportunity. I think it was right actually. But that was VE. Now VJ Day I really can’t remember offhand. I might think about it later on. But certainly VJ night I celebrated in Nottingham which was the nearest big city.
TO: And — sorry.
RD: Sorry.
TO: Do you remember hearing about the atomic bombs on Japan?
RD: Oh yes. Of course. Well, one of our commanders Leonard Cheshire was, was on the raid. And, and we, we didn’t know until, until afterwards. But but but oh yes we thought, thought this was fantastic. I mean never ever thought it was what it was at that time. You know the atomic bomb. Ok it’s a big bomb that blows up everything but we did not realise the significance of the post bomb period and things of that sort. And at that time I don’t think it was considered. The important thing was to get it over. You know. Regardless. Why should we have any sympathy for these people who have done this? That is always my question. I’m not asking you but my question why should we care? We want to get the war over and however we get it over we get it over. I don’t say we’d do things that are criminal. I mean Idon’t think this is criminal. This is just the way you fight a war. I mean I don’t believe in anything illegal. It’s not illegal to me. Not illegal to me. Whether, whether I’m sympathetic to those people that did die at that time. Whether I’m still sympathetic now is another matter entirely but my thoughts at that time were absolutely thank goodness for that. It’s over.
TO: Right.
RD: And I knew it would be because it would be stupid to. We would have just wiped Japan off the face of the earth. Yeah.
TO: Do you remember hearing about the Holocaust?
RD: Oh yes. That was terribly upsetting. Terribly, terribly upsetting. We knew that that large numbers of people. I mean, you also have to remember that there were some refugees from Germany who got out before the war and they were in every, every community. So, we, we knew about this and were told how they got out with great difficulty without anything. On the other hand some of them did get out with some of their belongings. They had to get a special certificate and pay certain monies to take them out of Germany. Which they did and they arrived in England with them. So, you know, a lot of it, a lot of them came out quite legally but they were very few in relation to the numbers that we’re talking about. Yeah. No, I had no, I had no direct relatives who, who were there. Although subsequently I did find that there were some of my grandfather’s relatives who I’d never heard of who survived and came, came to England. But no, it was, it was earth shattering. How, how could any people do that? And and the other thing that infuriated me and infuriates me to this day is those Germans who said they didn’t know. Because I don’t believe they didn’t know. I think they just shut their eyes to it. You know. That’s the German man in the street couldn’t tell me that he didn’t know. People living next door. What was it? You know. So that’s, that’s the way I feel about that.
TO: I think I’m —
RD: Yeah.
TO: I’ve more or less run out of time.
RD: Right.
TO: But is there anything you want to add at all?
RD: No. No.
TO: No.
RD: Not really. I mean I could probably go on forever. I’m amazed that I, I remember as much as I, as I do. I feel very fortunate and gifted that I can still do it. Seeing, you know, contemporaries of mine. The way they are and ill health and memories are gone and Alzheimers and all and all the rest of them, so I consider myself very, very fortunate to still have my mind working. And the fact that I can travel and do travel and enjoy life to the extent that I don’t know how I found time to work [laughs]
TO: Well, thank you very much.
RD: You’re welcome.
TO: I really enjoyed it.
RD: Pleasure.
TO: Thank you.
RD: A pleasure to meet you Thomas.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Interview with Ronald Davis
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Tom Ozel
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-08-07
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Sound
Identifier
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ADavisRS160807, PDavisRS1604
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending review
Pending revision of OH transcription
Language
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eng
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Format
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01:15:05 audio recording
Description
An account of the resource
Ronald Davis grew up in the East End and worked in London as a solicitor’s office boy. He joined the RAF and trained as a fitter airframe. He was saddened when the pilot of the aircraft he services did not return from operation because they had got along so well. He and the other ground crew would also have to manually light flares to guide the aircraft on to the runway if the Drem lights were covered with snow. He also describes dealing with air crashes and sights that have stayed with him throughout his life.
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Lincolnshire
England--London
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1939
1940
1942
1943
1944
1661 HCU
49 Squadron
617 Squadron
83 Squadron
bombing
Churchill, Winston (1874-1965)
displaced person
faith
fitter airframe
grief
ground crew
ground personnel
Hampden
Heavy Conversion Unit
Lancaster
Manchester
military service conditions
perception of bombing war
RAF Halton
RAF Scampton
runway
training
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/622/10644/MPayneR1435510-150903-010001.2.jpg
e970b1a303ca7c047fb7c4f8d4b263e2
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/622/10644/MPayneR1435510-150903-010002.2.jpg
c2cb90909126782b337548729e652a96
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Payne, Reg
R Payne
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
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Payne, R
Description
An account of the resource
14 items. Two oral history interviews with Reg Payne (1923 - 2022, 1435510 Royal Air Force), his memoirs and photographs. Reg Payne completed a tour of operations as a wireless operator with 50 Squadron from RAF Skellingthorpe. His pilot on operations was Michael Beetham. <br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Reg Payne and catalogued by Barry Hunter.<br /><br />
<p>This collection also contains items concerning Fred Ball. Additional information on Fred Ball is available via the <a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/100970/">IBCC Losses Database</a>.<a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/ball-fc/"></a></p>
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-07-03
2017-08-25
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
My brother missing. My mum thinking of me.
Arthure[sic] Johnson missing
Ron Boydon missing [underlined] visiting his mother. [/underlined]
Mrs Roydon looking in peoples gateways at night for her son
Girl next door to [underlined] Mrs Fatchet Lincoln [/underlined] with small baby. Would be watching Lancasters going off on operations The baby’s father had not returned from his operations
Ena (ATS in Lincoln) I would phone her and say – all being well will see you tomorrow evening. She knew that I was on operations that night All Ena’s ATS friends had lost RAF boy friends and tried to not get attatched[sic] to them enymore
Arthur Johnsons mother calling on my mother to see if she had any news of my brother.
After the war ended both mothers had to be sent to care homes after it was found that both their sons had been killed
[underlined] When my brother was missing my mother asked me to come home My squad C.O. wouldn’t let me go. He said he did’nt[sic] want one of his crews breaking up. I told him whatever my
[/underlined] mother asked of me, I would still fly with my crew. With my promise he let me go home for 48 hrs.
Ena’s ATS friend Joan spent all her spare time with Fred Ball our Rear Gunner. Fred was killed when our aircraft was in flames and he did’nt[sic] bale out
3 Canadians in our hut having them killed allowed us to meet our girlfriends in Lincoln (evenings)
[page break]
[underlined] Pilot. Michael Beetham. [/underlined] Reg Payne W/OP. 50 Sqdn.
[underlined] Operations [/underlined]
22.11.43 Ops Berlin [underlined] 32 missing [/underlined]
23.11.43 Ops Berlin [underlined] 27 missing [/underlined] Landed Wittering flaps u/s
26.11.43 Ops Berlin Diverted Melbourne [underlined] 55 missing [/underlined]
3.12.43 Ops Leipzig Landed Wittering damaged by JO88[?] short of fuel 26 missing
20.12.43 Ops Frankfurt 44 missing
29.12.43 Ops Berlin Incendiary thro petrol tank 20 missing
1.1.44 Ops Berlin 31 missing
5.1.44 Ops Stettin 16 missing
14.1.44 Ops Brunswick 40 missing
20.1.44 Ops Berlin 42 missing
21.1.44 Ops Berlin Spoof attack 16 missing
27.1.44 Ops Berlin 33 missing
28.1.44 Ops Berlin 53 missing
19.2.44 Ops Leipzig 80 missing
25.2.44 Ops Augsborg Returned on 3 engines 23 missing
1.3.44 Ops Stottcart 6 missing
9.3.44 Ops Marseilles Landed Fido Fiskerton 8 hrs 55 mins
24.3.44 Ops Berlin Landed Foulsham 74 missing
26.3.44 Ops Essen 12 missing
30.3.44 Ops Nuremberg 105 missing
5.4.44 Ops Toulouse 1 missing
11.4.44 Ops Aachen 9 missing
18.4.44 Ops Juvisey Paris 2 missing
20.4.44 Ops La Chappelle 7 missing
22.4.44 Ops Brunswich 6 missing
26.4.44 Ops Schweinfurt 22 missing
28.4.44 Ops St Medard Bordeaux
29.4.44 “ “ “ “
1.5.44 Ops Toulouse
[underlined] First tour completed [/underlined]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Notes by Reg Payne
Description
An account of the resource
Notes by Reg Payne about his wartime service. The loss of friends and colleagues and the effect on parents and individuals is discussed. There is also a summary of his operations between 22 November 1943 and 01 May 1944. He records the target and the number of aircraft or airmen missing.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Reg Payne
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Two handwritten sheets
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MPayneR1435510-150903-010001,
MPayneR1435510-150903-010002
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Sue Smith
David Bloomfield
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943
1944
1944-03-30
1944-03-31
1944-04-05
1944-04-06
1944-04-18
1944-04-19
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
France
Germany
Great Britain
England--Lincolnshire
France--Paris
France--Toulouse
Germany--Aachen
Germany--Augsburg
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Essen
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Leipzig
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Schweinfurt
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Braunschweig
France--Marseille
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
aircrew
bombing
bombing of Nuremberg (30 / 31 March 1944)
bombing of the Juvisy, Noisy-le-Sec and Le Bourget railways (18/19 April 1944)
bombing of Toulouse (5/6 April 1944)
grief
killed in action
missing in action
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Payne, Malcolm
Malcolm H Payne
M H Payne
Description
An account of the resource
54 items. The collection concerns Flight Sergeant Malcolm L Payne (417512 Royal Australian Air Force). He flew operations from RAF Bardney as an air gunner with 9 Squadron and was killed in action along with other members of his crew on 13 July 1944. The collection consists of his letters to Miss Doris Weeks, letters from Doris Weeks to Malcolm Payne's mother after his death and official letters to Doris Weeks from the Royal Australian Air Force concerning his death, grave and bequeaths. <br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Debbie Brown and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.<br /><br />Additional information on Malcolm L Payne is available via the <a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/118239/">IBCC Losses Database</a>.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018-05-18
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Payne, MH
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[underlined] 28.7.48 [/underlined]
Box 29
Yarrawonga
[underlined] Watervale [/underlined]
My Dear Doris.
Was ever so pleased to rec. your letter of the 13th. I was feeling very sad that day, & had several telegrams from friends saying they were thinking of me. The year seemed to go very quickly but what untold suffering & grief was packed into it! I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed when you hear from War Graves Comm [Commission], Doris. They are the only people from whom we have heard & the letter contained no information except that Malcolm was laid to rest Court L’Eveque. Grave I. (Don is Grave II so they are sleeping side by side.). Mr Brown’s communication went so far as to say – “Court Leveque, in Dept [Department} of Haute, Marne, France.” There is something wrong, somewhere. More information should be forthcoming, but if Mrs Grieve’s dream comes true she hopes to visit this place & contact the people, so one day we may yet know the facts. We received the form to fill in, from War Graves Directorate, for inscription on the poor kid’s headstone. Only 43 letters may be used & they suggest “Duty nobly done” or some such. Preferring something a little more original we chose “Sleep well, Beloved.” Do you like it?
By the way, Doris, did the air ministry notify you at the time that Malcolm must now be presumed dead? I have often wondered & meant to ask you, because if they did it’s a wonder you did not receive this later news as did Mrs Shaw & the others
[page break]
Keith arrives home on 20th. Oh dear! He’s so long & lean & brown he looks like an Indian I tell him. They stayed 4 days with us then went to the city & on to Doris’s Jack for a few days & we expect them back tomorrow. Theres [sic] a letter from you for Doris she’ll be very thrilled. So the parcel arrived at long last. Fancy it has been nearly 5 months en-route. I hope your
BY AIR MAIL AIR LETTER [postmark] [postage stamp]
Miss D. Weeks
37 Hawthotne Rd.
Bunkers Hill
LiNCOLN.
ENGLAND.
Senders name and address:-
Mrs F Payne
Watervale
S. A
mother has an enjoyable holiday or what is more to the point, a good rest. I have received her letter & will answer same soon. Your photo has not come to hand yet but am looking forward to getting it very soon.
Now with all our love,
Yours lovingly,
Xxx M L Payne. xxx
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Letter from Mrs Payne, mother of Flight Sergeant Malcolm Payne, to Doris Weeks
Description
An account of the resource
Writes complaining of lack of information about grave and that the War Graves Commission were the only ones to write and they supplied little information. Malcolm was laid to rest at Court L'Eveque, Haut-Marne. Writes about possible inscription on headstone. Catches up with family news,
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
M L Payne
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1948-07-28
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Two page handwritten air letter
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
EPayneMLWeeksD450728
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Australia
South Australia--Clare
France
France--Haute-Marne
France--Arc-en-Barrois
Great Britain
England--Lincolnshire
England--Lincoln
South Australia
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1948-07-28
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Steve Christian
David Bloomfield
final resting place
grief
killed in action