Woodfield Publishing Limited

Glen Rose's father served in the RAF during World War Two as a wireless operator on a Lancaster bomber. During their operational tour, flying bombing raids over Germany, he caught pneumonia and was hospitalised. Whilst he languished in the sick bay his colleagues continued their missions with a stand-in wireless operator. Sadly, a few nights later, they were shot down and all of them were killed.

Glen's Father struggled to come to terms with the shock of losing his comrades in arms and his own feelings of guilt and having survived when all of them had perished.

60 years later she decided to tell their story...

It was a Tuesday in early November, and one of those bright days when the sky is a delicious pale blue and the leaves underfoot crunch crisply when you walk on them. It was the sort of day when it feels really great to be alive. As I walked toward the supermarket entrance I could see the man. He was young, maybe nineteen or perhaps twenty. He looked smart, dressed in his RAF blue uniform, in stark contrast to the casual attire of most of the shoppers in their jeans and trainers. I fumbled around in my bag for my purse, as it was a personal rule of mine to always buy a poppy on Remembrance Day. The least I could do.

The young man was busy, for most passers-by were pushing coins into his collecting box. Our little Hampshire market town was renowned for being generous to good causes – shown by the plethora of charity shops like "Scope" and "Help the Aged" that overflowed with donated paperbacks, twee ornaments and yesterday’s fashion mistakes. I took two pound coins from my purse, shoving the loose till receipts back into its overflowing innards, reminding myself in the process that I had a coupon I must use when I filled the car up with petrol. My mind was doing its usual multi-tasking between thinking what I needed to buy for supper, not forgetting to pick up the DVD I’d ordered and making sure I used that money off coupon when I called in at the petrol station on the way home. I handed over the coins to the young RAF man and smiled at him as he handed me a blood red poppy in return.

And it was then that I stopped in my tracks. On the table in front of the young man was a pile of RAF postcards and stickers, stacked alongside a variety of advertising literature and other assorted paraphernalia, all fronted by a small draped banner bearing the familiar message "Lest We Forget".

I gazed at the postcards.

"Can I have one of those please – er, how much does it cost?" I pointed at the card I wanted.

"Oh yes, take it please, you can have one free". He smiled, and handed me the card.

"It’s a Lancaster, you see," I explained to him; though he must have wondered why I felt the need to clarify my reasoning. "My father flew in a Lancaster in the war…" I unaccountably continued to justify myself.

The man smiled again and nodded, but I was lost in my own thoughts and I didn’t pay him the attention that his gentle politeness should have earned. I stared at the postcard and the dark form that was starkly printed on the white background.

Avro Lancaster B Mk 1, proclaimed the printed title. I read the explanatory detail on the reverse of the card.

I slipped the postcard carefully inside my bag with the poppy and collected a metal trolley from the serried ranks lined up like tin soldiers outside the crowded shop entrance. Then I shopped. I got most of the stuff I needed, forgot to get the DVD, forgot to fill up the car with petrol, drove home, unloaded the shopping, emptied the bags, filled the fridge, made a coffee, then sat down and looked at the postcard.

The Avro Lancaster. My eyes travelled over its distinctive shape, with the gun turrets, astrodome and bomb aimers’ compartments. How many secrets, how many untold memories, fears and hopes had their final resting place inside its metal walls? I stroked the outline of the shape on the postcard. Then I went to fetch my Christening cup and my old watch. They’d both been tucked away inside a drawer for many years. Precious items for sure, but until that day neither fully appreciated nor understood by me (their recipient and custodian).

The Christening cup had travelled half way round the world when it was first posted, to mark my baptism. Made of electro plated nickel silver, and marked underneath Lewbury, it was engraved with my name and the words:

Chas’s Mum and Dad. I held the little cup in my hands, marvelling at the warmth and generosity of spirit that had been felt all those years ago by two lonely people who had lost their beloved only son, half a world away.

Then I picked up the watch. It no longer had a strap, so couldn’t be worn, and it didn’t work, but it had had plenty of use throughout the years. When I was eleven and attending high school, my father had given it to me with a simple request to take care of it. It was precious. I wore it through my years at school, only swapping it later when it seemed a little too cumbersome for my budding fashion awareness. It was a good watch, Swiss made, a badge of repute.

My father had told me that it had been his mother’s watch. Agnes. She had been given it for her twenty first birthday and when she died it had been the one thing that my father had that was hers. He wore it every day. He wore it on every op, on every mission that he undertook in the Lancaster. He was wearing it the day that he first met Chas, Ben, Ginger and the rest – when hands were shaken and friendships begun. Friendships that would never die.

For many years, first as a young child growing up in the post war Baby Boom years – and then as a teenager and student, full of principles and ideals, I had not wanted to know about the war that had almost taken away my father. I thought only of the future, not realising how deeply it is intertwined with the past. Life sped by, I had children, and as they grew I learned the truth of valuing another’s life greater than my own.

But until that day when I looked with fresh eyes at the picture of the aircraft that had been both my father’s salvation and the sepulchre of his friends, I simply hadn’t fully understood.

~ ~ ~

My father had been utterly distraught when he had received confirmation of the fate of his fellow crew members, in late May, 1944. He’d been pre-occupied by a desperate feeling of unease when his first letter to Chas was returned unopened. No amount of supposedly logical argument that the postman had simply mixed things up could convince him. In his heart, he knew that the worst had happened, and his weakened, sick body couldn’t bear the grief. When he received the letter from my mother telling him what he dreaded most was true, he wept until he could weep no more. Guilt at not dying with them was uppermost in his mind. There was no relief at having been spared by a quirk of fate. He had, quite simply, wished he were dead.

Then came other nightmares to test his sanity – spectres from hell. "If only you had been there on that op to Brunswick," whispered the bogeymen, "you could have saved them". Maybe it wouldn’t have happened; maybe things would have been different. Cross your fingers, bid good day to the magpie, throw spilled salt over your left shoulder (it must be your left) – all superstitions that have no logic. Sleep brought an end to the torments of his waking thoughts but replaced them with the agonies that come in dreams – cruel dreams which no one should have to endure.

From the Military Hospital in Lincoln he had been transferred to Rauceby RAF Hospital. He felt as if his life was at an end. By day his mind would go over the events of the past few weeks with a series of "if onlys" and "might haves". As night approached he would dread the onset of the dark, knowing what form his dreams would take.

The nursing staff were wonderful; they’d seen many like Duncan, men whose comrades had died. Their efficiency and practical attitude helped him get through the first few days. Dressed in hospital blue, with a regular air force shirt under a bright blue cotton jacket or dressing gown, each patient also wore his stripes on an elastic armband. When the weather was pleasant they would be taken outside in wheelchairs, onto a balcony where many would simply stare at the sky.

Another young sergeant in the hospital also had pleurisy and pneumonia, the same as my father. He never talked and seemed to be wrapped up in himself and his problems, although he would never share them. At meal times my father watched him and noticed that he hardly ate, but just picked at the food on his plate, shifting it around with listless abandon. As the days passed my father realised that the young man had simply given up on himself, or worse, had given up on life. He was losing weight rapidly, practically shrivelling away in front of everyone’s eyes.

He no longer wanted to live.

It was a terrible waste; another life sacrificed – and for what? Observing him, and realising that this was not how it should be, my father came to a decision that would save his own sanity and, in all probability, his life. He made a vow – a vow to Chas, Ben and Ginger, to Nav, Ernie and Paddy and to the young "spare bod" called George who had taken his fateful place on the doomed Brunswick flight – a vow to the families of each of those men. To keep their memory alive and never, ever to forget, no matter what.

And so the months passed. Rauceby was too far for Pauline to travel to visit him, so every day he would take up his fountain pen and write to her, unburdening his soul and sharing the torment he felt at being alive. Every day she would write back, urging him to stay strong, for the sake of his dead friends, and for her sake. For their future. After three months, Duncan was sent to Lowesby Hall RAF convalescent home, near Nottingham for a short period. On discharge from there, he was invalided out of the RAF as he was no longer fit for air crew duty. The loneliest day in his entire life was the one when he travelled back to Skellingthorpe to collect his belongings. His log book, his clothes, his bike, his old kit bag. They were all there. Drenched in memories. He was given a Demob suit, a hundred pounds and a disabled badge to prove that he was unfit for duty. Then he boarded a steam train bound for Manchester – and re-entered a world that had changed. For it was after D-Day.

While Duncan had been in hospital, on the night of June 5th, a thousand bomber raid by the RAF had targeted the coastal batteries of Normandy to prevent them from firing on the imminent invasion fleet – meanwhile the USAF had been in action over four of the Normandy landing beaches. Many months of planning and building-up a massive force of troops, had finally allowed the Allies to invade northern France. On June 6th, 1944 (known as D-Day) in an attempt to liberate Europe from Germany’s occupying army, the greatest sea-borne invasion in history took place. Around one hundred and sixty thousand allied troops had embarked upon five thousand craft in southern England and landed on five beaches on the Normandy coast. They had been supported by thousands of aircraft, and further airborne landings behind the enemy lines.

When Duncan returned to Manchester in the autumn of 1944, the course of the war had only months to run. Paris had been liberated in the final week of August. The Allied forces of the USA, Britain, Canada, Australia and other Commonwealth countries were pushing across mainland Europe from the west, while the Soviets advanced from the east. It was almost over. The end of the war was anticipated by many and on May 7th 1945, a few weeks after Hitler’s suicide in Berlin, Germany surrendered unconditionally. That afternoon at 3 o’clock, Winston Churchill broadcast to the British people. Loudspeakers were erected outside public buildings and crowds gathered in anticipation, while inside many homes families huddled around their wireless sets. Churchill’s words brought the confirmation the nation wanted to hear – the war in Europe was over at last. "Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight to-night, but in the interests of saving lives the Cease Fire began yesterday to be sounded all along the front." Churchill’s familiar voice echoed in every ear. "We may allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing," he added to the listening millions.

The next day was declared VE Day – Victory in Europe. Coloured bunting, flags and ribbons were festooned everywhere. People began dancing in the streets, parties were hastily organised and celebration bonfires were lit. Bottles of sherry were removed from their dusty hiding places and enjoyed. There were balloons, streamers and party hats, and despite the severe rationing, parents managed to conjure up treats and party food for the children. In London, crowds converged on Buckingham Palace, cheering and waving Union Jacks, as the Royal Family appeared and then re-appeared again and again, on their famous balcony.

For Duncan and Pauline, VE day had dawned brightly, but they did not take part in any of the local celebrations as Duncan was still not fully recovered and thus unable to mix with crowds. Together they listened to the wireless broadcasts, smiling at the descriptions of street parties, neither one wanting to break their tenuous happiness by calling up painful memories of absent friends. But in their minds were thoughts of the missing crew, and their hearts ached for those who would never taste the hard won freedom and joy. The freedom that was paid for with their forfeit lives.

And of course it wasn’t over. The menace in the East still had to be quelled. At 8.15 on the morning of August 6th the end began, carried by a plane called Enola Gay. The initial yellow glow, then the blinding, overwhelming white flash, followed by red, then violet and then, only then, the mushroom cloud of no hope. Hiroshima was followed by Nagasaki. Japan surrendered unconditionally. The second war to have involved the entire world was at an end. Another "war to end all wars" was finally over. Surely nothing so terrible would ever happen again? Millions of people had lost their lives throughout the course of the war. Say it to yourself quietly first of all, let the sounds gently echo round your head. Then say those words out loud. Millions of people – men, women, children, babies, civilians, service personnel, volunteers, nurses, industrial workers, schoolchildren.

Simultaneously rejoicing and in shock, those who had survived gave thanks amid tears. The telegraph boy – the angel of death – would no longer come knocking, delivering his awful words. There would be no more telegrams. No more bombs. For now.

For Duncan (as for so many others), the end of the war brought the most bitter-sweet pain. And it was laced with memories, with tears and with the desperate, crazed belief that he had no right to have survived. While for Pauline, the wild joy and utter relief at having Duncan by her side, was tempered by the overwhelming grief that she knew he was enduring.

It was the cross he must bear.

When Duncan had more-or-less recovered from his dreadful illness he was able to return to his former trade of joiner, where his skills were much in demand. Manchester Corporation decided to begin their reconstruction project by replacing a few council houses that had been destroyed by bombs. A team of men, comprising two bricklayers, a young apprentice, two labourers and Duncan (as the carpenter) were given the task of rebuilding the very first new council houses – a pair of semi-detached homes in Burnage.

A journalist and a photographer arrived at the building site one day, to get a story and snap a picture of the gang for posterity. The photo appeared in the Manchester Evening News and the men felt a certain pride in their fleeting fame. It was a long, slow struggle to rebuild the city, but as those who had survived returned from their war duties and took up their old skills again, the phoenix that was Manchester slowly began to rise from the ashes.

Time went by. One warm and golden September day in 1948, a gypsy, begging for food, knocked at the door of the little council house that Pauline and Duncan rented. Duncan had left early for work on his bike, and Pauline was alone. She was nervous, just a little afraid, of opening the door. But the gypsy looked thin and frail – surely there was no danger. The woman had begged for a little jam to feed her children. Pauline couldn’t resist the woman’s pleas and thus her kindness earned a fortune telling…

"You don’t have any children yet, do you?" the gypsy enquired of Pauline.

"No," she replied, cautiously, wondering if the woman was leading up to asking for more food.

"You will soon," smiled the gypsy. "And you’ll have a boy, my dear," she added, knowingly.

When Pauline realised she was pregnant a few months later, she and Duncan were overcome with joy. It would be a continuation, a new life, a reminder of those precious ones so recently lost. The gypsy’s prophecy foretold that their child would be a boy. It seemed right; it was fitting. They considered a name for the child. The baby would be called Keith, in memory of ‘Ben’ Lawrence (whose real name was, of course, Keith) and the rest of Duncan’s crew.

It was a stifling hot June day when the baby entered the world. The last few weeks of June had been unbearable for Pauline, as an early heatwave had made her ponderous body feel even heavier. The sun beat down relentlessly, causing windows to be cast wide open and allowed Pauline’s agonised cries from the bedroom to pierce the air. Then there was quiet and exhausted gasps of relief.

The child was born.

A girl.

Me.

Of course, my parents hadn’t considered the possibility of a baby girl. The gypsy’s prediction had seemed so right, so fitting. They had no female names picked out and ready; no Annabels, Helens or Josephines ready to be bestowed on the tiny creature. My arrival made them realise that few things in life are predictable. Their quiet lives changed overnight. A healing process began and suddenly there was no room for dwelling on the past. Their child – the future – was everything.

And so, of course, life went on, just as it should. All those dreadful sacrifices would have been for nothing had it been otherwise. Forever young, forever brave, their brief sweet lives were given for you – and for me.

And my father kept that solemn promise he made.

Never forget.

© copyright 2006 ~ Glen Rose ~ all rights reserved